Code Shield (15 page)

Then he broke into squeals of laughter and smacked Maria's ample buttocks. She berated him in Italian and ambled towards the kitchenette with her voice trailing behind her.

Michael trudged to the railway station that was about two kilometres away from Andrei's apartment. The wind was strong and the light snowfall did not settle. With hands dug deep into his overcoat pockets, collars turned up and head down, Michael kept close to the buildings to escape the wind.

He rechecked his English-Russian phrasebook, rehearsed the words and managed to convey his destination and request for a train ticket.

With the ticket safely in his hands, he hit a fast dial number and spoke to Yvonne in Singapore. He assured her that he was fine and updated her of the progress made but was dismayed to learn that his ex-wife, Diana, had lodge a new application with the courts. She wanted him taken into custody for repeatedly failing to pay alimony and child maintenance.

Yvonne reported that according to his lawyer, Venkat, though a jail sentence is possible under the Women's Charter, the courts are loathe to take this route as jailing a man merely makes it impossible for him to work and pay the arrears.

She suggested that he call his lawyer, but Michael decided against it. He did not have the money or the energy to fight with his ex-wife.

The meeting with Andrei about the killings, the impending sale of his little girl, the animal Kashin and now this news from Singapore, all but drained him.

Then the thought struck him. He had brushed off Andrei's fears when the man had said
There is much danger for us
. Michael had retorted,
I
don't care
. Now he realised that Andrei was not merely speaking about Annette's safety.

Michael's entire quest to locate Annette depended on the safety and wellbeing of one man – his PI, Andrei Rossel. A chill clawed deep into him and he felt his bladder full again.

Chapter 23

Simonov had invited Lowe for dinner so that they can enjoy, as the Russian quoted the English,
a chinwag
. He sent his personal limousine. The black Bentley swooped to the gates of the Singapore Embassy.

The police chief did not attempt to hide his friendship and why should he when all their interactions were for
mutually beneficial relations
. On Lowe's part, he saw himself building inroads into the Russian
nomenklatura
and of course, to travel in class to all the fancy and exclusive places and meet Moscow high society.

Dinner was at an exclusive club located on the sixty-fourth floor of a skyscraper made of glistening blue double-glazed glass. Membership to the club was not for sale but made up exclusively of
invitees
.

Escorted by one of Simonov's bodyguards, Lowe floated on thick carpet. He made his way past tables laid with crystal, fine bone china crockery and gold plated cutlery. The high ceiling and dazzling chandeliers caught the diamonds that sparkled on the wrists and necks of women. People spoke in whispers and crystal ware tinkled and accompanied light laughter.

Simonov had his own table at a discreet corner along the window that gave a panoramic view of the Moscow skyline. He sat facing the double doors of the restaurant, which were a good forty metres away.

When the tall Russian saw his guest, he pulled himself up to his full height, exuding old world charms as usual. “Ah, Colin, how good of you to join me for dinner.”

After a few minutes of light-hearted banter, the menus appeared. The Singaporean took one look at the heavily embossed wine list and fell silent.

Sensing his guest's discomfort, Simonov made a few suggestions. “Personally, I prefer New Zealand, from the Marlborough country in the South Island; nothing to do with price but everything to do with understated quality.”

“My father has a soft spot for French,” Lowe tried hard to be casual as he scanned the embossed pages.

“Good wines no doubt,” Simonov continued to study the list. “But a little, what the English would say, over the top, I think.” He peered at his young guest over the rim of his reading spectacles and said, “Might I suggest Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc? It'll go very well with natural oysters for starters?”

The dinner progressed. The wine flowed. Simonov warmed and regaled his guest with a rich body of geopolitical lore, matters of destiny and the rubrics of governance. He knew that the Singaporean would not succumb to cash. Singapore had the highest paid ministers and civil servants in the world and by so doing, their government had effectively removed the most obvious temptation for office holders.

Simonov sensed that the young man was impatient to make his mark and believed he was destined for bigger things, something that a six-figure salary cannot guarantee.

The evening moved at a euphoric pace. Simonov took long pauses, gently nudging his guest. He noticed Lowe grow light and generous. More pauses, with that intense gaze.

Then, Lowe opened up and offered his
insights
. Most Singaporeans, though ethnic Chinese, did not consider themselves Chinese. In fact, they viewed China with apprehension if not trepidation.

Simonov smiled but did not hide his lack of enthusiasm. However, he kept nodding repeatedly, as though propelling Lowe to change the subject of discussion.

His guest took the hint and steered the topic to the influx of China nationals into Singapore and especially the less savoury types like Rong Gyui –

A noticeable spark of interest flashed across Simonov's eyes.

“We're selective in the type of people we want. That's also why Singapore has decided to shut down the Tuas factory and pick up the next courier,” Lowe tried to be dramatic but it came out flat.

“Isn't that what we both expected, buckling to American demands?” Simonov seemed unperturbed by the news. “But it's good to have confirmation from one who is in the know.”

Lowe was apologetic but Simonov feigned nonchalance and made a poor show of it, making the young man feel even worse.

The Police Chief leaned forward, earnest, “Your government has made the correct decision of course. It's the right thing to do for Singapore. But the challenges facing Russia,” he leaned back with a deep exhale, “our challenges are immense; beyond the pinprick that is Singapore.” Then he hurriedly added, “Pardon my candour but I take liberties only with my friends. But you know the world is wrenchingly harsh.”

Simonov launched into his favourite topic, America.

“Giving in to the Americans. Pax Americana is a dead horse my friend and not only because of their burgeoning trade and current account deficits. These are mere symptoms. Do you watch the talk show, Oprah?”

The question stumped Lowe. Here was a worldly wise man, hard pressed for time and obviously an intellectual, spending time watching afternoon fillers meant for bored homemakers. Lowe made known his lack of interest if not disdain for such shows.

“Ah, my friend, such shows reveal the innards of a country that statistics and even intellectual discourses of think tanks don't.” Simonov leaned back and spoke expansively.

“I watched one episode where an American teenager, having failed her exams, looked pointedly into the camera and complained that she was
intelligent but did not test well
. According to her, the
system
was bad and she did not test well! Everyone clapped.”

Simonov smiled and shook his head, “But an Asian student would take a hard look in the mirror and resolve to study harder. That is the fundamental difference and gap in the strength found in the bellies of the people.”

Lowe, who had made his mark in academics, rewarded his host by nodding as gravely as he could.

Simonov continued, “Every year, American universities produce more lawyers than engineers, doctors and architects combined. What does that say? We, both our countries, work hard and save even harder. The bloody Americans, they simply print more money, quantitative easing they call it. Fancy words; you want more money – simply print it, which is the essence of their bankrupt intellect. A 30's monetary strategy dusted off,
botoxed
and presented with a cheerleading
rah-rah
. But you can see through their emperor's new clothes, I'm sure. How long can the Americans hope to lord over the very peoples they borrow money from?”

The dinner discussions, or rather the monologue, continued with one hyperbole after another. Simonov's tenor was even, soothing and mesmerising. The big man's words tugged at the young man's innards.

It was the small hours of the morning. The occupants of the fourth floor apartment along Polyanka Street had returned about an hour ago from the nightclub.

Annette came out of the bathroom after her shower and Karpov grabbed her to his room. She could hear Ying and Kashin in the other room.

Annette fought to block her mind as she performed the act. Retching and coughing, she spat into the wastepaper basket and wiped her lips.

Then ducking into the bathroom, she fingered her throat and vomited. She brushed her teeth hard and long until her gums bled. Then, she gurgled until she choked.

When she stepped into the room again, she saw Karpov holding up the syringe and tapping out the air bubbles. She grimaced and bit her lips as he pulled her arm and roughly jabbed her.

It has been days since she had stopped whimpering. She kept silent as the man pulled out the chain and manacled her ankle to the bedpost. Pushing her to her bunk bed, the man slumped into a deep sleep.

Annette lay awake listening to the big man snoring in his bed. As the drug and late hour slowly made her drowsy, she thought of home.

Chapter 24

Michael again stood before Andrei's apartment. He was glum and bothered. For two days, the PI did not answer his calls and that worried him. He wanted an update.
Andrei had been tailing Krapow…Kra…Kar…Dmitri
.

Again, the horror of his tenuous plan gripped him. Everything depended on one man – Andrei.

On two previous occasions when Michael had knocked on the door, a neighbour, who was clearing the newspapers from Andrei's doorstep, had said no one was home. Though disappointed and anxious, nevertheless he was glad that she had understood his stammering Russian.

Today, Michael was fortunate. The curtains in the living area were drawn but he could see a faint light glow. He walked up the short flight of steps, took refuge in the alcove and rang the bell. Michael hoped that his friend would appear and tug him in as usual. He desperately yearned for the strong smell of cheese and garlic from Maria's kitchen, and the smell of her unwashed hair. He silently resolved never to even
think
disapprovingly of her hygiene standards.

Nothing happened and no one answered the door. His lips quivered and he hugged himself. His eyes wet from the stinging cold, he looked up and down the empty street. A shiver ran down his spine to his full bladder.

After the fifth ring, he turned, dejected and crunched down the snow-covered steps.

As he reached the bottom, he heard the door open and felt a whiff of warm air on the back of his neck. He turned and saw Maria. Her huge frame filled the doorway.

He bolted up the steps with a wide smile, relief all over his face and expecting a great big hug. The terror he felt moments ago had vanished.

“Maria –” he did not complete the sentence.

The huge woman exclaimed in Italian, grabbed him by the collar and shook him violently. Michael was shocked, taken completely by surprise. She was shoving and screaming and in the confusion, a button on his coat snapped.

The next moment he fell and stumbled down the short slippery flight of stairs, landing heavily on his back, but his head held instinctively off the ground. He lay stunned for a few moments as Maria shouted, shooed him away as she would pigeons, and slammed the door.

He got up, brushing away the snow and wet mud from his overcoat. An elderly couple hurried past, throwing cold stares his way. Though shaken, luckily he was unhurt. He did not know what to make of Maria's outburst.

He trudged away, shaking his head. Forty-eight hours ago, he harboured high hopes of finding his daughter. Now his hopes lay in the muddy snow.

The cold cut sharply through the opened overcoat and into his chest. He pulled the overcoat tight, his hand gripping the overlap where the button had dropped off. He ducked into the railway station with some relief and dropped his hands to his side as he headed to the washrooms to clean off the thick black mud.

It was then that he felt a crumpled ball of paper in his pocket. He pulled out the ball, straightened the paper and his eyes widened as he read,

Sorry – please return at 2 A.M. – use back entrance – people watch the front

Michael's breathing became ragged and he felt his bladder relax. His trembling fingers managed to unzip the fly just as he peed. He stood shivering, felt the hot vapours of his urine rise up and caress his hand. After washing his hands, he ducked into a toilet cubicle.

Pulling out the note, he read and re read the message until it etched in his mind. His mouth went dry when another thought struck him.
Two in the morning, the trains would have stopped running by then
.

He slumped on the toilet seat and desperate, punched his thigh repeatedly.
Another taxi ride, in the middle of the night and how will I get back to the hotel. I'm no Steven Segal
–

The unshaven man behind the counter in the motel puckered his lips as Michael struggled with the Russian phrase book. Just as he thought the middle-aged man was about to walk away in disgust, the man's face lit up.

He pulled out a single sheaf brochure and jabbed it with a fat finger – it was a pamphlet with directions to a local car hire company and it clearly showed the Paveletsky Station, the beacon that Michael recognised.

Michael thanked the counter clerk, left the comparative warmth of the small foyer and went out into the brisk cold. Using the train station as a reference, he managed to find the small glass walled agency located within a gas station.