Code Shield (18 page)

Simonov saw Lowe's face light up.

“Let the couriers through, we'll track them to their buyers,” said big man.

The two men stood before heavy double doors. The butler leaned forward and with white gloved hands, swung the doors open inwards.

Simonov stepped in and invited the awe-struck man into his inner sanctum, a book lined study with heavy emphasis on wood panelling, maroon and gold.

The centrepiece of the sanctuary was a wide ornately carved table with deep-buttoned armchairs paying homage. On the table, a handcrafted Stanley Gibbons stamp album lay open to reveal several rarities. These, a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass served to exude a carefully orchestrated but idiosyncratic charm.

Several side tables and flower vases added a touch of cheer. Tall floor lamps, wearing hand painted frosted glass, stood sentinel throughout the room. A coffee table and settees held court at one end. All the windows heavily tasselled and curtained. Under their feet, an exquisite hand knotted carpet from Qum.

Several oil paintings hung on the walls; one of a man looking very much an older version of Boris Simonov. He was in full military regalia and stood with one hand on a globe, the other clasping a ceremonial sword. Simonov would have loved to portray his father astride a black stallion but the Red Army had long phased out horses.

A life-sized oil of Simonov in full uniform, the red collar of The Order of Merit for the Fatherland, First Class around his neck, looked down impressively.

His grandparents on both sides were farmhands but Simonov had cultivated an aura of aristocracy around him, alluding to some lost symbols and titles of his family. In one breath, he cursed the new bourgeoisie for the ills of Russia and yet on the other, he hinted at his own dye-in-the-wool aristocratic lineage. He feigned great offence when anyone pointed out his regal lineage but secretly savoured the affiliation.

Simonov's manner, speech, abundant courtesies and penchant for literature and music added to the persona he had carefully nurtured.

During his formative years with the KGB, he had been an operative in London, his first overseas posting. He fell irrevocably in love with all things British. Simonov saw the Germans lacking depth, the French effeminate and the Italians frivolous. However, in the British, he saw substance, profundity… and history.

If Simonov was pleased with his performance and its effect on his young guest, he hid it well. He saw in Lowe a man who exuded the incurable air of importance and arrogance, one engulfed by vaulting ambitions and tremulous energy, eager to make his mark – a little emperor, in many ways a rough cut of himself.

The butler uncorked a bottle of champagne and filled the stemware. He walked over to the fireplace, used a fire iron to tease the flames awake, bowed and left the two men alone.

“Your government seems infuriatingly wedded to the rule of law. They are quite right of course, but laws are fallible, laws change,” Simonov leaned down close to Lowe's face. The sputtering flames lit up the big Russian's features, highlighting the filigree of tiny veins on his nose.

“Extraordinary situations require bold decisions by redoubtable men –” The conversation rambled on, mesmerising and invigorating.
Another neophyte to the fold
.

There was a slight tap and an elegant man in a magnificent uniform appeared. Colonel Vladimir Plustarch was in full dinner jacket, a neat row of miniature medals above his left breast.

“Ah, Vlad come and meet Colin.” Boris stood up to his full six eight, eclipsing the already tall Plustarch by four inches.

Plustarch spoke in a low deep voice, his blue eyes steely, his face stern and unsmiling. He took Lowe's hand in a firm grip, bordering on discomfort and inclined his head briefly. He exhibited decorum but distance.

Simonov bowed a little, “Excuse us Colin and don't go away.”

Lowe watched the two men stroll slowly to the far window and engage in muted conversation. They stood facing each other, Simonov gesticulating with his cigar as he spoke.

Later in the evening, at the banquet hall, Lowe whispered to Benjamin, “Their titles are so confusing.”

“Regardless of titles or positions, you can tell how powerful a person is by the number of bodyguards he has,” muttered Benjamin. “You see the Minister for the Interior, technically several levels above the police chief. But he has only four bodyguards to Simonov's six.”

Lowe toyed with what he heard and having made up his mind, his brows relaxed. From then on, he found every excuse to retain Benjamin as his driver-cum-bodyguard, especially when visiting his Russian friends.

Chapter 28

Minister Steven Teo and Reginald Lee huddled around a table in the PM's office within the Istana grounds.

“The Americans are demanding a coordinated approach,” said Minister Teo. “Our operatives in the Golden Triangle report that Kyi Win has received new supplies – satellite communication equipment, C4 explosives, a thousand rounds of ammunition and various locating and transmitting beacons.”

“Kyi Win?” asked the PM.

“He leads a fifty strong guerrilla band. Basically a gun for hire but works closely with the Americans,” replied Lee. “After a fire fight, it's easier to explain Shan bodies than American ones.”

“The DEA plans to take out this Rong Gyui's operations up north?” It was the PM.

“Yes sir,” nodded Lee. “And they want us to dismantle Tuas at the same time.”

Minister Teo interjected, “Though the DEA can pick up the shipments arriving into New York, Bognor hinted they prefer more
definitive
solutions, without the hassle of prosecutions and legal loopholes.”

“Bognor?” asked the PM.

“John Bognor –”

“Of course, I remember now. You mean they just want to liquidate these people?” The PM averted his eyes to the side, recalling the last time he met John Bognor, the DEA station manager in Singapore. “And to think I shook hands with that man not too long ago.”

“They've made clear that the raid on Rong Gyui's factories in Burma will proceed with or without our cooperation here.” Minister Teo held his PM's eyes. “And, there was a hint that if we don't cooperate, you might not get to address the joint session of Congress during your forthcoming visit to Washington.”

“A milder version of Bush's you're-with-us-or-against-us crap,” exhaled the PM and he leaned back on his armchair, pondering. His mind razor sharp, clicking over in double speed. He ventured,

“We've the Chinese angle to consider. This Rong Gyui actually has a seat in the People's Congress. The Chinese market is just as important as the American and in fact even more. One has peaked and the other still growing.”

“But we've informed Bognor that we've already decided to shut down Tuas but need time to prove criminal activities before we can move, evidence that can stand up in open court. I mean, it's the death sentence for the arrested people. We've to follow due process,” Minister Teo was earnest.

“You're right Steve,” the PM's voice measured and his jaws hard and determined. “This government will never compromise on that. But neither will we condone summary executions.”

“I'll have Zain coordinate with Bognor,” said Lee. “Get him to stall for time.”

“Yes,” replied the PM. “How is Zain, is he going ahead with his second Haj?”

“Yes sir, he's looking forward to his retirement,” Lee replied, and the two men looked at each other a touch too long. Then Lee continued, “This Rong Gyui case will be Zain's last major coup with the bureau.”

“Thank you Lee, please pass him my regards,” the PM got up, indicating the meeting was over.

“I'm sorry sir but…” Lee hesitated.

The PM exchanged looks with Minister Teo, who took the hint and let himself out the door.

Lee sat at the edge of his seat, cleared his throat and commenced,

“I hope that I'm not exceeding myself but have a suggestion about tying up some loose ends in Russia.”

The PM reclaimed his seat, took a sip of his sugarless tea, “Yes, I've read the reports.” He nodded, inviting Lee to present his suggestion.

“This is a little sensitive and I know that we just spoke about due process but…”

The PM smiled and opened his arms wide, prompting his permanent secretary.

“Well,” Lee adjusted himself on his seat, his voice pitched high.

“Before I relocated to Singapore my family had a chicken farm up north in Kedah. My neighbour's cat used to harass the chicken and shredded one so badly that we had to kill the chick. Every day after school, I would go to the barn and feed the chicken. The noise used to drive me nuts.” Lee smiled, as he recalled those carefree days. Then his face firmed and he continued cautiously.

“One afternoon, I was greeted, not by the usual cackling but by utter silence. If you believe in chicken having emotions, then I saw fear, dreadful terror.”

The PM continued to smile encouragement. The permanent secretary had always been a direct person. This circuitous route intrigued the PM.

“I soon learnt the catalyst for their behaviour,” Lee, mollified, his voice gradually losing its high pitch. “A python had entered the coop and had the cat clamped in its jaws. The snake was slowly swallowing the cat whole, head first. I can't say that I felt sorry for the cat.”

“The moral of the story?”

“As PM noted, we're sticklers for the rule of law. I did my national service in the early 70's, trained by the
Jehudi
, Israelis, right here in Singapore. They too believe in the rule of law but,” Lee watched the PM intently as he spoke, picking his words, “when required, they marched to a higher calling.”

“I suppose when presented with the evidence any court of law will convict Rong Gyui's people but even then –”

“Begging your pardon sir,” interrupted Lee. “I wasn't speaking about Rong Gyui's people but about Moscow, the IndoTel affair.”

“I see,” the PM leaned back and rubbed his chin. “I've read that assessment too, mostly conjecture. I can't Lee. I need corroboration, perhaps from your Uncle Smiley. The Speak Mandarin Campaign was – is – one of several knife edged tightropes government has to tread.”

“Sir, it's more than that VC incident –”

“I know Lee but I use the Campaign to illustrate the difficult situation we're in. How do you instil confidence in the majority so they would welcome a more level field for everyone? How do you remove the perceptions of marginalisation from the minority? We can't afford the electoral aberration that almost ruined Fiji and Singapore cannot suffer a local Sitiveni Rabuka. We're good in what we do, not because we're exceptionally brilliant but because we learn from the world's mistakes. We're adaptable and ever willing to change.”

The PM exhaled long and loud, got up and walked to the bay window and poised, overlooking the green undulating lawns outside. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, deliberating.

A man on a lawnmower, that had specially muffled exhaust pipes, was mowing the grass under the watchful eyes of a uniformed police officer.

The PM, the backlight keeping his face in the shade, turned to face his permanent secretary, “Who'll whisker the cat?”

“We have an agent in Moscow, Code Shield,” replied Lee.

The PM turned back to the window, stood pensive for several minutes, then, “Thank you, Lee. That'll be all.”

The perm sec rose to his feet, thanked the PM and retired towards the white double doors.

“Lee?” called out the PM.

“Sir?” the answer was quick, urgent. Lee had stopped at the door with his heels clicked close. After all, the PM, a former brigadier general, outranked him even in the military.

“That python, did you kill it?”

“No sir, we kept it on the farm but were careful to keep it outside the house.” Lee added, “It kept out the rats.”

Chapter 29

In his subterranean office, Uncle Smiley had completed the wearisome task of piecing together all the missing parts. The tomes of documents were neatly stacked, yielding no evidence that he had spent days scrabbling through them. He shook his head repeatedly, incredulous.

Madam See was born Li Fung but after her divorce had changed her name to See Ai Mee by the simple expedience of a deed poll. That explained her
lost
years. The Registrar of Births and Deaths had simply not updated her records, strange but true, or perhaps after updating, someone had subsequently corrupted her files. They also forgot to transfer Li Fung's medical records; especially that she was allergic to penicillin. Thirty years earlier, much of the recording and updating was still manual, rendering the source of the oversight difficult to trace.

What interested Uncle Smiley was Madam See's job profile. She last worked as a clerical assistant in Tengli Corporation.

Though known as Madam See to her colleagues and superiors, her human resource records still showed up as
Li Fung
, the name she had given when she first joined the company as a teenager, her first job. The company credited her salary and other benefits to the account of Li Fung. The transactions were all electronic, requiring no human intervention, and no one noticed the discrepancy.

Searches in Tengli's files would not throw up a
See Ai Mee
. Hence, investigators tracking the IndoTel leak had found all Tengli staff
clean
.

No one would have known that the leak came from the quiet almost invisible woman working in the clerical pool, tasked with shredding all copies of sensitive documents.

Uncle Smiley knew the SOP dictated all copies of such documents to be serialised, signed-out, signed-in and shredded under supervision. He discovered the reality to be quite different. Faced with dozens of heavy tomes of documents that required shredding every month, the supervisors quite often signed the logs after the fact.