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Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Oliver Harris
  3. ONE
  4. TWO
  5. THREE
  6. FOUR
  7. FIVE
  8. SIX
  9. SEVEN
  10. EIGHT
  11. NINE
  12. TEN
  13. ELEVEN
  14. TWELVE
  15. THIRTEEN
  16. FOURTEEN
  17. FIFTEEN
  18. SIXTEEN
  19. SEVENTEEN
  20. EIGHTEEN
  21. NINETEEN
  22. TWENTY
  23. TWENTY-ONE
  24. TWENTY-TWO
  25. TWENTY-THREE
  26. TWENTY-FOUR
  27. TWENTY-FIVE
  28. TWENTY-SIX
  29. TWENTY-SEVEN
  30. TWENTY-EIGHT
  31. TWENTY-NINE
  32. THIRTY
  33. THIRTY-ONE
  34. THIRTY-TWO
  35. THIRTY-THREE
  36. THIRTY-FOUR
  37. THIRTY-FIVE
  38. THIRTY-SIX
  39. THIRTY-SEVEN
  40. THIRTY-EIGHT
  41. THIRTY-NINE
  42. FORTY
  43. FORTY-ONE
  44. FORTY-TWO
  45. FORTY-THREE
  46. FORTY-FOUR
  47. FORTY-FIVE
  48. FORTY-SIX
  49. FORTY-SEVEN
  50. FORTY-EIGHT
  51. FORTY-NINE
  52. FIFTY
  53. FIFTY-ONE
  54. FIFTY-TWO
  55. FIFTY-THREE
  56. FIFTY-FOUR
  57. FIFTY-FIVE
  58. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Ten metres of tarmac underfoot, into the warmth of a building with a smell of bleach. I was led down a long flight of stairs through two doorways with beaded curtains trailing over me. Someone unknotted my blindfold.

I stood in the basement dining room of a restaurant with plastic vine leaves over the ceiling. Akan Satayev sat at the furthest table watching me. I was shoved into the seat facing him.

His hair had greyed, eyes dark. He wore a cashmere coat over a creased jacket, and a white shirt that wasn’t fresh today. A rich man who hadn’t slept in his own home for a while. We’d both aged less than we deserved. His career had clearly done better than mine, although, until last week, he was more likely to be the target of an assassination. Hence the missile-proof basement, I imagined.

Satayev had started out as a regular mid-level thug. His family was heavily involved in the transportation of heroin and lapis lazuli. He became boss, expanded the empire a little, gained some notoriety for extortion and kidnappings. Then the Kazakh President had trouble with Cossack gangs who wanted the North Eastern region transferred to Russia. Satayev was given carte blanche to get rid of them, which he did, ruthlessly. That handed the Satayev family not only regional power but control of the smuggling route across the border.

Afghanistan is the world’s biggest producer of heroin. Russia’s the world’s biggest consumer. In between the two lie Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, depending on your route: 100 kilograms of raw opium cost a thousand dollars in Osh. In Moscow you could sell it for fifteen times that, more again in Western Europe. Labs around Moscow processed it into heroin. Smuggled into Sweden by boat, then all over world, the epidemics raging meant big money. I’d spent a lot of time beside the US-built Nizhny Pyanj Bridge that connected Afghanistan and Tajikistan, getting blind drunk with border guards, but not so blind I couldn’t see the bulky sacks coming through on the backs of Satayev’s trucks. From Tajikistan, the heroin and opium should logically pass through Uzbekistan, only the Uzbeks are paranoid, hate their neighbours, and so actually pay border guards to do their job. Which meant Kazakhstan was good traffic.