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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘I want to offer you the same as you have received from Grigory Stolypin.’ He felt he could say that. He had wanted to say that Grigory Stolypin was a crook who should be hung out to dry, but he was reluctant to do so in front of Dmitry Gubkin, who would no doubt duly relay it to Stolypin.

  ‘Please note,’ Dmitry said. ‘I am here in an independent capacity, not as Stolypin’s stooge.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to decide whether to support you or him.’

  ‘And what is your decision?’

  ‘My decision is not made yet. You will know before we return to Moscow.’

  ‘Why would I need you?’ Merestkov asked nervously. He wanted to resolve the situation with Dmitry, but sitting in front of a third party, important as he was, discussing what to do, was not his way of doing business.

  ‘You need a partner, and I am a precise man,’ said Dmitry. ‘I have detailed information that will either convict you or Grigory. The decision of who I support is dependent on you.’

  Ivan Merestkov laughed out loud. He had met his match, and he could see that the business was too large for him to run on his own now that Boris Sobchak was gone. A smart operator such as Gubkin would be an asset.

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ he replied. ‘I believe we would make a good team.’

  ‘Gentlemen, that’s settled,’ said Yusup. ‘Or, at least, almost settled. Ivan, tell us how you can control this.’

  ‘It seems as if I need Dmitry,’ said Merestkov. ‘He obviously has the information and, if I have the support of the godfather, we would make a formidable team.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Dmitry said. He had made up his mind.

  Yusup was delighted. Soon, he would have Oleg Yezhov precisely where he wanted him.

  ‘Any plans are subject to the Bratva’s godfather and our dealing with Grigory Stolypin,’ Merestkov reminded them. ‘Until they are both resolved, then no further action can be taken.’

  Grigory Stolypin had attempted to contact Dmitry several times as he knew he was in the company of Yusup Baroyev and Ivan Merestkov. He recognised treachery, and he knew that the instigator of the treachery could only be Yusup Baroyev. The man had become a liability; it was time for his removal.

  Stolypin realised he could not implicate Oleg in an assassination. He was now closely involved with Yusup Baroyev and, with Denikin dead and the Afghans still in town, there was a part for him to play. Someone needed to be able to deal with the flak after the Tajik gangster had been killed, and he didn’t have anyone else.

  He, as Denikin had been, was still not sure of Oleg. Was he capable, or just an opportunist in the right place at the right time? Whenever he was around, there appeared to be inordinate numbers of deaths. He decided that Oleg Yezhov was his man for the time being until he could find someone else to fill the void.

  What to do about Gubkin? He still wasn’t sure. He would need to talk to him first; he still needed him for his defence, regardless of what deals he was cooking up with Merestkov and Baroyev. With Baroyev out of the way, it would be easier.

  The upcoming presentation to the senior mafia figures was only a week away, and Stolypin knew Ivan Merestkov would be back in Moscow before then. If he had managed to convince Dmitry to switch sides and support him instead, then Merestkov was a dead man. And, if Dmitry did not support him then, he would ensure that he was a dead man as well. Oleg could deal with that killing.

  Chapter 25

  Igor Rothko was a killer, one of the Russian mafia’s most efficient. He was the only person that Grigory Stolypin could turn to. He would have preferred someone more familiar with Dushanbe and the intended target, but there was no one.

  Rothko, a slim man with refined manners and the hands of a piano player, was an unlikely person to be engaged in the profession of death. He was a fastidious man, a lover of cats and kind to children. He dressed well, took care of himself and exercised daily. His neighbours, in the apartment building where he lived, saw him as a clerk in an office somewhere. He spoke little, never about himself, and where he went each day was unknown to them. The small case he always carried, they assumed, carried his work files, maybe his sandwiches.

  They would have been shocked to learn that the case carried the tools of his trade and not papers. To him, an assassination was discreet, never more than one shot. Any more than that was a waste, the mark of an amateur and one thing he prided himself on, above all else, was that he was the consummate professional.

  The flight to Dushanbe concerned him little, the transportation of his small leather case did. Grigory Stolypin said he would deal with it. Rothko asked no questions, other than to ask that all care be taken. His three cats were to be fed by his next door neighbour, who gossiped and told him all the news, including about the pair who lived down the hall and their carryings-on. He had learnt to listen to her, nod in acknowledgement as she spoke and to ignore her occasional prying into his business. She looked after the cats, and that was all that concerned him.

  ***

  Dushanbe was bathed in an early morning haze when Igor Rothko’s flight landed. He took a taxi to the centre of the city and checked into his hotel. He phoned the neighbour to check on his cats. They were fine.

  He had no interest in the sights of the city, only the layout and the routes that Yusup Baroyev was likely to take, the cars he travelled in and the security he carried. He had one bullet, self-imposed, although his weapon of choice, a VSS Vintorex, came with the ability to take ten or twenty rounds, depending on the style of the clip the shooter used. It was delivered to his room at the hotel as Grigory Stolypin had said it would be. It was there, placed to one side of his bed, upon his return from moving around the city checking possible assassination locations.

  A small runabout from a rental company, booked by the hotel and added to his bill, suited him admirably. He had driven out to the mansion, no closer than one kilometre so as not to raise suspicion. He had driven by the apartment where Baroyev’s mistress lived, ascertained the frequency of the traffic lights as they changed from red to green and back to red, at locations that seemed promising. Discreet inquiries at the hotel reception had informed him as to the vehicles Baroyev used and what time he was likely to be seen on the street. The receptionist, pleased to talk, after receiving one hundred American dollars in cash for services rendered. The receptionist saw another one hundred if he could contact Baroyev’s people to let them know there was an inquisitive Russian asking inappropriate questions.

  It was obvious to Rothko that Baroyev was an overly confident man in his city. But, as the receptionist had clearly indicated, ‘Nobody messes with Yusup Baroyev, not if they want to live to old age.’

  Rothko had heard such statements before, but the victim had always wound up dead.

  Confident as he was, he had booked a flight back to Moscow for late the following day. He had seen the best opportunity and had been told that Baroyev was often seen on most evenings, heading towards his lover’s apartment. The intersection, one block away, offered the best option, the curve in the road approaching causing the traffic to slow. The tree on the left-hand side of the intersection affected the visibility, which meant the driver, a chauffeur in Baroyev’s case, would be forced to slowly edge out into the middle of the road to check for oncoming traffic.

  To Rothko, it presented the ideal opportunity. A small, flat-roofed building on one side, isolated by some overgrown vegetation, provided a platform and a clear shot. The distance was fine, no more than twenty metres and the car he was driving could be concealed in a back street and easily accessible. If the timing were right, he could head straight out to the airport, check in, maybe wait a few hours more than normal and depart. The rifle, which had served him well over the years, dispensed of in a garbage bin along the way.

  ***

  It was a confident man who, five hours later, settled in at the small building close to the intersection - narrowly missing Baroyev’s people at the hotel who had come to ask him a few questions
- the case he always carried in Moscow at his side. He opened it to reveal the rifle in three sections. He assembled it quickly – daily practice had made him perfect. He fitted the night vision sight, a 1PN51, adjusted the tripod and aligned the sights. It was still early, and the weather was mild. He had a flask of tea and some sandwiches he had bought in the shop next to the hotel. He did not know how long he would have to wait, but he was sure the target was coming.

  He had seen the mistress in an upstairs window, dressing in her finery and he had assumed, correctly, that she would not be going out without his target.

  Just before eight in the evening, the car carrying the target appeared. The green Bentley – Rothko had been correct in assuming it would be that one car amongst the fleet that Baroyev owned, some vintage, some incredibly expensive.

  The driver, neatly dressed in a suit, steered the car to the centre of the road, a bodyguard sitting to his right. The vehicle stopped ‒ its front bumper just over the faded centre line. Yusup Baroyev was clearly visible in the rear seat – although on the far side to where the assassin knelt, alert now, fully awake.

  He lined the sights on the target. He chose the head as it was more clearly visible than the man’s body, obscured in part by the imposing structure of the vehicle. He took aim.

  As the vehicle slowly moved forward to cross the intersection and momentarily distracted by a cat crossing the roof, he pulled the trigger. A single shot, a subsonic SP-5 cartridge, its increased mass suitable for piercing the armour of the reinforced windows. He had correctly assumed, subsequently checked, on vehicles imported into Tajikistan using the Internet in the hotel, that the green Bentley was armour-plated.

  The bullet broke through the window with little difficulty. It found its target and Yusup Baroyev slumped over. The vehicle sped away.

  Certain of his success, Igor Rothko made his way to the airport. The money from the one shooting would keep him comfortable for a few months.

  ***

  The news of the shooting of Yusup Baroyev spread quickly. The chauffeur, trained for such eventualities, had taken the correct action. He had exited the immediate area and made for the nearest hospital. Once clear of the immediate vicinity, he phoned the mansion. He informed them of what had happened and what action he had taken.

  Malika was notified by phone from the mansion within ten minutes. She was at the hospital within another ten minutes, almost hitting a pedestrian walking across the road, as she drove recklessly to the hospital.

  Yusup’s men checked the area where the shot had come from. They found only a flask, some wrappings, the imprint of the rifle’s tripod and the knee marks where the assassin had knelt. With little to be achieved, they soon left the scene before the police arrived.

  The scene at the hospital was chaotic, the normal operations disrupted as a result of the high-profile casualty. Whisked immediately into intensive care and an operating theatre, the surgeons worked to stabilise the victim. The hospital’s director, resting at home with his wife and children, was soon on the scene.

  The media was flocking to the hospital, their vehicles starting to interfere with the free movement of traffic in and out. A major figure in the country, a criminal in this case, caused a frenzy. Malika was in tears, inconsolable. Others tried to calm her, but with little effect.

  ‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ the surgeon given the task of informing Malika and Yusup’s men said.

  ‘Is he going to live?’ Malika asked.

  ‘Too early to say,’ was the blunt reply. It did little to calm anyone.

  The news was quickly relayed over the television and the internet. Grigory Stolypin watched the unfolding activity, relieved that at least one problem was out of the way. Rothko sat in the departure lounge at the airport, disinterested. He knew it had been a good shot. He had never failed in the past; he had not failed this time. He was supremely confident.

  The surgeons focused on their patient, the other people waiting for assistance ignored unless their ailment was serious. The assembled media throng pressed for an update.

  It was only after four hours that the surgeon, who had given the pessimistic prognosis, returned.

  ‘He will live,’ he said to Malika, who sighed with relief. Yusup’s men were also relieved, as there would have been repercussions if he had died. Open warfare would have broken out amongst the other criminal gangs in the capital, each aiming to seize control of his empire for themselves. They would have been forced to take sides, maybe kill or be killed. Yusup Baroyev had given them a secure life, as secure as any gangster’s life could be, and they did not want it to change.

  Malika was allowed to see him, heavily encumbered as he was with tubes and medical equipment. The surgeon joined her at Yusup’s bedside.

  ‘If the bullet had hit him any higher, he would have been dead instantaneously,’ he said. ‘Luckily, the velocity drove the bullet through the neck, left posterior cervical region, and out the other side, causing minor damage. He’ll make a full recovery, although it will be a week or so before we bring him out of sedation. He’ll have a terrible neck ache, and he will not be fully cognisant for some weeks.’

  ‘He will be okay?’ Malika asked.

  ‘He’s a fit man. He should be alright.’

  The surgeon omitted to say that, if it had been another man, a man off the street, he would not have received the intensity of treatment and would not have survived.

  ***

  Oleg Yezhov and Dmitry Gubkin, in different parts of the city, listened to the news on the television intently. They had different reasons for their interest. With Baroyev dead, Oleg could see the major threat to his well-being being removed. With Dmitry Gubkin, his best hope of redemption lay with Merestkov and the man lying in a hospital bed. Unless Stolypin came up with a better solution, he knew which side he was choosing.

  Dmitry Gubkin had seen the women that Baroyev went around with. He had decided that was the life for him. What did the society dames and their men folk in Moscow matter? He was in his sixties; he would possibly live another twenty. It was better to enjoy life at its most basic. A criminal life with a criminal’s woman suited him just fine.

  Ivan Merestkov was also concerned, though not as much as the others. If Baroyev was dead, it was an inconvenience, not a total disaster. He could always leave the drug smuggling operation the way it was, as long as the Russian mafia gave him the all-clear. With Dmitry Gubkin organising, laying in the plans, he could see a successful outcome, whether Baroyev was dead or alive.

  Grigory Stolypin’s initial jubilation turned to despair when the updates indicated that the assassination had failed. He knew there would be reprisals, and it would not be long before he was implicated. Igor Rothko heard the news as he was boarding the delayed flight. It had been his first failure. His reputation destroyed, he knew he would never fire a gun again.

  ***

  With nothing more to be achieved in Tajikistan, Dmitry Gubkin and Ivan Merestkov took the flight back to Moscow the next day. Grigory Stolypin was on the phone within an hour of the flight landing, anxious to find out what was going on and why Dmitry was so friendly with Merestkov and Baroyev.

  ‘Who organised the assassination attempt on Baroyev?’ Dmitry went on the offensive.

  ‘How the hell would I know?’ Stolypin replied.

  ‘You had Feliks Kalinin killed and that ultimately ended up with Gennady Denikin being assassinated. Don’t you ever think these actions through?’

  ‘I wasn’t responsible for the attempt on Yusup Baroyev’s life.’

  ‘Do you imagine this is the end of it?’ shouted Dmitry. ‘What will happen when he’s back on board, thinking clearly? He’ll want revenge, and he won’t be looking for clear proof. We’ll all be held suspect and from what I’ve heard, he is not too fussy how he obtains the truth.’

  Gubkin was angry with the foolishness of Stolypin, who continued to show that he was not a man he could work with. He had to protect Merestkov, but first, he had to stay a
live. If Stolypin realised the situation, he knew who would be next for the assassin’s bullet.

  Dmitry Gubkin weighed up the situation. If he supported Ivan Merestkov openly, Stolypin would see that as betrayal and act accordingly. If he supported Stolypin and then changed his support, just before the meeting with the senior executive of the mafia, then he ran the risk of reprisal if Stolypin somehow survived.

  He saw it clearly. Grigory Stolypin was a liability and had to be liquidated. He would speak to Merestkov and sound him out.

  The conversation with Grigory had been brief and acrimonious. Dmitry was pleased when he had hung up, agreeing to meet within two days to discuss the situation and his continuing support.

  Dmitry phoned Merestkov shortly after. He had moved back into the house in Moscow, with the insurances of Merestkov that he would have the place watched and his contacts down at police headquarters would let him know if there was any impending move to arrest him.

  ‘Ivan, Stolypin just phoned.’

  ‘How is he?’ Merestkov asked.

  ‘He’s not in a good mood. He sees me as disloyal. I’m sure the only reason I am still alive is because he needs my support.’

  ‘Are you saying he should be removed?’

  ‘If you can clear it.’

  ‘That will not be an issue. It will only make the situation easier. Did you know about his failure to communicate with the godfather?’

  ‘I was not aware initially that it was a requirement.’.

  ‘Then, it is fine. If this is your advice, then I will act on it.’

  ***

  Grigory Stolypin was a man of habit. He did not exercise, other than to walk from the refrigerator in his house to the drinks cabinet, or to the restaurant every morning around midday for lunch. It was his most vulnerable time when he felt the need of some fresh air. His security, two men, always armed, walked close by, slightly to his rear.