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

by Phillip Strang

  Ivan Merestkov had used Khasan Boqiev in Dushanbe to deal with Gennady Denikin, Stolypin’s man. He had been successful, but his methods were crude, lacking the subtlety required and an Asian-looking Tajik would have been immediately noticed amongst the staid, suited businessmen that frequented the area around the restaurant. He needed someone else.

  Yegor Luzhkov was suitable, but he had just been released from prison, pending appeal for the murder of a politician. Merestkov knew that the murdered politician had failed to honour his pre-election promise to Luzhkov’s boss, a particularly vicious gangster, for services rendered in disposing of the preferred candidate in a ‘car accident’.

  Luzhkov was surprisingly receptive to the idea when Merestkov met up with him at a decent middle-class restaurant.

  ‘I owe that bastard anyway,’ he said. He was a typical old-style gangster with a gangster’s haircut, short and crudely cut, a two-day stubble, the smell of body odour and the look of a man who had seen it all and done it all in the area of murders, assassinations and kidnappings.

  ‘Stolypin cheated me out of some money,’ Luzhkov complained. ‘I did a job for him. He complained about the payment. You get his death. I get some money and payback.’

  ***

  The day was overcast and threatening rain when Grigory Stolypin walked the short distance to the restaurant at a slow pace. He chatted to the two bodyguards as they walked down the pavement. The other people on the pavement moved to one side or stepped onto the road to let them pass.

  Yegor Luzhkov stood off to the side, down a small alley. He waited for them to pass and then moved out and stood behind them at a distance of ten metres. Unaware of his presence, they continued to move forward. He was not a sophisticated assassin who saw the need for one shot or the need to ensure his weapon was accurate, or even to concern himself as to whether he was the best shot or not.

  Dead was dead as far as he was concerned; for him, a machine gun was as suitable as a pistol, better if the result was ensured. A Bizon SMG, sixty-four rounds on rapid fire and Grigory Stolypin and his two bodyguards were dead, as was an elderly businessman in his sixties, returning to his office after picking up some cakes for his secretary’s birthday.

  Luzhkov retreated down the alley, leaving the weapon and jumped into a waiting car. He felt no compunction over the deaths of the gangster or the innocent man, and he celebrated a cash payment of five thousand American dollars, with a good feed at a good restaurant, liberally washed down with vodka.

  Ivan Merestkov was delighted and quickly phoned Dmitry to update him.

  At least, Merestkov followed my suggestion, Dmitry thought. If he continues to, then all will be fine.

  ***

  Oleg did not take the news so well. Gennady Denikin was dead, and now Grigory Stolypin. There was only one more to go, and that would be three, and he was number three. Ivan Merestkov repeated several times on the phone that nothing had changed; it was business as usual as far as he was concerned.

  The mafia leadership, on hearing the news, decided that there was nothing to be gained by conducting an enquiry and, as long as the money was coming in, their percentage as agreed, then they would let it go and let Merestkov get on with it.

  Andre Malenkov, aware of the changing situation, was on the phone to Oleg.

  ‘What’s the situation?’

  ‘Business as usual, that’s what I’m told,’ Oleg replied, unsure if that was the situation. There was just too much going on to be sure.

  Due to the deaths of most of the major players and the likelihood that the possible escalation in gang warfare in Russia was probably abating, Malenkov’s superior called him back to Moscow on short notice, for some important meetings and an update. He left without giving notice to Oleg as to whether he had done enough and was free to return to Russia, which was what he wanted to do without delay.

  ***

  Some weeks after, Merestkov was on the phone daily, and business was progressing without any problems.

  The Afghans, outstaying their welcome, returned to their own country. Nilufar, the lover of Ahmad Ghori, had offered to go, but he had made it clear that her presence in such a conservative country would have only caused problems, and he wasn’t sure if he could protect her. Besides, she wouldn’t like it down there.

  Oleg had kept in contact with the hospital, sometimes visiting, for the first couple of weeks to enquire after Yusup Baroyev and how he was progressing. Merestkov told him that he should, but he would have preferred to keep away. He knew that Malika was there constantly, and Yusup’s wife had also flown back. Malika and his wife had formed a pact, and they would both sit, one on either side of his bed, while he lay sedated and barely conscious. Once he had revived enough, his wife had wished him well, spoken some encouraging words to Malika and left.

  At the end of the second week, the hospital brought Baroyev out of sedation. He was fine, although confused. As the days progressed, he improved immeasurably. Three weeks after the shot had been fired, he was taken by ambulance to the mansion. A fully functioning medical facility was set up at his cost, emulating what he had had in the hospital. It had cost a fortune. Malika had authorised it, as she was now in full control of his personal welfare.

  Four weeks after returning to the mansion, he was up and walking and starting to make decisions. He called both Dmitry Gubkin and Ivan Merestkov back to Tajikistan. Malika had said it was too soon and that he was not fully recovered. Yusup stated that it was too important to be left as it was and that he would take it easy, convalesce afterwards, but she knew he would not.

  ***

  ‘Dmitry, Ivan, do we have an agreement?’ Yusup Baroyev asked, propped up in a comfy chair, cushions supporting him as Malika had insisted.

  ‘You will take responsibility for the transportation and the negotiations with the Afghans,’ replied Dmitry.

  ‘Fine, then you no longer need Oleg Yezhov,’ said Yusup.

  ‘No, we will take him back with us to Russia, once we have ensured a handover to your people.’

  ‘Farrukh will oversee the handover. We will allow six weeks, is that suitable?’ Yusup asked.

  ‘Six weeks appears about right,’ Dmitry said.

  ‘There is one other matter,’ Yusup said.

  ‘Yes?’ Dmitry replied.

  ‘Yezhov, he’s mine at the end of the six weeks.’

  ‘Is there any reason for this?’ Ivan asked.

  ‘It is a personal matter. You need not concern yourself.’

  ‘Then he is yours,’ Dmitry said. He was aware of some animosity, some issues, but neither he nor Ivan cared greatly as to what happened to Oleg Yezhov. They both knew he represented trouble.

  ***

  Six weeks later, Malika had her revenge. A good woman in many ways, at least to the level of a gangster’s mistress, she had never forgotten or forgiven what had happened when Oleg had caught her on her knees giving a blowjob to an Afghan, purely because her addiction, had allowed her no other course.

  His failure to understand and his beating of her had left her virtually blind in one eye. It still gave her the occasional nightmare when she thought back to that night.

  Yusup kept his promise when Oleg Yezhov was picked up from outside his apartment, conveyed to a remote desert region and strung upside down over a termites nest, his head resting on the top, the termites agitated by the prodding of a stick.

  Farrukh had offered to help, and he cut the genitals from Oleg and dangled them around his neck. With the blood rushing to his brain internally and the blood externally dripping into the nest, the termites, in their excitement, commenced their climb into every orifice on the helpless man’s body. He would have screamed if he could have, but the gag prevented him at first and then the termites afterwards as they streamed into his mouth. His death was slow and painful.

  Natasha would never know what had happened to him. Andre Malenkov would not have cared, nor would have Dmitry Gubkin or Ivan Merestkov.

  He had not bee
n a good man. He had not been the worst, but fate had brought him to this place. It was fate that condemned him.

  The End

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Phillip Strang was born in the late forties, the post-war baby boom in England; his childhood years, a comfortable middle-class upbringing in a small town, two hours’ drive west of London.

  His childhood and the formative years were a time of innocence. Relatively few rules, and as a teenager, complete mobility, due to a bicycle – a three-speed Raleigh – and a more trusting community. It was the days before mobile phones, the internet, terrorism and wanton violence. An avid reader of Science Fiction in his teenage years: Isaac Asimov, Frank Herbert, the masters of the genre. How many of what they and others mentioned have now become reality? Science Fiction has now become Science Fact. Still an avid reader, the author now mainly reads thrillers.

  In his early twenties, the author, with a degree in electronics engineering, and an unabated wanderlust to see the world left the cold and damp climes of England for Sydney, Australia – the first semi-circulation of the globe, complete. Now, forty years later, he still resides in Australia, although many intervening years spent in a myriad of countries, some calm and safe ‒ others, no more than war zones.

  Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com

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