Code Shield (10 page)

Chapter 14

Michael could not read the street names. He knew that in English, the street he sought was Polovsky Street but the signboards were all in Cyrillic alphabets, painted white on blue metal boards riveted to the corners of buildings. After a few frustrating hours, he managed to match the alphabets and located the street. There was a row of terrace houses and he walked down the street until he came to the house number given by Venkat.

He walked up the small flight of stairs to a door set in a recess in the wall and rang the bell. A high pitched shrill reverberated within the dark confines of the unit.

Light snow floated down and formed dandruff fluffs on his shoulders. Michael brushed off the snow and was about to ring the bell again, when the foyer lit up.

A heavy round penguin-like man appeared. A few strands of lank hair swept over his baldpate from ear to ear.

Andrei Rossel waved Michael in with a wide smile, “Mikhail Liam, come hurry up, it is getting snow.”

Without another word, Andrei pulled Michael inside by the arm, poked his head outside, looked left and right quickly, and shut the door with a definite click of the bolt.

Before Michael could introduce himself properly, Andrei turned him around to face the wall. The Russian private investigator then proceeded to wrestle the heavy coat away from Michael's shoulders.

“Good, now follow me,” ordered Andrei and squeezed himself through the narrow foyer, his ample frame rubbing against a coat cabinet that occupied half the entrance.

Michael stepped out of the narrow passage into a modest living room and choked. A strong cheesy smell hung in the air.

On the far wall, a fireplace mantel showed off several picture frames of Andrei and a rotund woman surrounded by young adults and children. Two identical armchairs, covered in floral prints, crowded around the gas lit fireplace. The windows had matching floral curtains with dark liners. On the wall, opposite the fireplace, a display cabinet stood, filled with European ceramic dolls and miniature figures in resplendent nineteen-century military uniforms. Soft yellow lights peeped out of recessed receptacles cut into the ceiling cornices. A light brown wall-to-wall carpet completed the warm cosy feel.

Michael heard someone moving about in the open kitchen behind a huge kitchen cabinet.

Maria Rossel stepped out, having been in the throes of washing. She wiped her hands on her apron and greeted Michael with her thick hand.

She then turned to Andrei and raised her voice, to which her husband simply shrugged his shoulders and replied apologetically. Within seconds, the couple were having what seemed like a shouting match.

Michael switched from Andrei to Maria and back, wondering if he was the cause of this domestic tiff.

Maria berated Andrei in a vaguely familiar language and he replied in a mixture of that same language and Russian. Finally, they both ran out of words. She stomped into the kitchen and Andrei crooked his finger at Michael to follow him to the
office
.

It was a tiny room crowded by a table and a tall bookshelf, leaving just enough space for a swivel chair for the owner and two armless chairs for visitors. The room did not have a window, making it appear smaller than it was. A table lamp curved and bowed over a heavily used table planner that bore pencilled scratches and markings that evidenced the work of a child. Files were stacked on the floor on both sides of the table and more folders strewn all over the heavy brown table. A computer monitor screen that occupied one corner of the table injected a dash of modernity.

The office was cluttered and cramped but for Michael it conveyed a warm and welcomed feel.

“My wife, when she loves me, speaks Russian and when angry she speaks Italian.” Andrei squeezed himself between the bookshelf and table. “She speaks Italian mostly,” he sank into his swivel chair, which squeaked a protest. Leaning to the side, Andrei pulled out a stuffed doll and tossed it across the room. “My grandchildren visited yesterday. Come, come sit down. You cold, you want coffee?”

Maria walked in with a tray of shivering crockery and cutlery. She leaned over, placed the tray of coffee, cream and sugar on the table and straightened back, rubbing down her apron as she did. She berated her husband again, shook her head and walked away.

Michael could hear her complaining in the kitchen and concluded this couple did not talk to each other, they only shouted.

“So Mikhail,” Andrei poured him a cup of coffee, “you want me to find your missing wife, one or two sugar?”

“No, my missing daughter, two please,” Michael had to concentrate to understand Andrei's heavy accent.

“You don't want sugar? I suggest sugar, otherwise Turkish coffee too bitter.” Without waiting for a reply, he proceeded to drop one sugar cube into the cup.

“Two daughters missing, how many daughters you have? Normally it's better wife is missing.” Andrei winked as he handed the coffee to Michael.

It was a few minutes before Andrei understood Michael was looking for his missing daughter –
one missing daughter
– and he wanted Andrei's assistance to track down either his daughter or the man in the photographs.

Andrei's facial muscles sagged and he went silent as he studied the face of the man. A sharp premonition stabbed Michael.

“Mikhail this looks like a dangerous man, Mafiya maybe,” Andrei wheezed and shook his head. “I'm private investigator for divorce lawyers not for this type of work, much danger.”

Michael's heart sank, “But my lawyer said you can help.”

“Mikhail, the Singapore lawyer said something…ah, wife missing. I say okay – what the Americans say – yes,
right up my alley
. Sure I help but this…” Andrei stretched out his hands before him, shrugged and shook his

head again.

“Andrei, sorry but can I call you Andrei?” Michael hesitated.

The fat Russian placed his forefinger on his chin, looked up at the ceiling for a moment before replying, “Yes, that's my name so – yes, you can call me Andrei my friend.”

Michael let his jaw drop, lost for words.

“You Singaporeans no sense of humour, I see. When you live in Russia you learn to laugh much or go crazy,” Andrei pushed himself up with both hands, wheezed and threw up his hands. “Look at me Mikhail, 1.6 metres and 150 kilograms, diabetic and two tubes in my heart. James Bond is hiding inside, very deep inside me.”

He stretched his hands to one side and said, “Women pay to catch their cheating husbands, when I catch them,” he stretched his hands to the other side, “the husbands pay me to keep quiet – I get paid two sides, good business no. Only two business opportunities for people like me in Russia – murders and divorces, both increasing but for me divorce is better I think.”

Maria had been standing quietly near the door. Both men became aware of her presence, Michael by the cheesy smell he had come to recognise that hung around her, and Andrei was telepathic.

She said something in Russian, Andrei replied and she switched to Italian. The couple started another animated shouting match in which Maria seemed to get the better as before. The couple seemed to have forgotten their guest.

Ten minutes passed before the verbal duel subsided and Maria turned to Michael and patted his back, “Don't worry Mickele, he'll help.” There was finality in Maria's tone.

Michael, his eyes both pleading and hopeful, turned his attention to Andrei.

Andrei shrugged his shoulders and yielded, “But this will cost you, two thousand roubles a day plus expenses.” He studied Michael's face and added, “You pay advance now for one week, fourteen thousand roubles.” He stretched out a thick palm ending in fat stubby fingers. “You have money, I know, all Singaporeans are rich.”

“I'm not rich but do have the money, but one week?” Michael stammered. “Did you say one week?”

“Mikhail maybe it takes two weeks or more because this man doesn't want to be found I think, but you pay one week first.” He again stretched out his thick hairy paw.

Michael took out a pad of folded currency notes, counted the money and handed it to Andrei.

The Russian licked his thumb and counted the money rapidly. Just as he finished, Maria snatched and tucked it down her ample bosom with a
grazie
.

Andrei leaned down, watched her go, and shouted something in Russian, receiving a reply in Russian. He swivelled his chair to face Michael.

“She speaks Russian, is good tonight,” he winked. “Okay, now I work for you. So how I contact you, what hotel you stay?”

“At the Basilica motel. You call me when you find something, my number –”

“Singapore number, no! I don't call Singapore number, too much expensive. You call me,” Andrei handed Michael a dogeared business card that he pulled from his back pocket.

“What do you plan to do and where you go from here?”

“Go to the airport, I suppose,” ventured Michael.

“To the airport, you're leaving already,” exclaimed Andrei.

“No, I plan to talk to all the taxi drivers –”

“Not going to airport? You want taxi, save your money. I drop you off. Come, where you go?”

Michael went quiet, collecting his thoughts. Then he ventured, picking one word at a time, “I want to go to the train station.”

“Not airport? Okay. Train station? Good, I also go that way.” Andrei braced his hands on the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “Come, it's time to catch my next cheating husband.”

Andrei produced a camera from his heavy overcoat. “He comes to meet secretary mistress at one o'clock when her boss goes out for lunch.”

They found themselves in the tiny foyer. Helping Michael into his coat Andrei called out to his wife and she replied in Russian.

“Thank you my
darling,
” he sang, emphasizing the last word. “You keep speaking in Russian.” Then turning to Michael, he pointed to the small Skoda parked along the road, just outside his home office. “My James Bond Aston Martin made by Skoda.”

Then he laughed as the two trudged out to the car. Frost and snow covered the rusty car.

“The Paveletsky Station?” asked Andrei.

“Yes, please, if you don't mind.”

“Why I should mind? First, you help me scrape away the ice from the glass. You start there, I here.” Andrei handed him a plastic scrapper and set to work.

Chapter 15

Tara and Benjamin were on time for the meeting but Lowe, who had called for the meeting was still in conference with the ambassador.

With a smug look, Lowe finally made his appearance, accompanied by a clerical officer. He slapped a file on the table and waited for the young woman to pour him a cup of coffee. Tara and Benjamin exchanged looks, even the ambassador made his own coffee…

“Well,” beamed the CNB man, “I've had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of the Chief of Police and Boris introduced me to certain people with contacts to the Russian Mafiya. They have promised to track down Alexis Donovich and Ruslan Kashin. We should have some solid leads very soon.” He looked up from his files, as though expecting applause or at least nods of appreciation. Receiving neither, he dropped his sight to his notes before him.

Boris
, mumbled Benjamin,
we're already on first name basis
.

“Did you say something?” Lowe shot back, his voice nasal and terse.

Benjamin flipped the pages of the file before him, looked up as though distracted and shook his head.

The assistant director said, “I know you people think I'm this ignorant scholar from squeaky clean Singapore, but the fact is, I do know that these people are Mafiya as well. But as Boris observed, an enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

That's creative
, Benjamin jerked forward, coughing out the words

If Lowe heard the sarcasm, he did not let on. “Ms Banks, keep hounding your contacts as well and see what they uncover. Perhaps with me working with top-level officials and you with the
lower-level contacts
, we might cross lines to pinpoint the whereabouts of these goons.”

Tara leaned forward and placed several photo prints on the table. “Last night we had a stroke of luck. We saw Mr Mafiya himself, Ulrich Sobyanin.”

Ignoring the look of bewilderment on Lowe's face, she described the pictures as she fan spread them on the table. “This is Sobyanin entering a night club…”

The CNB man's face ashened as he recognised the neon sign on the building – Nirvana.

Tara continued, slow and deliberate. “Ulrich Sobyanin is a known felon, a drug kingpin with a supply chain that stretches from Asia to Europe. Drug traffic, and some say even human traffic, does not move through Moscow without his blessing.”

Lowe shrunk even further into his chair.

“And a stroke of luck, we also saw your police chief, Boris Simonov?”

Tara did not point out the short Asian man among the tall Russians. She detected Lowe breathe a silent sigh, as the night vision images did not provide definite identification. But his relief was short lived as Tara continued,

“I'll send these to our labs boys back home, they'll be able to filter out the fuzz and get clearer pictures of all the faces.”

Benjamin jumped in with a satisfied look, “When did you say you met up with the Chief of Police?”

“Eh, a few days ago…” stammered Lowe.

“I see. Well, we snapped these pictures last night thanks to the tip-off from my low-level contacts. It was a pity you could not join the stakeout.” Tara got up, “I suppose you'll be contacting your friend, Boris, for an update on Donovich's whereabouts.”

Thousands of kilometres away in Singapore, way past ten in the evening, Uncle Smiley who had been beavering away, exhaled. He cupped his hands behind his head and leaned back on his swivel chair.

His office, a windowless cell in the bowels of a nondescript building, one unlike the cluster of dazzling plate glass covered behemoths in Phoenix Park. A single table lamp arched over the pile of papers on his compressed wood table.