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

by Phillip Strang

  ‘We neutralise him,’ Mowllah said.

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Noorzai asked.

  He was not an intelligent man. He saw life clearly along fundamentalist lines. If you were with him, then fine. If not, you either changed sides, or you were dead. It was a philosophy that had served him well and had made his transition to Taliban easy, and his rise to a senior position, rapid. An outer suburb of Kandahar had been his birthplace, forty something years prior. The exact date of his birth, even the year, were unknown, but it mattered little to him.

  An aggressive, angry man, Noorzai had never been averse to violence as a solution, and he saw no reason to change. He hated the Russians for what they had done to his country and his family. His father had died enslaved in a labour camp, making concrete bricks for the extensive building programme they had embarked on when they occupied the country. They had literally starved him to death, worked him until he could stand up no more and then beat him as he lay on the ground, pleading for mercy. The ardent Taliban could not tolerate the Russians, and he was certain his reaction to their mafia’s representative was going to be hostile.

  He had a vision of re-energising the fundamentalist organisation and retaking Kabul, but that needed money, lots of money, and the Russian mafia had plenty of it. If he had to deal with the devil, then he would.

  Arif Noorzai hated Ashraf Ghilzai. To him, he was a traitor. Ashraf Ghilzai had been a senior Taliban, a colleague of Arif Noorzai, even a friend, but he had become disillusioned some years previously. The Taliban had been about religious purity and a better world, based on the tenets of the Koran. It had not been about overt violence and personal wealth.

  It was not that Ashraf Ghilzai had any issues with either, but to preach one and practise another was contrary to his Islamic belief and he saw himself as a good Muslim.

  He saw Arif Noorzai and his cohorts as no longer pure. He well-remembered the days of the Mujahedeen when they were fighting the Russian invaders, later the Americans. And then there had been the march into Kabul, when they grabbed the Russian puppet ex-president, who had been hiding out in the United Nations compound, and dragged him around the city attached to the rear of a truck, minus his genitals.

  Ghilzai knew that some of the leadership in Kandahar were living in luxury, and, in Karachi, they were driving around in armour-plated Mercedes cars and living in two, three-storey monoliths with their expensive fittings and Italian marble floors. There was even one he had heard of that boasted an indoor swimming pool, where the Russian whores out of the Cyclone Club in Dubai would come for a week or two while people starved in the street.

  It was an enviable lifestyle, which Ghilzai wished to emulate. But he would not be standing outside of the house preaching to his humble lieutenants to maintain the holy fight, when not more than ten metres away, behind a couple of hefty wooden doors, were a couple of prostitutes.

  He had been placed on a Taliban list for summary execution after he had absconded from Kandahar and relocated to a remote village in the Hindu Kush. His execution had only been delayed while he was of some use. Ghilzai had been the provider of the best-quality heroin in Afghanistan, and it was only the best that the Russians wanted.

  Noorzai was determined that one day, Ghilzai would be held accountable for his crimes. Ghilzai was equally sure that he would have a Karachi-style mansion, only his would be located in Dubai.

  Ali Mowllah was neither Taliban nor violent. He was a businessman who looked for profit. He knew the four of them were the best in the country. Noorzai, for his ability to maximise on the opium poppies under cultivation, Ashraf Ghilzai, for transforming it into heroin; and Ahmad Ghori, for dealing with the logistics of moving it across the border into Tajikistan and dealing with all the bribes and corruption required.

  Ali Mowllah’s skills were clearly acknowledged. He was the clear analytical brain, the adviser. He did not know the Russians had a counterpart, equally detached and unemotional, equally capable; but Dmitry Gubkin in Moscow had women trouble, whereas he was perfectly content with his two wives, who had given him strong and healthy sons. His women were both easy to the eye, pleasant in bed and they never refused him.

  ***

  Katerina Gubkin’s day had started well. There had been shopping, expensive as usual, but she neither looked at the price nor the dent it made in her husband’s bank account.

  There had been a couple of deals in Moscow, which had gone sour for her husband, although the money coming out of his arrangement with Grigory Stolypin and the Russian mafia compensated him financially for any losses incurred.

  For Dmitry, however, it was not the same. He received accolades for the deals in Moscow when they went right, brickbats when then didn’t and now they were clearly going wrong. His wealth was unaffected, but no one praised him for shipping another extra two or three hundred kilos of heroin up to Russia, and he missed the acclaim.

  He knew what the problem was. It was his wife. She was putting him off his game, and her impending accident weighed heavily on his mind. Her indiscretions were becoming more apparent. A celebrity photographer had even snapped her kissing Anton Davydov at a restaurant the previous week, and it had been printed in full colour on the front cover of the most scandalous magazine devoted to such trivial matters. Its readership numbered in the millions and Dmitry realised he could wait no longer.

  Grigory had counselled great care, told him that these things tend to backfire when you least expect, but Dmitry was firm. It was going to cost him well over a quarter of a million dollars, but it was a meagre amount to what it would cost if she took him to court and claimed half his assets. He could have fought her, but the resultant publicity would have put a chink in the impenetrable armour that was his reputation and respect in the community.

  As she drove away from her final shop for the day, Katarina did not notice the two cars following her, one a BMW, the other a Toyota. As she moved down Kuznetsky Most Street, just behind the Bolshoi Theatre and the home of some of the most fashionable shops in Moscow, she took a left turn. It was only a ten-minute drive, and the traffic was relatively light.

  Her day’s shopping had been delightful, but exceedingly expensive. A pair of shoes, red in colour, had set Dmitry back a thousand dollars in the American equivalent; a blouse, close to that amount and a handbag, Gucci and leather, well over four thousand. She had not looked at the price – the style was all that was important, and if a man could not afford her such necessities, then he was not the man for her. She was in a good mood and, that night, she intended to dedicate to her husband.

  Anton Davydov had been a great lover, a frivolous interlude in a seemingly sterile and dull marriage, but Dmitry was stable, generous, trustworthy and, above all, devoted to her.

  She had discovered the night before, after a passionate session of unbridled sex, that her younger lover possessed few of Dmitry’s meritorious traits. The waiter at the hotel had been late bringing the champagne and Anton had shouted at him, demanding a refund; and it was later, while he was sleeping, exhausted, that she saw the SMS on his phone. The message meant two things to her: the first that he had another woman and, second, that they intended to meet later that night after he had got rid of her in the nicest possible way.

  It should have upset her, but it did not. For once, she had seen the reality. She had been the mistress of several prominent men before she had met Dmitry, but he was the only one who had wanted to marry her. He had told her, then, that he did not care about her past, as long as she was with him.

  As she approached the house they shared, she took care to avoid the substantial drop down to a lower road fifteen metres below. The safety barriers had been removed for repair, and the road was rough. She failed to notice the large, four-wheel drive Toyota that came alongside her and bumped her towards the large drop. She instinctively braked, but the second car, the BMW, had positioned itself close to her rear. Unable to brake, she accelerated just at the moment the Toyota cornered her front wing.
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br />   Her car plunged down the almost sheer embankment, rolling as it went down. At the bottom, it came to rest on its roof. Katerina Gubkin was dead. Her husband would never know that she intended to return to him. The negligee she had intended to wear to bed that night, to entice him to make love to her, was strewn across the road.

  The society pages of all the newspapers were dedicated to Dmitry Gubkin, the grieving widower, and his stoic manner in the days following the tragedy. The funeral entourage numbered over five hundred. The elite of society, some senior politicians and business leaders, attended. It would be weeks before Gubkin would re-enter Moscow society and weeks before he would be any use to Grigory Stolypin.

  They were the weeks when his absence would cause the most difficulty.

  ***

  Apart from Grigory Stolypin, Dmitry Gubkin had met two other men – Boris ‘the enforcer’ Sobchak and Ivan Merestkov. True to their word, neither Sobchak nor Merestkov made any attempt to contact him after the initial first meeting, where they had sworn an oath of fealty to him.

  During the few weeks’ absence of Dmitry, a situation had developed that required his advice. It had become apparent that somebody was double-dealing, giving information to the competitor, Yusup Baroyev.

  Baroyev’s knowledge of shipments could have only come from one source, and the successful hijacking of a couple of trucks close to the northern border of Tajikistan was too predictable to be a random event.

  There was only one person who could have given the information; only one person with the detailed knowledge of the trucks and where their illegal contraband was located. The vehicles had been found later, parked fifty kilometres up a forestry track ‒ the merchandise removed, clearly the work of amateurs. They knew what they were after and Grigory knew full well that Boris Sobchak was the informer and Yusup Baroyev, the recipient of the drugs.

  It was not the conclusion worthy of a Sherlock Holmes or a master detective. Sobchak controlled the movement of the merchandise, and only Baroyev had the infrastructure in place to sell it.

  Grigory Stolypin had brought in Dmitry to advise on such situations, and now he wasn’t available. He had tried phoning him, but all he received were disinterested replies. He decided that he had to make a decision, right or wrong.

  His first decision was to liquidate Boris Sobchak; his second was to entrust Oleg Yezhov if he could extricate himself from the Afghans.

  Oleg was delighted when told the news of his impending elevation and return to Tajikistan, although Yusup Baroyev still concerned him.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll protect you,’ Stolypin said, although Oleg wasn’t sure if anybody could protect him if Baroyev were intent on having him killed.

  Oleg realised that a return to Tajikistan came with some benefits, as well as some risks. He deemed the risks acceptable. The only outstanding issue was how to speed up the Afghans, who continued to debate and procrastinate.

  For their part, it was a case of weakening the bargaining position of Farrukh and Oleg, and for Oleg, it had the necessary result. Farrukh, a more balanced individual, was okay to wait, but Oleg was not, and his meetings with Farhana were too far apart, too difficult to arrange.

  ***

  It was late one night when Farhana phoned him. She needed money, something about some new clothes. He made a fateful mistake and brought her to his house, smuggled in the boot of his car. No one had seen her come in, and she quickly made her way to his bedroom on the second floor of the house. He had ensured the staff was absent. The guards at the gate were invariably asleep, although they jumped to attention when he had beeped the horn for entry. He knew that, within five minutes after they had closed the gate, they would be huddled up in their guard hut, heater on, fast asleep.

  She had been much more willing that night, comfortably encased in a warm and luxurious bed instead of a cold and flea-ridden one out at the farmhouse. Even Oleg had to admit that her ability to sustain his pleasure had improved immeasurably.

  ‘Do I not please you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘When you go to Tajikistan, will you take me with you?’

  It seemed a reasonable request, but how and was it advisable? He did not see a long-term future with her, but if he could help he saw no reason not to try. He still felt guilt over Malika and helping the young Afghan prostitute seemed, to him, a way of redemption. He had destroyed the life of one; saving the life of another made sense. He would try, although how he could drive her across the border he didn’t know. It seemed impossible. He would ask Alam at a later date.

  His life improved immeasurably. He had a woman to bed and, for a week, there had been no issues, with the added bonus that Grigory Stolypin had offered him a job back in Tajikistan. Russia was still out of the question, as the KGB had not given up on him entirely. An email from Natasha in St. Petersburg had confirmed she was still subjected to the infrequent and unexpected knock at the door; she was sure her phone was being bugged.

  Doesn’t she realise they’re tapping her Internet connection? he thought. But, apart from that, he gave it little concern, although he did worry about her. He felt completely safe; the KGB weren’t about to come down to Tajikistan, let alone Afghanistan. He had, however, underestimated the resolve of Artur Malenkov’s brother.

  It had been close to four weeks before the four Afghans were ready to talk again. They had weighed up the options, deliberated on who offered the best possibility and achieved in frustrating Farrukh and Oleg.

  Chapter 16

  The debating amongst the four members of the Afghan side of the business continued, even though they had requested Oleg and Farrukh to present their submissions and to discuss the possibilities. They did not like the Russians, but how they could avoid dealing with them seemed unclear. Farrukh persisted in trying to see them, so much so that they had to tell him to keep his distance until called for.

  Oleg, in the meantime, busied himself with understanding how the business worked, the potential money involved and the quantity of heroin required.

  Farrukh may have the charm, but Oleg would have the knowledge. He assumed the Afghans would be more interested in business and potential money than charm.

  ‘Don’t do it, don’t even consider it,’ Alam had said when Oleg had suggested a different place to meet with Farhana. ‘Just be glad she’s available. You don’t want to be responsible for her death, do you?’ Oleg did not let on that she had been making regular visits to the house, and he had just been attempting to bring Alam into her transportation.

  Oleg was aware of how much a kilo of heroin cost when it reached the drug smugglers’ village; in Afghanistan, however, he did not know how much profit the smugglers’ leadership was making. Alam proved of limited value apart from some vague figures. The smartest man he had met was Latif, the heroin production manager. Oleg suggested a return visit. Alam was initially reluctant. He didn’t want the guided tour again, but in the end, he relented.

  The trip the next day took less time than previous. It was obvious that a grader had smoothed out the road in some areas.

  ‘How much do you pay?’ Latif asked.

  ‘When it has been smuggled across to the village?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Close to two thousand American dollars a kilo, for the best quality heroin.’

  ‘I only supply the best quality,’ Latif proudly said.

  ‘I realise that, but some others are not as diligent as you are in their production.’

  ‘Then I hope you reject it.’

  ‘In the past, yes, but the quantities were reducing. I couldn’t always be so discerning.’

  ‘Yes, of course. It’s not for me to comment. I just produce it. There are others who could answer as to the reason.’

  ‘I know the reason now,’ replied Oleg. ‘The Russian mafia has been taking it direct instead of going through Baroyev.’

  ‘But you are now with the Russians, so it no longer concerns you,’ said Latif.
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  ‘As you say, I am now with the Russians. The reason is no longer my concern, although your people in Kunduz are attempting to raise the price, maybe strike a deal with the Tajikistan gangsters.’

  ‘Isn’t that purely supply and demand?’

  ‘You are right, but I cannot afford to fail.’

  ‘I can only give you some guidelines on the costs involved,’ said Latif. ‘It was sold to you in the village for two thousand American dollars, and we had sold it previously to the smuggler – or, at least, his boss – for six hundred American. Our production costs are relatively low, maybe two hundred American a kilo, by the time we’ve paid for all the chemicals and the setting up of the facilities around the region. Then there are the bribes to be paid.’

  ‘What about the farmer who grows the poppies, the men working in the factories?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘The farmers, maybe thirty dollars a kilo,’ said Latif. ‘And the factory workers, they’d be lucky to receive more than two dollars a day, and then they only spend it on heroin.’

  ‘So who’s making the money?’ Oleg asked.

  ‘Maybe you should ask the people in Kunduz that question. I make sufficient to send my sons to school. That is all I need.’

  Alam said little at the meeting with Latif, although he proved to be more communicative on the way back to Kunduz.

  ‘What did you gain from that?’ Alam asked.

  ‘Just a little more background information,’ said Oleg. ‘Now that your leaders are more communicative, I’ll need to be able to counter any offers from Baroyev through Farrukh.’

  ‘What about his car?’ Alam asked. He had been one of the admirers of the beautiful Mercedes that Farrukh drove with pride around the dusty city.

  ‘His car? It’s mine, as is the apartment he lives in. I intend to take it back before he leaves.’

  ‘Be careful, very careful. If you offend the hospitality he has been accorded here, then it will not be Farrukh you will have to worry about.’