Code Shield (12 page)

“That's okay,” remarked the PM. “Don't worry about Tengli. She'll survive the flak.”

The following morning, Lee of PMO took a call on his secure line. It was the CNB Director, Zain.

“What is it, Zain?”

“I think we might have a minor glitch, Lee. Someone has been asking questions about Liam Lai Fun.”

“Who is Liam Lai Fun?” asked the perm sec, a slight annoyance in his voice.

“Sorry. Annette Liam, the Singaporean drug mule. It's Jurong Town Police Station,” said Zain. “Michael Liam, her father, had made a missing person's report. Some lawyer by the name of Venkat had written in and threatened to go to the Press unless the police did something.”

“Okay, let's meet in my office in half an hour. I'll speak to Minister Teo and have the Police Commissioner join us.”

The Police Commissioner leaned back, “She is not a missing person but her father had been persistent. The Sup is merely following SOP, sent through his request.”

Zain updated them, “We checked the airline records. This Michael Liam departed for Moscow five days ago.”

“From what the lawyer told my Sup, this Michael is poking around in Moscow with the help of a local PI.”

“Thank you, Commissioner. Please keep me informed of any more noise from this Venkat.” Lee nodded, signalling that the meeting was over. As the two men reached the door, he called out,

“Zain, can I have a word with you?”

The Police Commissioner met the Director's eyes, nodded and stepped out. Zain reclaimed his seat around the meeting table.

“This Michael Liam matter,” Lee rubbed his chin. “We can't have him messing up our ops there.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Send a report to Colin and let him decide how he wants to play it,” said Lee, looking knowingly at Zain.

The CNB Director stared back and nodded, expressionless.

Chapter 18

Lowe flung the report on the table and cursed under his breath. Singapore did not want to make a decision and he saw it as a classic passing-of-the-buck.

He had three options: locate and bundle this Michael Liam character out of Moscow; ignore him; or, feed him some information and keep him distracted. Lowe did not relish all the options, all had pitfalls and he was not about to fill the holes with his career.

The CNB man snatched and read the report again. Zain had worded it carefully.

He recalled his uncle, an admirer of Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. The emperor received dozens of letters every day, which he routinely ignored. By the time he picked up the letters weeks later, events had already overtaken them, rendering the issues void.

If Lowe harboured any thoughts of action, his uncle's sliver of advice banished it.
You'll be damned less for the error of omission than the debacle of commission
.

A few minutes later, down the corridor, a clerical assistant knocked on the door and popped her head into Tara's room,

“Mr Lowe wants to see you in the conference room now please, a conference call to Singapore. I've already informed Mr Logan.”

Ten minutes later, Tara walked into the conference room. Benjamin looked up but said nothing and Lowe was on the speakerphone with Singapore.

“Ah, so nice of you to join us, Ms Banks,” said Colin, the sarcasm barely hidden. “Say hello to Mr Reginald Lee perm sec from PMO. The Director is also on the other side.”

“Good day gentlemen,” said Tara and settled into a chair. She heard Zain's and Lee's greetings come over the speakerphone.

“As I was saying,” Lowe raised his voice, leaned forward and spoke down the microphone. “I've had an interesting lunch with the Chief of Police yesterday. It looks like we might have a breakthrough. That Alexis Donovich character will be meeting his buyer tomorrow night at the Nirvana.” Then looking at Tara, the assistant director continued,

“Apparently he visited Ulrich Sobyanin a few nights ago to get his blessings.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lee, his voice metallic over the speakerphone.

“As mentioned in my most recent report Lee, Sobyanin is a king pin Mafiya but his specialty is gambling and protection rackets.”

Benjamin stifled a tiny snort, attracted a stern glare from Lowe, and pretended to clear his throat.

“There seems to be some kind of a tacit arrangement between Boris and him –”

“Who?” asked Lee.

“The Chief of Police, Police Lieutenant General Boris Simonov and Sobyanin…the police cut him some slack and in return, Sobyanin keeps them apprised of the real nasties – the drug traffickers, terrorists and the ilk. Because the Donovich character wanted to operate in Sobyanin's territory, he needed the big man's blessing and protection.”

“Can your sources be trusted,” asked Lee.

“Yes, Lee, I got this from Boris himself.”

There was a squeak and Lowe shot a look at Benjamin who had bent below the table to retrieve a pen that had somehow fallen on the floor.

“Who is Donovich meeting with?” It was Zain's voice over the speakerphone.

“Yuri Kudrin,” Lowe announced triumphantly as he eyed Tara. “According to Boris, this Kudrin character is a major player in the drug scene with connections to all the major western cities.”

Benjamin looked at Tara and mimed,
Yuri Kudrin
? Tara shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.

“The Russians will stake out the place and if drugs are transacted, make the arrests. They will take out the buyers and all we have to do is to take out the suppliers on our turf. The chain will be broken,” announced Lowe, already relishing his triumph.

“Are we part of the operations?”

“Well, I'm afraid not, Lee. Boris made clear this would be a strictly Russian operation, the usual arguments about sovereignty,” said Lowe, gathering confidence. “But I did manage to get a concession out of him.”

“What concession?” asked Zain.

“That he allows CNB to take part as observers –”

“Well done, Colin,” exclaimed Lee. “PM will be pleased to hear this.”

“Thank you Lee.”

“I suppose you'll be representing us,” remarked Lee.

“I would love to, but have a prior engagement with an American delegation, dinner with the Director of DEA at the US Embassy.” He added quickly, “But our CNB people here will represent my office.”

His office
? Benjamin stifled a snort.

That evening at the Bolshoi Theatre, Tara sat in one of the tiered balconies with a group of visiting Cultural Medallion winners from Singapore.

The venerable theatre, recently face lifted, shimmered in resplendent gold, maroon and veneer. The centuries old wood restored, the French velvet banquettes repaired and the two-headed eagle of the Russian coat-of-arms back in its rightful place on the top of the façade. It was a perfect setting for Tchaikovsky's evergreen The Nutcracker.

Colonel Vladimir Plustarch sat in an opposite balcony behind his towering boss, Lieutenant General Boris Simonov.

Tara and Plustarch had met briefly during the pre-performance reception and exchanged pleasantries. She had passed a thumb drive to the colonel.

Later that evening the colonel would learn of the terms from Singapore, confer with his boss and relay a reply to Tara.

It was touching midnight and Simonov and Plustarch nursed goblets of golden cognac.

“No aerial refuelling – Da!”

“What if Jakarta decides to go elsewhere?” asked Plustarch, marvelling the golden liquid in the crystal.

“China is out, heavy trade imbalance. Moreover, the communist inspired murders of their generals in the sixties seared in the collective psyche of the Indonesian military. The West overplayed their cards in East Timor,” Simonov was confident. “The Indons are, as the English say, in a pickle on this.”

The police general studied the classic Cuban cigar as he spoke. “No fighters on Batam, no over-the-horizon radar, no aerial refuelling. Effectively, the Sukhoi's would be tigers without claws.”

“But the Singaporeans agreed to the fifth generation missiles.” Plustarch inhaled, savoured the rich full-bodied flavour of his cigar and exhaled.

“If you can't snare your prey, you can't sink in your teeth. The Indons would not get a chance to use their missiles, though the missiles would look good on paper.” Then wagging his cigar at the colonel, Simonov continued,

“There you have it, the Singapore air force has secured air superiority without a single shot fired in anger or even a single combat sortie. That's how you win wars – when your opposite doesn't even know a war had been lost.”

“While the Americans continue to bleed their people in the deserts of Iraq,” observed Plustarch as he sipped the sharp liquid and felt the biting sensation travel down his throat. “They still fight for the sixty second slot on prime time TV.”

“Bloody the Americans. You understand now Vlad why that little red dot of a country never fails to impress me.”

“Let's see what the Indonesian generals prefer; fighters that can reach Papua or retirement penthouses facing the Singapore Straits.”

Chapter 19

The deep blue mini bus crunched gravel and ice, and came to a drunken halt. Kashin emerged from a low-slung Porsche 911 and exchanged grunts of greeting with Donovich and Karpov, who exited the mini bus.

The men chivvied the four women to the back door of the standalone building which housed the Coral Reef. Donovich rapped on the door and a small peep window slid back. The man behind the window studied the large Russian, peered past him at his companions and slid the window sharply shut. After some metallic snicks, the door opened.

Donovich led the way through the kitchen, down a small corridor and into the main dance lounge. The four women followed with Kashin bringing up the rear.

The third man in the group, Karpov, his trademark riverboat captain's cap on his head, peeled away. He headed for the bar, perched himself on a barstool and observed his companions as they meandered their way through the busy dance floor and up a flight of stairs to the private lounges.

The music was loud and metallic. The dark ballroom punctuated with laser and strobe lights that gave the place a surreal feel. Several multi-coloured disco globes suspended from the ceiling. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sharp odour of pigmented dry ice.

Scintillating pole dancers, atop tiny barstools, dotted the dance floor. Many of the women were in G-strings and stiletto heels.

A tall woman, in her forties, appeared with her well-honed neon smile. She exchanged words with Donovich and led the small group to a U-shaped settee surrounded by a low balustrade.

By the time the men had downed a few glasses of vodka and whisky, the tall
madam
had reappeared. She addressed Donovich,

“Hello darling. I have some knobs to be polished and right now.”

“At the table?”

“Da, these johns are looking for quickies and don't have much money, just lost a bundle in the money markets. They simply want to vent their frustration…nothing fancy.”

“Take the Filipinas,” said Donovich. “They're cheaper and work better as pairs.”

“Do they swallow?” asked the well-endowed woman, and felt obliged to add. “Come on my darling, I strive to provide what my clients want… Will they swallow?”

When Donovich nodded, she blew words into his ear, pressed a thick roll of roubles into his palm and took the two Filipinas away.

About an hour later, the two Filipinas returned. Their lipstick and mascara smeared, hair dishevelled and eyes wide. One of them took a sip of water and retched.

“Take them to the room to freshen up,” Donovich growled at Kashin. “Bring them back in ten minutes and without the tears!”

Kashin escorted the two Filipinas to a private waiting room down the narrow corridor. He locked them in and returned to join Donovich.

The
madam
settled next to Donovich and looked over the two Chinese women.

“From China…Hmm…Do they perform matchsticks, my darling?”

Matchsticks. The see-don't-touch tricks prevalent in nightclubs and KTV lounges in the Orient. For five American dollars, a matchstick is lit and men at a table crowd around as the woman lifts up her skirt. The peep show lasts until the matchstick burns out.

“No,” growled Donovich.

“Testy, testy. It's a pity as matchsticks lead to sure bookings. How much for the girl, my darling?”

“She's virgin. Fifty thousand American dollars and she's yours,” Donovich recounted his cryptic sales pitch.

“Like the Asians say, why buy the cow if all you want is to drink milk,” the woman ran her hands over Donovich's chest, cooing her hot breath into his ears.

“
Nyet
! No penetration, otherwise your client pays fifty thousand.” Then turning to face her, their lips almost touching, he said, “She does good blow jobs.”

The voluptuous woman turned her face away, just avoiding Donovich's wet lips. “What about the older one. She looks like a caged beast, raw beauty but wild and dangerous.”

“Do with her as your clients wish. She takes it in the back quite well.”

“I've four out-of-town businessmen. They want to celebrate in a unique way,” cooed the
madam
.

“The Chinese whore is yours –”

“They want to take her back to their hotel, overnight, private party.”

Donovich considered the proposal. “Four? Takeaways will cost you extra. Double.”

“Okay, let's go my darlings –”

“Not so fast my slippery one.” Donovich clamped his huge hand around her arm. “Kashin here will accompany the whore.”

The heavy woman smiled, “Yes, I remember. How're you doing Kash?”

The young Russian smiled. He remained seated on the armrest of the settee, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a thick chain and pendant around his neck.