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

by Phillip Strang

  The new girlfriend was gone, a victim of the bad press, but there were other men, ageing and aiming to relive their youth with a much younger woman. Gubkin felt trapped, and Stolypin was doing nothing to help. The assassination of Feliks Kalinin, without checking with him, was counter-productive. There was an element of risk which he saw as unacceptably high.

  Stolypin saw the assassination differently. He felt it sent the right signal – deal with us or nobody else. Gubkin had judged Baroyev as a man who did not respond to threats.

  He had reminded Stolypin, who became exceedingly angry, what the initial agreement between them had been.

  Firstly, he would be kept out of sight, and that clearly was not the case anymore. Secondly, he was to control all activities, to be the brains behind the scenes. Gubkin further reminded him that he had clearly said he was a gangster with a gangster’s mind and that they needed someone impartial in control.

  Stolypin, in turn, reminded Gubkin that he was now part of the organisation and hiding in some fancy house, pretending to be a good and honest citizen, no longer held any weight. Unless he came up with some constructive assistance, he would be contacted when needed.

  Dmitry had missed one other factor, mainly because he was unaware of the situation and Stolypin had failed to realise the repercussions it was to have.

  The senior executive of Bratva, the Russian mafia, became aware of the assassination of Feliks Kalinin within six hours of it occurring. They had previously received a cursory communication from Kalinin telling them that he was aware of another offshoot of the mafia muscling in on his business. Details were scarce, as he had little or no proof and he had not mentioned any names, only intimated that Grigory Stolypin was somehow involved.

  Kalinin’s death was clearly suspicious. If Dmitry had known, he would have advised caution, attempted to explain it to Stolypin.

  Stolypin became aware of the recklessness of his actions within a week. The senior executive of the mafia intended to conduct an investigation of certain names, Stolypin initially and then his associates, Gennady Denikin included.

  Stolypin’s travels down to Tajikistan were thought to be suspicious. His further incursion into Afghanistan put the executive on edge. Instead of Feliks Kalinin being asked to explain where the money was, it was Grigory Stolypin who was being summoned.

  ***

  Feeling suitably concerned that he did not have the answers, Stolypin phoned the one man who could possibly extricate him from the current situation.

  Dmitry was not affable and became downright cold and unpleasant. He was being subjected to a tax audit and the accountants and lawyers, who would have been at his place in an instant, for the substantial money he would pay them, were nowhere to be seen and unavailable every time he phoned. He had never been subjected to an official enquiry into his business dealings before. He had always paid someone a suitable amount of money to make it go away.

  ‘Look here, Dmitry,’ Stolypin went on the offensive. ‘If I’m going down, then you are coming down with me.’

  ‘Don’t threaten me,’ replied Dmitry angrily. ‘Who do you think you are? You’re nothing but a two-bit hoodlum who thinks he is a master gangster.’

  ‘Watch what you say. From what I hear, you’re no longer the darling of the social set. A pariah, as they see it. Whether you like it or not concerns me little. We both need each other now, so we may as well be civil.’

  Dmitry realised that Stolypin had spoken the truth. He would never survive a tax investigation and his previous corporate takeovers, daring as they had been, had come about in part due to industrial espionage, and a team of lawyers, who would as quickly become witnesses for the prosecution, saying they had acted on written instructions. He was cornered and his life, good as it had been, was over. His only hope of redemption or a life of quiet solace lay with the man at the other end of the phone line.

  ‘Grigory, you are right. As much as we may not like the situation, we are tied to each other. It is important that we plan our strategy – and please, this time, leave the thinking to me.’

  ‘Dmitry, maybe I was wrong having Kalinin killed.’

  ***

  Dmitry saw that he probably had less than two weeks before the shutters came down. He gave himself five days to secure his money. There were eighty million American dollars in a bank account in Switzerland and another twenty-five million in an offshore bank in Cyprus. He would need to delete all the passwords from his computer. He had four houses aside from the Moscow mansion, but they were owned through a complex structured offshore company and trust setup. Regardless of what happened, they would be secured, although selling them may prove difficult.

  The money in his Moscow bank accounts amounted to several million American dollars. He moved quickly to move the majority out of the country. A couple of million he kept as travelling money. Where to, he did not know, but if his cover was blown, then he may as well become a gangster. He liked the style of Yusup Baroyev. He had never met him, but he seemed to be his kind of person.

  Maybe he could retrieve the disaster pending and somehow fix up a deal with the senior executive of the Russian mafia and regain the upper hand with the drug trade. He needed Stolypin, as there would be dirty work to be done, people to be pressured, people to be assassinated, people to be removed, politely or otherwise. Stolypin could deal with that, as long as he followed instructions.

  Instead of a man in despair, Gubkin was excited. He had spent too much time sitting in an office working the numbers, squeezing the lawyers and the accountants to fudge the figures up or down until they came up with the right result. There would be no more pretending to the pompous arses with their society airs and graces, who at the first hint of scandal had dumped him, and no more frivolous women bleeding him dry financially. He would become a gangster and get himself a gangster’s moll. He looked forward to the future, but first, he had to get Grigory Stolypin out of trouble.

  ***

  Dmitry and Stolypin met two days later. There seemed little reason for subterfuge anymore, and they met in a good restaurant in a good part of town. His ex-girlfriend sat in the far corner, draped over a man who must have been in his eighties. Dmitry had no animosity, but he purposefully kept his gaze averted from her, as she did from him. She had been fun for a while, had fuelled his ego with her demanding sexual needs, but she was gone, forgotten. Grigory Stolypin interested him more now than she did.

  Some of the society matrons sat at a table to one side as he entered, pretending to be deep in conversation and to not notice him. However, they were all eyes when Stolypin sat down in the chair opposite to Dmitry.

  ‘Fancy joint,’ Grigory said.

  ‘It seemed appropriate to celebrate our renewed friendship,’ Dmitry replied.

  ‘Yes, sure, whatever you say.’ Stolypin shifted uncomfortably on the chair, not used to ingratiating compliments.

  ‘Where’s the money gone?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Why ask me? You received all the financial statements.’

  ‘My question was rhetorical. If we are to get you off, we need to come up with an answer that will satisfy.’

  ‘Okay, I see what you’re trying to do. You’re attempting to shift the blame onto someone else.’ Stolypin sat upright in his chair, pulled in his chest, which still hung over the white table cloth like a lump of white lard, as his white shirt was immaculate, along with the rest of his clothes.

  ‘What we are doing,’ asked Dmitry. ‘Was it ever sanctioned by the mafia’s senior executive?’

  ‘That’s the problem. We never officially told them.’

  ‘We can’t just offer to pay them what’s owed and hope for forgiveness, I suppose?’ Dmitry knew the answer as soon as he had completed the question. He immediately regretted its naivety.

  ‘Not with these guys. An admission of guilt is a death sentence unless you can convince them to leave us alone. Make them an offer they can’t refuse, so to speak.’

  ‘Any idea what Baroyev and the A
fghans are planning?’

  ‘Denikin’s trying to find out,’ replied Grigory. ‘They’ll need someone in Russia to deal with the distribution and selling.’

  ‘Sanctioned by the senior executive?’

  ‘It’s possible, but no proof either way. Denikin’s meeting up with Baroyev.’

  ‘Baroyev’s not going to be too pleased with him after you killed his contact in Russia.’

  ‘Okay, it was a mistake,’ said Grigory. ‘Besides, we’re not sure if Baroyev knows the truth.’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t, but he will be suspicious.’

  ‘Everyone’s suspicious, what’s new in that?’

  ‘Let’s get back to getting you, us, off the hook.’

  The discussion had not dampened the appetite of either of the men, who ate vigorously the expansive array of food– three courses with wine, dessert and even a cheese plate - placed in front of them. The ex-girlfriend had left, even smiled Dmitry’s way as she walked past his table, which he returned. The society matrons lingered over their desserts, taking in the body language between their former friend and the big, well-built man with the greased-up hair and the small moustache.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Grigory asked.

  ‘We need someone to take the blame. Then we need to work out a deal with the mafia leadership.’

  ‘They’ll bleed us for at least twenty per cent.’

  ‘Okay, they’ll bleed us. We’ll just have to up the quantities or the price to compensate, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll take your advice. You run it the way you want.’

  ‘What about the other men you brought to the meeting last time we met?’

  ‘Boris Sobchak and Ivan Merestkov?’ asked Grigory.

  ‘Can we place the blame on them? Are either of them suitable?’

  ‘They’ve not done much, left it to me mainly. Take your pick, if it’s going to save our skins.’

  ‘Which one would be the most plausible?’ Dmitry asked.

  ‘Boris, for not telling the executive, and I’m certain he’s been talking to Baroyev. There were a couple of trucks hijacked. It could only have been him. I’d say Ivan was the most likely candidate for taking the money.’

  ‘Can we pin it on both of them?’

  ‘Ivan’s done a fair job with the marketing, but Boris is not really needed. I would go for Boris, but we better be quick. At least, before he finds out we’ve put the blame on him, or else he’ll have us killed.’

  ‘We better take them both out,’ Dmitry said.

  ‘Okay, if you think that’s best,’ replied Grigory. ‘The marketing, I suppose I can deal with that.’

  ***

  Life should have been good, back in Dushanbe, for Yusup Baroyev. Malika was happy, and even his wife was not pestering to come back anytime soon. The children had been enrolled in some good schools in France. No doubt expensive, he thought, but it concerned him little.

  The death of Feliks Kalinin had shaken him more than it should have. It was not a situation that he would allow to continue. It was unclear who was involved, although he assumed it was the Russians who were taking his business and Gennady Denikin was with the Russians, as was Oleg Yezhov, and he still had a score to settle with him.

  Gennady Denikin’s scheduled visit to the mansion was not pleasant.

  ‘Denikin.’ The tone of Yusup Baroyev’s voice gave him some reason to worry. ‘Who killed Kalinin, do you know?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Denikin replied truthfully. He had not been told anything, although he had his suspicions. He realised that Grigory Stolypin was being implicated and was fighting for his life back in Moscow.

  The death of Kalinin had been as much a surprise to him as it had been to the man who stared at him across the table in the mansion. He had no answers and, without clear instructions, he wasn’t sure where the conversation with the drug lord was heading. He had been told to make contact, sound him out and see if a deal could be structured, but what deal? The business from the Afghan border was running fine, and Oleg was down there seeing who else, possibly Baroyev and the Afghans, was attempting to muscle in on the business.

  ‘It could only be your people,’ Yusup said.

  ‘Why would they do that? They ask me to meet with you to set up a deal, and then kill your man in Russia? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Sense? the Russian mafia is not known for that, killing maybe.’

  ‘I’ll check,’ Denikin conceded.

  ‘Fine, let’s move on. What deal are you offering?’

  Gennady Denikin was out of his depth. He had not signed on to deal with the senior gangster in the country. He was a facilitator, the man who ensured the operation flowed smoothly once someone else had set it up. Sure, he had been down in Afghanistan, and he had handled that well, but dealing with a smooth operator such as Baroyev was a different situation. In Afghanistan, there were the regular phone calls back to Moscow, to Stolypin, and the nameless voice who had told him what to say and what to do.

  Neither of the two back in Russia were answering the phone, and he needed advice. He could see no reason for prolonging the meeting at the mansion.

  ‘A percentage to stand aside and let us run the operation, or else you could take over the transportation here in the country,’ said Denikin, although it was only a couple of ideas that came to mind.

  ‘Either may be acceptable,’ replied Yusup. ‘Why are you here offering, anyway?’

  ‘We would rather have you with us.’

  ‘So, when there is a fight amongst your mafia friends, I’ll be on your side, not theirs.’

  ‘That’s sounds about right.’

  ‘I need to see concrete facts first before I agree to any deal. And, if it’s going to get violent, then I need to know what to expect.’

  Gennady Denikin left the mansion soon after. It had not been a good meeting from his point of view. Yusup Baroyev saw it differently. If the Russians were in trouble, it would give him the opportunity to strike a deal, or just take the business from them. However, his distribution channel, Feliks Kalinin, was dead, and he wasn’t sure who else he could trust.

  ***

  Back at his house, Denikin had two phone calls to make – one to Oleg, the other to Stolypin, if only he would answer.

  Oleg was easier to get hold off. He was down at the border town with Pavel Suslov fishing around, aiming to find out if anyone was talking to anyone about increased business or different distribution routes. Pavel did not like it down there. Oleg did not like it much, either, but he was out of harm’s way and, regardless of how agreeable Yusup Baroyev had been, he still didn’t feel too comfortable in his presence. A few days away would do no harm.

  Yuri Drygin, the border guard, was making himself rich by taking money from everyone. He was the best lead for knowledge of what was going on. He was not happy to see Oleg initially, reticent to even talk to him. Oleg was suspicious. The Russians were his chief benefactor now, and Oleg was with the Russians.

  Why, he thought, the change in Drygin’s manner?

  Oleg was determined to find out. He had ensured the payments Drygin were receiving were paid promptly, and there had been no disruptions in the shipments coming through. Friction in Russia, apparently within the Russian mafia and disputes with Yusup Baroyev in Tajikistan, had little effect on the flow of the heroin, still carefully concealed in the myriad of vehicles crossing the concrete bridge from Afghanistan.

  Drygin had been thorough in his duties, caught a few attempting to hide drugs in hidden compartments in fuel tanks, strapped to a sheep’s underbelly, or wrapped around the waist of a peasant coming over the border. The peasants came for casual work in the shops that had sprung up in the border town, as a result of the new bridge. The Friendship Bridge, they had called it, when the Presidents of both countries had made the speeches, patted each other on the back and pronounced that it signalled a new beginning between their two great nations.

  Yuri Drygin only knew that the friendship began with h
is bank account, and that was looking awfully friendly. As to the friendship between the two great nations, there was nothing there unless it came with a suitable bribe ‒ in his case, large.

  The new player in town was talking of more friendship, more money and Oleg Yezhov was not the person he wanted to see.

  ***

  ‘Drygin, why are you avoiding me?’

  Oleg waylaid the border official at the restaurant where they had dined on a previous visit when he had been checking out Farrukh at the drug smugglers’ village. It was just before he had caught Malika with the Afghan, just before he had put her in intensive care and the Afghan in an early grave.

  ‘Oleg Yezhov.’ Drygin approached him, gave him a firm embrace and acted like an old friend. ‘Nothing of the sort.’

  Oleg saw no reason to be belligerent towards the man. He let Drygin’s comment pass. He had served the mafia well and had ensured that he had had a relatively untroubled life in Dushanbe.

  Others up the road, towards the capital and on towards the border with Uzbekistan, had not been as accomplished in the task the bribes were supposed to have ensured. A minor police official, fifty kilometres north from where Oleg and Yuri Drygin amiably sat, had attempted to garner a little extra for his goodwill. He had stopped a couple of trucks, found some drugs, put the drivers in prison and taken a payment hastily organised by Oleg, to release them. The third time he tried it was his last. Viktor Gryzlov had visited him and ensured that a bridge in construction over a slow-flowing river had some additional reinforcement, namely the police official, who was now residing inside one of the concrete supports.

  Further up, close to the Uzbek border, a customs official, similar in stature and position to Yuri Drygin, attempted a similar trick. Once again, Viktor Gryzlov, along with a local Tajik man, paid him a midnight visit. His office was empty the next day and no amount of complaining and crying by his wife, to his superior or to anyone else she could find, would bring him back.