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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘It is, but how do you know this? It is not common knowledge – or, at least, I hope it is not.’

  ‘I have heard it mentioned several times.’

  ‘Why should this concern you?’

  ‘It does not, but I have been asked by others who are interested to know the truth.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ Ahmad Ghori put his tea down and stopped eating the pistachio nuts he had picked out of a silver bowl.

  ‘I was asked in Tajikistan, on my last trip there, and then I heard it mentioned when I dropped off the merchandise on my return.’

  ‘It may be best if I meet with these people in Tajikistan who are so interested. It is a disturbing development,’ Ahmad said.

  ‘I brought one of them back with me.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I saw no reason to refuse. He was willing to pay me. I thought it may have been to our advantage.’

  ‘Then you have done well. I will meet with him.’

  ‘He will be reluctant. He wished to come here in secret, find out what he could and then go back.’

  ‘His wishes are not my concern. Bring him to my estate tomorrow. We will talk there.’

  ***

  Farrukh was initially angry at Najibullah for talking to his cousin but relented after phoning Yusup Baroyev.

  ‘That’s the situation. I can get the facts straight and then relay them on to you.’

  ‘Farrukh, you have done us proud. Oleg is doing fine as well.’

  ‘No doubt he’s screwing the whore every night.’

  ‘He doesn’t stand still for long when there’s a woman around.’

  ‘No, although I miss the clear-skinned beauties you have at your parties.’

  ‘Farrukh, find out what’s going on, then come up to Dushanbe. Oleg can hold the fort down on the border for the time being. The women will be here on your return. You have my word.’

  ***

  The following day, the trip for Farrukh and Najibullah out to Ahmad Ghori’s estate did not take long. It was located no more than fifteen kilometres from Imam Sahib. Najibullah had not mentioned before that this was where he came from. No more the old and decrepit bus for the return trip. This time, it was a Toyota Landcruiser with air-conditioning.

  The estate was surrounded by a tall mud-brick wall. It was not an estate as would be in Europe. It was not as impressive as Yusup Baroyev’s place; there was no pool and certainly no semi-naked women prancing around. It was neat and tidy with the main house, a two-storey structure of indifferent construction. It showed the result of hastily constructed additions as Ghori’s family had expanded. It had the look of neglect, with the dripping tap by the outhouse, a diesel generator that smoked and clanked its bearings, and the dissolute staff who slept in a corner until someone important appeared.

  The exterior of the main building belied the interior, which was ornately decorated with velvet curtains and white marble floors. The sweeping staircase to the bedrooms was decorated with bannisters of the finest construction.

  As Najibullah explained, ‘That’s not for us. That’s for the master of the house and his family. We are located thirty metres away.’

  It did not concern Farrukh unduly, as the room he had been given was fresh with a functional air conditioner and a television with all the main satellite channels.

  ‘Ahmad Ghori’s coming later. We will meet him then,’ Najibullah said.

  ‘Fine, in the meantime I’ll take a rest. Try and catch up on some sleep.’

  Before retiring, Farrukh took a shower. There was no hot water, but he did not complain. At this rate, he would be back across the border before the week was out.

  He rested peacefully for several hours and failed to hear the convoy of six vehicles enter the compound. As a senior member of the government, Ahmad Ghori was always a potential target, either for ransom or for death. The extra vehicles were the protection he always travelled with.

  ***

  It was two hours after Ahmad Ghori’s arrival, in the very early hours of the morning, when Farrukh and Najibullah were summoned. Fresh clothes had been laid out for both. Farrukh was surprised to see that Najibullah had showered, trimmed his beard and displayed rugged good looks which had been hidden beneath layers of built-up mud and grime.

  ‘It’s not often I get the chance of a clean bed and some fresh water to shower,’ he explained.

  They were ushered into the visitors’ room some distance from the main house. There they met Najibullah’s cousin. As was customary, there was the usual social discourse about family, the economy, the weather…

  It was twenty minutes before their host came to the point.

  ‘Farrukh Bahori, what are you doing in my country? And please, no lies.’ Ahmad Ghori’s manner had changed. He was stern, unfriendly and with a pronounced frown that displayed his dislike of Farrukh.

  ‘I represent a large company in Tajikistan, concerned that its interests are being usurped by a company in Russia.’

  ‘Well put,’ Ghori responded.

  ‘It is clear that our shipments are reducing in quantity. We can only assume someone else is taking increasing supplies. We are also aware that production in Afghanistan is on the rise. I have been asked to come and investigate.’

  ‘What a load of nonsense!’ Ahmad Ghori banged his fist hard on the table, sending the various dishes of delicacies flying. ‘If you wanted the truth, why didn’t you come to my country openly and ask a direct question?’

  ‘I was not aware that we have ever known who we were dealing with. We’ve always operated through middlemen.’

  ‘And that’s the way it should have stayed.’ Ghori conceded Farrukh’s answer was reasonable.

  ‘The reduced quantities concern us.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Ghori. ‘But you’ve come across the border illegally, attempted to spy on us, and now you want me to sit here and be open with you?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I am hoping for.’

  ‘At least, you have been honest. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and explain the situation.’

  ‘Thank you. It is more than I could have hoped for,’ said Farrukh, inwardly relieved.

  ‘I will grant your courage in coming here. If you had not come, your quantities would have continued to reduce. At least, there is now time for you to come in with a counter bid.’

  ‘Then I will listen and relay back to my superiors. They will decide on how to proceed.’

  ‘Superiors?’ said Ghori. ‘You only have one superior, Yusup Baroyev.’

  ‘You have met him?’

  ‘No, and I do not want to. He is a fornicator and a despicable person. He would not be welcome in my house.’

  It surprised Farrukh that an Afghan could despise a man with loose morals and then indulge in an activity that forced people to commit a crime, maybe prostitute themselves to pay for the drug. He was hopeful that his time in Afghanistan would be short.

  ‘Yusup Baroyev, that is true,’ replied Farrukh. ‘Does he know who he deals with over here?’

  ‘No, and that is the way we wish it to remain. I am only speaking to you because of the seriousness of the matter, but you will meet no others. After this meeting, you will be driven to the border, and you will cross the bridge back into your own country and never come back. If you do, you will be killed. Is that understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Farrukh Bahori, we have dealt with Yusup Baroyev because he has been the only person capable of taking the quantities we were shipping. We operate in a free market economy. When another operator capable of satisfying our requirements appears, then we will need to consider them.’

  ‘Is there another operator?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘Yes, a consortium of Russian businessmen has approached us with a very lucrative offer. You should be aware that we have had a bumper crop and have been expanding our planting areas exponentially, as per their requirements. They are able to take twice what Baroyev can, and they a
re offering a premium price over yours.’

  ‘Have you finalised a deal with them?’

  ‘We had until you appeared on the scene.’

  ‘Will you allow us to make a counterbid?’

  ‘We will consider it, but at this present moment we will honour our agreement with the Russians.’

  ‘But you hate the Russians.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but their money is fine.’

  ‘Do you know which companies they represent?’

  ‘Let’s not be obtuse. Who else could it be?’

  ‘The Russian mafia,’ Farrukh said.

  ‘That is what we assumed, but we did not ask, nor care. Why should we?’

  ‘We will need to set up a line of communication. How do you want to handle this?’ Farrukh asked.

  ‘At the conclusion of this meeting, you will be given two phone numbers and an email address. All communication will be through them. There will be no further face-to-face meetings.’ Ahmad Ghori then concluded the meeting, shook hands with Farrukh, gave Najibullah a traditional hug and left the room.

  As he exited the room, Ghori turned to his left and spoke to Ali Mowllah who had remained hidden throughout the meeting.

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It will only complicate the matter,’ Mowllah replied.

  ‘It will only mean increased profit for us,’ Ahmad Ghori replied. ‘Can you ensure we meet the production targets?’

  ‘Ahmad Ghori, we will exceed as long as the demand remains.’

  ‘The demand is enhanced with Baroyev and the Russian mafia competing.’

  ‘It will be a bloodbath on their side of the border.’

  ‘What do we care? As long as we have our money, both their countries can go to hell,’ Ahmad Ghori said as he left his secretive organiser alone and went to spend time with his family.

  Chapter 8

  Yusup Baroyev felt two emotions on receiving the phone call from Farrukh: delight, in that he had proved his worth, but also concern that the Russian mafia was aiming to take his business. His relations with them, up until now, had been cordial and professional apart from a skirmish, when a few on either side had ended in a gun battle up close to the northern border of Tajikistan, six months previous.

  Before he fully debriefed Farrukh, he had one promise to honour. He had to get him laid. The pool was throbbing the day Farrukh arrived, still wearing the shalwar kameez Ahmad Ghori had provided. His appearance at the Tajikistan side of the border crossing, ten hours previously, had caused some issues. He had not officially exited the country and here he was looking to re-enter. A private word with Yuri Drygin, Tajikistan’s finest customs official, or its most corrupt, soon resolved the misunderstanding.

  Thirty minutes after his arrival at Yusup’s estate, Farrukh had showered and shaved the hideous beard off, after being informed he would not be going back to the village. He was too valuable now and, as he had met a senior figure on the Afghan side of the border, he would be the ideal person to handle the discussions.

  It had been almost nine months in the village. Apart from brief respites, he had been condemned to the border village whores to satisfy his carnal lusts. As exhausted as he was from the trip, his ardour for the women at Yusup’s mansion could not be dissuaded.

  He could only reflect that the trek across the border, the bus ride into Kunduz, and the meeting with Ahmad Ghori were justified if, at the end of it, there would be such a party. He knew that, tomorrow, it would be business and that Yusup would be business-like and demanding. He resolved to get some sleep. He had been given Oleg’s Mercedes and apartment while the previous recipient languished in the drug smugglers’ village.

  ***

  True to his word, the next morning at eight o’clock sharp, Yusup Baroyev was in his office. Resplendent in a trademark suit with creases on the trousers so sharp you could cut yourself, and shoes that could have been used as mirrors.

  Farrukh had also dressed for the occasion and had come wearing a beige-coloured jacket with a blue, open-necked shirt and dark trousers. A black leather belt of the finest quality complemented his ensemble. The Mercedes had purred on the trip up to the mansion, and he had discovered that Oleg’s clothes fitted him just fine.

  ‘Farrukh, update me.’

  ‘The Russian mafia has struck a deal with the Afghans.’

  ‘As you said, but do you have any details?’

  ‘There are two issues to consider here. The size of the deal and how they intend to transport the drugs out of the country.’

  ‘Specifics, I need specifics,’ Yusup said.

  ‘The offer from the Russians is for increased quantities at premium prices.’

  ‘How can they do that?’

  ‘Only by cutting out the middlemen,’ Farrukh said.

  ‘That’s us.’

  ‘I realise that, and if they intend to pay more, they’ll not be using the same route we do. They can only be planning to ship it direct by road across the border.’

  ‘That would be horrendously expensive if they bribe every politician and policeman from here to Moscow,’ Yusup said.

  ‘Would that be possible?’

  ‘It’s almost impossible. I’ve tried it, and the cost just get higher. The way we do it now has always been the best way. We may lose some heroin on the way, but we’re still profitable.’

  ‘Oleg, is he staying down there?’ Farrukh asked, anxious to ensure that his good luck and Oleg’s car and apartment remained firmly with him.

  ‘For the time being. I’ve had him on the phone already, whinging and moaning. I told him to shut up, consider it an apprenticeship and I’ll get him out of there when I can.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t like that.’

  ‘What do I care? People do what they're told, and if they don’t like it, they know the options.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Forget Oleg. Let’s get on to how we should proceed.’

  ‘I’ve got the contact details. It’s best if we open a channel of communication.’

  ‘Agreed. You’ll be the primary contact. Find out what they want and what we need to do to isolate the Russians.’

  ‘It’s going to get messy. The Russians are not going to let us interfere with their business plans.’

  ‘Stuff them. If we have to fight fire with fire, then so be it.’

  ‘We’ll need to bring up some men with guns and few morals about using them,’ Farrukh said.

  ‘Let me worry about that. You just focus on the Afghan bastards who think they can take me out of the picture. They’ll rue the day they were born.’ Yusup Baroyev was indignant and angry.

  ***

  Dmitry Gubkin, located in Moscow, had so far managed to work with Stolypin while maintaining a discreet distance. It still concerned him that he was risking too much and that the reputation he had carefully nurtured over the years could be destroyed by one inappropriate action, one casual remark by Stolypin and his colleagues. He weighed up the situation. The agreement struck with the Afghans looked solid, but he did not trust them for one minute.

  The reasons for agreeing to join with Grigory Stolypin were complex. Sure, there was the vast amount of money, but he already had more than he could hope to spend in several lifetimes, let alone one. Then there was the influence, political and financial, he would have at his disposal. But mainly, it was the sense of a challenge.

  White collar crime, corporate crime, of which he was the acknowledged master, was cold and insular. Nothing more than decisions in a boardroom or behind a computer screen. With Stolypin, there was the chance of adventure, the allure of danger, the risk of being caught. For too long he had been cautious, lurking in the shadows.

  It was time to stand up and be counted, to be a man. To show his wife, Katerina, that although he may be in his sixties, he could still cut it with the younger men. She was still young, sexual and willing, but he had sensed the change in him in the last year. The thought of sex still enticed him, but the physical act interested
him less. The erection was still possible, the climaxing as well, but the mind soon wandered. He was a five-minute man now, but she wanted more. She wanted wooing and caressing, and he didn’t have the time or the inclination. There were more important things to do than waste a good few hours for a momentary ejaculation.

  ‘Stolypin, how will this work? Give me the details as to the people I’ll be working with?’ Dmitry had asked when they met for the second time.

  ‘Currently, we pick up the drugs on the northern border of Tajikistan, from our contact to the south. We take responsibility for the distribution from there on.’

  ‘Sounds a reasonable way to do business,’ Gubkin said.

  ‘It is, and it’s worked well for some years.’

  ‘So, why change?’

  ‘A group of us…’

  Dmitry interjected. ‘A group of us? I thought you spoke for the Russian mafia.’

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Stolypin’s reply was a little too hasty for Dmitry. He decided to let it pass.

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘We intend to bypass our contact in Tajikistan, maximise the profit margin and take the thirty per cent up to sixty per cent.’

  ‘Let’s go through what you just said.’

  The gangster had not prepared for such an intensive meeting and was starting to feel out of his depth, but he reasoned this was why they wanted Gubkin. Not for his suave manners and debonair looks, but for his clear, impartial analysing and planning.

  ‘Fine,’ Stolypin replied, not sure if he had all the answers to hand.

  ‘First question. Why do you want to remove your contact in Tajikistan if he’s performing satisfactorily?’

  ‘He has in the past,’ replied Stolypin. ‘No doubt will in the future, but we feel we can do a better job, get a better deal. Besides, we’re Russian. Why should we let someone else take money that rightfully belongs to us?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll let that pass, but it hardly seems a good enough reason to take him out of the picture,’ Dmitry said. A patriotic gangster, he thought. How bizarre.