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

by Phillip Strang

‘I’ll stay here for now.’

  ‘Good, then move around. Find out what’s going on. If you can meet with their leadership, go down to Kabul, grease the politicians’ palms if it helps. Yusup Baroyev knows you’re in Afghanistan.’

  ‘How does he know that?’

  ‘The officer at the border, Drygin.’

  ‘Will you remove Drygin for his disloyalty?’

  ‘Why? He serves our purpose at the present moment. He had been paid well enough to keep quiet, but he couldn’t resist a little extra cash. We will remember. His day of reckoning will come soon enough.’

  ‘And Baroyev?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘We are in discussions with him now to see if we can reach a mutual agreement. Until then, you are safe.’

  ‘Then I must learn to love it or be dead.’

  ‘Love? I’m not sure if anyone could love it there.’

  ‘You’ve been?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘I’ve been. Found any little boys to suck your dick?’ The man hung up on him.

  ***

  A good night’s sleep, even if slightly troubled by the events of the past few weeks, and he had woken up with a throbbing erection and no one to expend it on. He had taken the only option, he relieved himself. There must be women here somewhere, he thought. Prostitution is universal. It can’t be stomped out just because a Mullah says it is wrong. Men need to screw and women, especially here, must need money. He promised himself to ask Najibullah the next time he saw him. Alam, he could not entirely trust yet.

  ‘We’ve found you a house not far from here,’ Alam said when he arrived mid-morning. ‘There’s a guard who can be trusted, as well as someone to clean the house and provide you with meals.’

  ‘The guest house is fine.’

  ‘Do you trust everyone who comes in here to accept a Russian in their midst?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘I have been charged with keeping you safe and alive. If you are harmed or killed, then the same fate will befall me.’

  ‘Rough justice,’ Oleg commented.

  ‘It’s the only justice here.’

  ‘What are we doing today?’

  ‘We will discuss the transportation of the merchandise.’

  ‘Here in Kunduz?’

  ‘No, it is a short distance to the north.’

  ‘Then let us go.’ Oleg was anxious to do something.

  ‘We will wait until it is clear.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The merchandise has to be dispatched before you arrive. There are too many suspicious people involved. The local police will not take kindly to a Russian being around while they’re receiving their payoffs.’

  ***

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon before they left for the forty-five-minute drive north, Alam and Oleg in the lead vehicle, a Toyota Landcruiser in an agreeably good condition. To the right of the driver sat a guard with an AK-47 strapped to his chest. To the rear of the Landcruiser, a pickup truck followed with two men standing precariously in the back, holding on to a roof bar mounted on the cab. They both held on with one hand while clutching weapons in the other. A machine gun mounted on the roof of the pickup truck’s cabin completed their weaponry.

  ‘Are we expecting trouble?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Normal precautions. There are bandits out here and rival gangs aiming to take our business.’

  ‘I assumed your people had the market sewn up.’

  ‘We are the only ones transporting in any quantity into Tajikistan.’

  ‘Others are aiming to take over the business?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘This is not Russia or the West. Friendly takeovers, agreements in boardrooms, transference of shares is not what occurs here.’

  ‘Kill the key people and take it for yourself,’ Oleg observed.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It happens in Russia as well, but it’s not often reported. If you want ruthless, then try the Russian mafia.’

  ‘Yusup Baroyev can also be exceedingly violent,’ Alam said.

  ‘What do you know about him?’

  ‘The fornicator?’

  ‘Why do you call him the fornicator?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘We are aware of his parties and the promiscuous women. It is an insult to Allah, and he, a Muslim.’

  ‘But I have seen Afghans with the whores in the village.’

  ‘We are all made of flesh. We have our weaknesses, but we recognise them and ask Allah for his forgiveness. Yusup Baroyev does not.’

  ‘He would appreciate the title.’

  ‘You have been to his parties, lain with his women?’

  ‘The truth?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘I know you for a Russian heathen. You would have no guilt.’

  ‘Yes, on several occasions.’

  ‘I would sin for them,’ the Afghan said in a moment of weakness. It was the first civil word he had said in their time together.

  The conversation was cut short as the compound came into view. It was isolated from the next place of habitation by at least a kilometre of open land. Guards, poorly dressed for the weather, walked slowly around the perimeter holding AK47s at precariously dangerous angles. He had seen it many times, but the untrained and the uneducated held the barrel pointing at their feet. It made no sense; he imagined it was laziness.

  The gate opened at two beeps on the horn from the lead vehicle. Normally, that would have been all that was required for the gate to open. Not this time. On the other side of the gate, blocking their passage was a Toyota pickup truck with two men propped up high, aiming a machine gun at Alam and Oleg. The men in the truck looked professional, the men outside did not.

  Another man exited the compound and walked towards the Landcruiser. He was wearing a bulletproof vest and accompanied by another two men carrying Kalashnikovs, this time, held correctly. Alam spoke to the man in Tajik and, at his command, the truck blocking their passage pulled back.

  Inside the compound, the main building was mud brick in construction and in a bad condition. Some hastily constructed huts were off to one side, aluminium from what Oleg could see, while a noisy diesel generator, puffing smoke, supplied electricity. Oleg had noticed the searchlights mounted around the compound on high poles, from the outside. Once inside, he noticed that, at strategic positions on the parapet of the walls, additional men watched out in crouched positions.

  ‘We’re serious about security here,’ Alam said nonchalantly.

  ‘Who’s likely to attack this place?’ Oleg asked. He knew the compound represented danger, and he was danger-averse. He was following up as per his new job description, but being out here and exposed was not where he wanted to be; he had already experienced animosity about his being Russian, back in Kunduz.

  Everyone seemed to have had a relative, or a tribal member or had been in a village that had felt the heavy hand of the Russian war machine. His protection had been fine in Kunduz, but out here he was not so sure. There were, at least, twenty of the most vicious men he had seen, holding weapons. He wasn’t sure if the guards they had brought up from Kunduz would be able to dissuade any one of them from putting a bullet through his head.

  Life takes many turns, he thought to himself. It’s best just to get on with the job and not worry too much about my fate.

  Alam explained that this was their main distribution warehouse, although it had only been in operation for a couple of months. Within another month, it would be closed, and they would relocate. Oleg asked why.

  ‘It’s clear. We can’t protect it indefinitely.’

  ‘Who would be able to take this place down?’

  ‘Rival warlords, local military. Plenty of people want a piece of the action.’

  ‘I thought your people had it under control.’

  ‘Yes, it’s under control, but sometimes there’s upwards of three to four hundred kilos of merchandise in here. That’s a lot of money for Afghanistan, and then if those attacking can take over the operation, they are in for millions of American dollars.’ />
  ‘Is there anyone in this country capable of taking you on?’

  ‘Oleg, we are a violent people. There is always someone who believes he is capable. And would your people care who was sending the merchandise, as long as it arrived on time?’ It was the first time Alam had referred to him by name.

  ‘Probably not, but the deals set in place would need to be renegotiated.’

  ‘They will, anyway.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you think a cast-iron agreement between the Russian mafia and an Afghan is a binding contract?’

  ‘I would have thought it would have held up for some time. It is to both parties’ mutual interest,’ Oleg replied.

  ‘The heroin leaves Afghanistan for no more than six or seven hundred American dollars a kilo. By the time it reaches the streets of Russia, its value has multiplied a hundred-fold or more. Do you think that is equitable? Believe me, there will be renegotiations, or else Yusup Baroyev will again become our primary customer.’

  ‘What you say disturbs me. What do you think my people will do if they are presented with this situation?’

  ‘What will they do?’ Alam exclaimed. ‘They’ll accept it, or else.’

  ‘They would feel the need to respond.’

  ‘How? Send the Russian military in here again? I don’t think so. You are here, we will honour our agreement for now, and if there is to be a change, we will let you bid against Yusup Baroyev, against Farrukh.’

  ‘Farrukh? You know Farrukh?’

  ‘Of course, we do. He was here, almost got himself killed for his impertinence, but we trust him more than you. At least, his people did not come here and slaughter us.’

  ‘The hatred runs deep. I understand that, but I was not here.’

  ‘Your father was.’

  ‘And you flayed him alive, by all accounts,’ Oleg replied with a degree of anger.

  ‘The stories of our skinning Russian soldiers we captured, have been greatly exaggerated by your government. It is true we killed Russian captives, never kept them as prisoners. But flaying? Do not place too much credence on that fact.’

  Alam was equally angry. It was a painful subject for him. His father had been butchered by the Russians, as he innocently protested outside their barracks, one day in winter when the crops had failed, and the animals had ceased to give milk. In his desperation, he had rushed forward and jostled with a young Russian soldier, who had promptly shot him through the head with his pistol. Alam hated the Russians, although he had not learnt to hate Oleg.

  The visit to the compound lasted thirty minutes. Oleg spoke to no one apart from Alam. He was shown where the heroin came in, where it was stored and weighed and ultimately shipped out. He noted that there were two distinct areas for dispatch, one larger than the other.

  ‘Why the two?’ Oleg asked, pointing to the confined areas in the corner of the main building.

  ‘One is for your Russian friends, the other is for Baroyev.’

  ‘Which is which?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Which do you think is for Baroyev?’

  ‘I’d say the smaller,’ Oleg replied. By his calculation, the Russian mafia was receiving nearly ten times as much as Baroyev. Assuming the Tajikistan gangster received in total twenty kilos a day, then the Russians received up to two hundred. He calculated, in total, a wholesale value in Moscow of over six million American dollars. No wonder the Afghans would be looking for a better deal.

  ***

  The return to the city did not take as long as the outward journey. It was his first time at the house that Alam’s people had secured for him. Oleg was pleasantly surprised. It was a two-storey construction, painted a dull blue on the outside. There were three bedrooms, a spacious sitting room, and it had been decorated in an Islamic style. The main living area had heavy curtains, dark green in colour, three comfortable chairs and a settee. The floor was covered with a carpet of the finest quality, Persian he assumed. Alam told him later that it was Bukhara and very valuable. The kitchen appeared to be clean, although he did not look too closely. There were servants to deal with whatever went on there, Alam explained.

  The wood burning stoves in the main rooms kept the house immensely warm, too warm for Oleg, but their regulation on the temperature was limited. It was either sauna-like heat or freeze. He chose the sauna.

  The garden at the back was covered in grass, reasonably short, and there were the signs of flowers, although the weather was too cold and the few remaining stalks were frozen hard in the morning. A pond sat in the middle of the garden, but it was dirty and had no fish. All in all, Oleg was pleased and his first few days in the city had not been as bad as he had expected, but he still needed a woman; it was starting to worry him. He would talk to Alam the next day and see what he could do for him.

  ***

  The next morning after an agreeable, but solitary, breakfast at a table designed for twelve, he met with Alam again. The Afghan was agitated: there had been a development.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘It’s not your concern,’ Alam replied.

  ‘It is if it affects the shipments.’

  ‘It will if it is not resolved.’

  ‘Then tell me the details.’

  ‘There is a viable threat that the Afghan army will close down our entire operation.’

  ‘Why don’t you pay them off?’

  ‘We pay everyone, but sometimes it is not enough. They were calm as long as we were only supplying Baroyev, but now the quantities we are shipping are much larger.’

  ‘Can’t you pay them more?’ Oleg saw no problem. Enough money was moving around to pay everyone some extra.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ said Alam.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They feel that the best deal is struck if they push us to the brink, show us that we are not immune.’

  ‘But why destroy your operation and then ask for more money?’

  ‘It is how it works here. Power is everything, especially when negotiating. Whatever happens, they know full well that we will rebuild. Besides, the government needs to show those supplying aid money to Afghanistan that they are serious about stamping out the illicit drug trade.’

  ‘Who are “they” and are they serious?’ asked Oleg.

  ‘The government, the politicians, that’s who.’

  ‘I assumed that. Are they serious?’

  ‘Most of them are doing very well out of the drug trade, either by direct involvement or by bribes. They don’t want it to stop, but the aid money is all important and the donor countries, mainly America, make it a condition that Afghanistan reduces its output of drugs.’

  ‘Russians have no more love for the Americans than the Afghans,’ Oleg said.

  ‘That may be, but we still accept their money and smile as they hand it over to us. Or, at least, hand it over to the politicians.’

  ‘You are critical of your politicians?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘How much of the aid money reaches the people?’ said Alam. ‘It’s not a lot, and the Americans know that. To them, it’s just a game they play with the Russians, with us in the middle.’

  ‘So what do we do about the army?’

  ‘We need to stop them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We need to go to Kabul,’ Alam said.

  Chapter 11

  Malika had made the trip back to Dushanbe in the company of Rena, the prostitute who had told her that her mother was alive and well. All of the whores had taken turns to care for her in the village after the savage beating from Oleg, but it was Rena who had been adamant that it was her responsibility to ensure her friend was reunited with her mother, and that she received proper medical care. Her pimp had complained, but he was not a violent man and had acquiesced when she had told him she would return at the earliest opportunity. Something she had no intention of doing.

  They had found Malika’s mother on their first day back in the city. It had been a joyous encounter, tinged with
the sorrow both mother and daughter felt regarding Malika’s father. Her mother had found a job working in a hospital as a nursing assistant. Malika was confined there for six weeks. The wounds healed quickly, although the eye would never give more than a blurred vision as the doctors determined that the damage was irreparable.

  With the help of her mother, she finally shook off the addiction that had plagued her life. Rena, meanwhile, had returned to the streets of Dushanbe. She deserved better, but she was doomed. It was evident to Malika, sadly, that it was only a matter of time before Rena would be back in the village they had left a few short weeks previous.

  ‘It is behind us now,’ her mother said, although Malika could see the sadness in her face.

  ‘I have come to rebuild my life.’

  ‘We will rebuild it together, my daughter.’

  In the weeks since reuniting, they both discussed their lives at length. Her mother had wandered lost for some months until she found a refuge for single women. There, she had re-found herself and worked as a seamstress for a tailor in the centre of the city until the opportunity to work at the hospital became available. It had not paid much, but it was peace, all she wanted, apart from her daughter.

  Malika opened up slowly about the degradation of her life as it spiralled downwards out of control. She told her mother about selling herself on the street. Her mother cried profusely throughout but, as Malika consoled her and told her it was in the past, her mother came to accept the inevitability of a drug addict.

  She told her about the drug smugglers’ village and the people she had met there, some good, some bad. She felt it wise not to detail about the Afghans and their perverted demands, the violent beatings she had suffered, and how she came to be so severely bruised and battered, with one eye that would always be impaired.

  She would never tell her mother of the hatred she felt for a man she had cared for and thought had cared for her. He had been intolerant and angry when he should have been sympathetic and forgiving. She hated him, and what he had done to her, and she knew that one day, somehow, she would have her revenge.