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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Sometimes, it is necessary to bend a little. Afghanistan is an impoverished country. My people are only aiming to alleviate your suffering.’ Pure rhetoric, Oleg realised, similar to when he had used it in St. Petersburg. There, it had been attempting to convince a reluctant businessman that he was better off paying for his protection than running the risk. Here, to convince a wily politician to take the money and turn a blind eye.

  ‘Our Western cousins require us to be resolute in stamping out this trade,’ said the Minister.

  ‘And what gain will there be to your country? Additional funds to allow them to remain for longer, to take further business interests from you? To plunder your mineral wealth and to give you a pittance in return?’ Oleg, who knew little about such matters, had been sufficiently coached from Moscow by Dmitry Gubkin, who maintained his distance from the office in a government building in Kabul. Oleg thought it smelled vaguely of mothballs.

  ‘Your answering is convincing, but we must shut down your operations. We cannot ignore the directive. Further aid money is critical to the rebuilding of my country,’ the Minister said.

  ‘Are you able to assist?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘We are not foolish people,’ replied the Minister. ‘We do not want to bring undue hardship to the poor people of Afghanistan by depriving them of income, no matter how meagre.’

  ‘That is what will happen.’

  ‘Of course. It is not for us to act in an irrational manner. Our response will be measured. I will let Alam know when and where we will focus our activities.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  As the meeting concluded, and with Oleg on the other side of a closed door, the Minister pulled Alam over to one side and spoke to him in a quiet voice.

  ‘You will ensure that my assistance will be compensated?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ***

  Alam was in a good mood as they left the Minister’s office.

  ‘There are other people to see, but that will wait for tomorrow. Tonight we celebrate,' he said.

  Oleg had to acknowledge that his initial impressions of Alam had been wrong. He had proved himself to be educated, logical and accomplished in a country when all three were not always in abundance.

  ‘Alam, I met you in Kunduz, but I assume there are other people involved.’

  ‘You will meet them in due course. When they are confident, you can be trusted.’

  ‘Have I not proven my trust?’

  ‘You have worked with Yusup Baroyev, a man of questionable morals. You have killed one of our people. Trust is earned, not given. It will be some time before we are willing to accept you.’

  ‘Is that how you see Baroyev?’

  ‘There are some who deride his shameful habit of fornicating with numerous women, but I am not the person to judge him. The pleasure of a woman is to be savoured; if he is able to afford many, that is to his advantage.’

  ‘It has been some time since I have been with a woman,’ Oleg admitted.

  ‘Yes, I know. That is the celebration for tonight, assuming you have enough money and stamina.’

  ‘Money, yes. Stamina, we shall see.’

  It had been true what Oleg had been told. There were indeed Chinese prostitutes in Kabul. Their presence was well-concealed, but those with money knew where they were.

  They drove to a house close to Wazir Akbar Khan, well-protected and surrounded by guards who were a cut above the rest. Entry was purely on an invite, yet Alam had managed to secure one with little difficulty. Inside, behind dark curtains, an alien world removed from the outside. Chinese women, ranging from early teens through to their thirties, moved freely around the rooms. They were exquisitely dressed.

  The bar in the corner maintained a frantic pace supplying all the male patrons, both Afghan and Western. The prices were exorbitant, whether for the girls or the drinks. It was good that Oleg had brought with him close to two thousand dollars. Tonight he was going to spend it all. Not just on himself, but Alam as well, who was consuming more than his fair share of Johnnie Walker Black Label.

  Oleg kept to the beer, at least for now. He had a more pressing need. He had chosen the lovely girl with the flower in her hair the moment he walked through the door. She was slim and tender with pert breasts and a small arse.

  Once she was free of some drunken Americans who only wanted to kiss her, too drunk to take her, he moved over to her side.

  ‘Hello,’ he said in Russian. He tried Tajik, but no response.

  ‘Fucky,’ she said in heavily-accented English.

  One word they both understood sealed the deal. The bedrooms were up a spiral staircase. It was pay as you go. He handed over five hundred American to a stern-faced, middle-aged woman at the bottom of the staircase before he was allowed to proceed. He wasn’t sure if he had paid for an hour of the young Chinese girl’s time, or a night, but he accepted the price regardless. In the village, it had only cost a few grammes of heroin.

  The Chinese brothel was neither the time nor the place to argue the price. Besides, only Alam would understand what he was saying and, judging by his appearance, he was already virtually incapable of speech.

  The room where Liu practised her trade was small and ornately-styled with Chinese lanterns and fairy lights. She was an attractive woman, probably not more than twenty or twenty-one; but, judging by her skills, she had been selling herself for some years. She was not of the standard of Malika, but after so long he was pleased with her performance.

  It was clear that the five hundred dollars entitled him to more than one hour of her time. She had been insistent on his showering first, and she had joined him there, applied the soap and lathered him down herself, ensuring that she made the briefest of touches on his erect penis. She teased and delighted while holding him at a distance. Once showered and on the bed, she massaged him with a fragrant smelling oil.

  It seemed like an eternity, but eventually she relented. It was a process that was to repeat itself until the early hours of the morning.

  The next day, she bade him farewell with a fond embrace. She then went into the house; he did not see her again. Alam was waiting outside in the vehicle.

  ‘Are you better?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, much better. And you?’

  ‘A dreadful headache, but I have sinned. It is just that I suffer now.’

  ‘You are a man. You did not sin. Men need to drink and screw, it’s only natural.’

  ‘That may be, but the Mullah at my Mosque would not agree with you.’

  ‘Maybe you should bring him here,’ Oleg joked.

  ‘If the Taliban knew of this place, they would attack and slit the throats of every whore in there, including the one you spent the night with.’

  ‘Then we had better not let them know. What is the agenda for today?’

  ‘We will meet another person.’

  Oleg had failed the night before to phone his contact in Tajikistan. He took the opportunity as they proceeded back to the guest house.

  ‘Are you certain we will receive warning of the army’s pending attacks,’ asked the nameless man. ‘Can you be sure?’

  ‘In Afghanistan, what can you be sure of? It’s the best information we have,’ Oleg replied.

  ‘Then, when you get back to Kunduz, I want you to meet one of the Afghan smugglers’ senior people.’

  ‘Alam said I would only meet him when they trusted me.’

  ‘It is already arranged,’ the man said.

  As dusk approached that day, Alam and Oleg drove out to a large house on the outskirts of the city. Alam said it was the road to Jalalabad, but Oleg soon lost his bearings as the vehicle deviated in and out of the traffic; the lack of street lights and road signs made it difficult to understand where they were. It was a busy, chaotic city and, whereas he could not say he liked it, he had to admit it had a certain charm.

  ‘The person we are about to meet,’ Alam said. ‘He is a man who prefers to remain hidden. Don’t ask too much
as to who he is or where he is from. He will ask you questions, you will answer. My people place great faith in his wisdom.’

  Chapter 12

  Ali Mowllah spoke Russian with limited fluency. He had taken the opportunity to meet the Russian mafia’s representative before a more formal meeting in Kunduz, to the north. Oleg thought he was a splendid-looking man. It was clear from his speech that he was well-educated.

  ‘We have met because we have mutual issues to discuss and resolve,’ Mowllah said.

  He sat cross-legged on a carpet. There were some comfortable chairs, but it seemed apparent to Oleg that it was advisable to adopt a similar position on the floor. Alam easily assumed the position, Oleg with difficulty. He had spent enough time in the country to be able to manage it for a short period of time, but he had been troubled by a cramp in his left leg a couple of times. He hoped it would not happen this time.

  ‘What is it that you wish to discuss?’

  ‘The partnership that we are involved in.’

  ‘Am I the right person to discuss this with?’ Oleg asked. ‘I am here as a representative of my organisation, but I am not within their senior echelons.’

  ‘I wish to discuss the inequitable arrangement that currently exists.’

  ‘I am told that this agreement was made recently. A contract signed to that effect,’ Oleg said.

  ‘That is true, but the situation has changed.’

  ‘You are referring to the impending action of the Afghan army?’

  Ali Mowllah moved in his seat. He stood up and looked away from Oleg in a manner of indifference.

  ‘The Afghan army presents some complication. What I am referring to is a more serious matter.’

  ‘Please continue.’ Oleg felt that the man was showing him disrespect.

  ‘We have honoured our side of the agreement and raised our production levels significantly.’

  ‘This I understand.’

  ‘Yet, we see little return.’

  ‘I thought that the money was flowing into your bank accounts.’ Oleg was not fully cognisant of the present arrangement, but he had been forewarned that they would be looking for a better deal.

  ‘We are able to supply more, but we will want a better return,’ said Mowllah. ‘The costs to defuse our government's interest will be more than we expected. It is for you to make up the shortfall in our profit margin.’

  ‘I can only be the messenger here,’ Oleg replied. ‘Any final decisions would need to be made by others.’

  ‘It may well be that those who came here initially will need to return. Otherwise, we will need to deal with your opponent.’

  ‘My people do not respond well to threats, regardless of how carefully they are worded.’

  ‘Threats!’ the Afghan replied with feigned indignation. ‘You do not know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘The Russian mafia does not appreciate being told what they must do. Surely, you must realise that.’ Oleg stood up, glad of the opportunity, as he could feel a cramp coming on.

  ‘I am not telling anyone what they must do,’ said Mowllah. ‘I am purely stating the situation. Another party we have had good dealings with in the past has indicated that they will be in Kunduz within the next few weeks.’

  ‘Does this party have a name?’ Oleg assumed it was Yusup.

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  ‘Yusup Baroyev.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He will not be able to move the quantities that my people can.’

  ‘He assures us that he can. We trust him. He is a brother, a fellow Tajik, although his behaviour is not something we are able to countenance.’

  ‘I know him well. He does not have the ability to give you as much business as we can.’

  ‘We shall see. He is sending a representative in fourteen days’ time, once we have dealt with the issue of the army.’

  ‘Baroyev’s representative, did he give a name as to who he would send?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘The person that we met before, Farrukh Bahori. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, I know him,’ Oleg replied. He knew exactly what he intended to do when they met again.

  The meeting had not taken long, but the message was clear. Oleg realised his time in Afghanistan was likely to be prolonged. In Kabul, there was the diversion of the Chinese prostitutes. In Kunduz, he would need to ask Alam.

  ***

  A late afternoon flight the next day to Kunduz, in the same plane that had brought them down, returned Oleg safely back to his guest house. It was warm and well-equipped, with at least a hundred channels on the television courtesy of the satellite dish on the roof. He could not complain as to his comfort, but to be without a woman indefinitely gave him concern. He now had the added complication of a visit from Farrukh, the same Farrukh who had taken his apartment, his clothes and his car. Without the demands of a woman, he mulled over Farrukh’s fate.

  As Alam explained the next day, the compound they had visited was being readied as the intended location for the Afghan army to attack. The bribes had been paid, the date and time agreed.

  ‘What about business?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘We will move to another compound,’ replied Alam. ‘It is of little concern.’

  ‘And what will they find at the present compound?’

  ‘It will give the appearance of being in use. There will be a few kilos of heroin, some armed men and a suitably impressive security system. The spotlights will be on; we will ensure there are some savage dogs to complete the subterfuge.’

  ‘Will the army believe that it is the primary point of distribution?’

  ‘Those present will. There will be a battle, some men will die, and some heroin found. They will claim a great victory, tell the world that they have smashed a major drug operation, and then everyone will go back to their regular business.’

  ‘And what of the men killed?’

  ‘What about them?’ said Alam. ‘They will not be our people, just some peasants with guns who have been paid well enough to believe that we care about them.’

  ‘So you will condemn them to death to maintain the subterfuge?’

  ‘What do you want us to do? Let the army close us down?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘My friend, life is cheap and nowhere is it cheaper than in Afghanistan. Have you not killed innocent men before?’

  ‘They have not always been innocent,’ said Oleg. ‘But yes, I have killed.’

  ‘I know that. You killed my cousin.’

  ‘Your cousin?’

  ‘The one you pulled off the whore in the village.’

  ‘I am sorry. I was angry. I cared for the woman, but her addiction was too strong. She could not resist the need of a fix, even when she had said she was fine until I returned.’

  ‘There is no need to apologise,’ said Alam. ‘You have paid the money to his family. The matter is closed. We will talk no more of it.’

  ***

  The Afghan army’s offensive against the compound was planned for a Tuesday at dusk. Alam had suggested that they go and watch from the safety of a nearby hill, not more than four hundred metres distance. Oleg could see from his vantage point that the military was planning a massive show of force. He calculated there were, at least, three hundred troops, plus some armoured vehicles. Helicopters could be seen circling in the distance, waiting to come in at the appropriate command. The guards in the compound continued to doze, unaware of their impending fate.

  A flare shot up into the night sky, signalling it was time to move in. The compound had been chosen by the drug smugglers because there was open land on all four sides, which provided good security. If it had been twenty or so men aiming to attack, which would have been the case with a rival gang, the security would have been fine, but with three hundred it offered little security.

  The Afghan army infantry was well-armed, well-disciplined and they moved in a carefully maintained formation. The return fire from the compound was uncoordinated. It was clea
r that those inside the compound, the defenders, were not of the same calibre that Oleg had seen on a previous visit. They were shooting wildly without a clear target. He had not had the discipline of military training, but it seemed clear to him that you did not waste a bullet if you did not have an intended and viable target. The army maintained a distance, allowing those inside to continue wasting their ammunition.

  Once the shooting lessened ‒ a clear indication ammunition was running low ‒ the army moved forward again. The four armoured cars, one to each wall, slowly moved over the frost-hardened ground, the soldiers keeping to the rear of the vehicles, apart from the brave and foolhardy fools who felt the need to show off to their colleagues. Those in the compound could not miss them. They suffered some casualties.

  Faiz and Wais, two of those inside ‒ peasant farmers at any other time ‒ were brave, even diligent in the face of overwhelming odds. They saw the situation was futile and that they had been set up. A hastily constructed white flag made of an old piece of fabric had little effect when Wais attempted to wave it vigorously in front of the advancing troops. It had cost him his life, as he was cut down by a bullet from an American M16 assault rifle that one of the soldiers carried. The commander of the battalion had made it clear – no prisoners, no surrender. It was to be a clear signal to those who dealt in drugs that their form of trade would not be tolerated, and to the world that the Afghan army was competent and incorruptible.

  The battle lasted no more than sixty minutes. Of those in the compound, none survived. Of the Afghan army, twenty had died, another fifteen injured. The government in Kabul was quick to announce to the world that a major drug-smuggling ring in northern Afghanistan had been crushed, by the prompt and efficient action of its military.

  Also, Minister Nazif Arsala had been able to make another substantial payment on the three-bedroom apartment he had bought for himself in Dubai. It had been a good result for all. The drop in merchandise exiting the country had only taken a momentary dip.