Code Shield (6 page)

Lowe raised his head with a sheepish smile and straightened his clothes.

“But not the rear windshield, can't stop AK-47 rounds,” came the rejoinder from Benjamin and that sent the CNB man diving for cover again.

“Okay Ben,” said Tara, “let's shake the Russian loose and go home.”

More guffaws as the BMW merged swiftly into the surging traffic. Behind them brakes screeched in panic and horns blared in anger. The limousine barrelled down the Leningrad Highway. The dark blue minibus sprang to life and cut into the path of the on-rushing traffic as the driver fought hard to keep the Beemer in sight.

About an hour later, the black saloon pulled into the embassy grounds along Kamennaya Sloboda Lane and a plainclothes security man hurried to them. He mentioned that the ambassador was waiting in his study to receive the visitor from Singapore.

A porter took the luggage bags to the Guest Quarters while a protocol officer escorted Lowe to meet the ambassador.

Tara and Benjamin exchanged glances behind the assistant director's back.

“Connections?” asked Benjamin.

“Yes,” nodded Tara. “Father a High Court judge, uncle a former defence minister.”

“Did you say, Lowe, Colin Lowe? It would not be the same Lowe as the White Horse Minister, would it?” asked Benjamin.

Tara recalled Benjamin speaking often of the former defence minister who gained notoriety among national servicemen for having quietly instituted
white horse
companies in the army. These companies were reserved exclusively for young men from well-connected families. The draftees slept in the best-ventilated barrack rooms; ate specially catered food; and, enjoyed low intensity military training but produced a disproportionate number of
best-trainee
awardees. Though this
initiative
led to the eventual removal of the minister, he remained popular among some segments of the privileged class of Singapore society.

“Same Lowe,” said Tara as she headed indoors.

Benjamin stood by the car and gritted his teeth. He ignored the soft snow that landed on his head and wet his hair.

Chapter 8

After about an hour later, Annette was still riding in the car driven by Kashin. She ignored the Filipina in the back seat and nuzzled close to her boyfriend.

They entered an abandoned industrial estate and Kashin drove into a rundown warehouse. He pulled up beside the other two vehicles, which were already waiting inside.

The men loaded their bags into one of the cars, which Karpov drove off.

The remaining two Russians then herded Annette and the women into the dark blue minibus. Donovich took the wheel, Kashin joined the women in the back and the group headed towards Moscow.

Annette curled towards Kashin but sensed a change in him – he had become strangely cold and distant. She put this down to the drama earlier that day which her boyfriend had brushed off as Mafiya from a rival gang.

She wrapped her arms around Kashin, squeezed him tightly, shrugging her shoulders high in delight. He kept staring out the window as the minibus crunched over the frost covered road, that glistened and dazzled in the headlights.

The Singaporean ignored the two Filipinas. She saw them as
maids
and unworthy of her acknowledgement. Though an ethnic Chinese, Annette saw herself first as Singaporean and hence superior to Ying, a
China national
. Kashin had let on that Ying worked as a call girl and that served to create a wider chasm between the two Chinese women.

Tilting her head and pretending to stroke her hair, Annette spied Ying and the two Filipinas, through the corner of her eyes. The older woman had shut her eyes, her lips pursed tight. The two Filipinas had fallen silent and sat staring out at the snow-covered landscape.

The teenager circled her arms around Kashin, rested her head on his shoulder and shut her eyes. Soon, she had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

The minibus bounced over a sharp hump, waking Annette.

It had stopped at the entrance of an underground car park on the side of a five-storey apartment block along Polyanka Street.

Donovich hopped out, twisted a key in the lock and gave the shutter an upwards heave. The corrugated metal shrieked as it rode on its tracks and rolled up. Reclaiming his driver's seat, the big Russian eased the minibus down the steep ramp into the dim basement. He then bolted up a short flight of stairs and through a door, with the women following behind.

Annette lingered, fell behind and slipped her arm around Kashin's arm. But he twisted himself free, pushed her by the small of her back, herding her ahead of him.

She found herself in a narrow passageway that led to a reception counter.

A huge woman in hair curlers ignored the women but grunted something in Russian to the men. The men grunted back. The pleasantries over, the woman squashed her cigarette in an ashtray on the counter top and disappeared through a door behind the counter.

Annette caught a glimpse of a tiny room with a messy bed that occupied most of the space. As the woman slapped the door shut behind her, Annette again felt Kashin nudging her shoulder. She turned to protest but Kashin grabbed the back of her neck and shoved her forward, making her yelp in shock.

When the Filipinas turned to look back, Annette stifled the anger and tears welling within her. She bit her lips and sniffed softly.

The group trudged up the staircase to their fourth floor apartment. The women already exhibited small beads of perspiration even in the cold unheated place.

Entering the apartment, Kashin double bolted and chained the door behind them, while Donovich went about the apartment, throwing on the light switches. The place was cold and had a musty smell.

The women instinctively huddled in a tight group in the centre of the living area.

The walls were in severe white and the floor bare ceramic. A settee, two armchairs and a TV completed the furnishing. To the left stood an iron board and iron, still plugged to the socket. A kitchenette filled the space beyond the iron board. A wall mirror on the kitchenette wall created an illusion of space. A refrigerator stood next to the kitchen cabinet. Plain double lined curtains in beige covered the kitchenette and living room windows. Yellow lights in circular plastic casements hugged the ceiling throughout the apartment.

Annette saw Donovich twist a knob and a loud knocking sound came from the radiator grill. He cursed in Russian and tapped on the pipes. The tapping seemed to stop the knocks.

Kashin came out of the toilet, the sound of the flush behind him. He opened the door of one of the two rooms in the apartment and motioned with his thumb, indicating the women enter the room.

The women stepped inside, looking up at the ceiling and surveying the place. A double bunk bed occupied one side of the room and a single bed on the opposite wall. A huge wardrobe covered the solitary window on the far wall. There was no carpet on the floor other than a large throw rug. Like the living room, the bedroom walls were also white. Behind the door was a small radiator, painted in white gloss. Next to the radiator, a door led into another bathroom, lit by a yellow light that hugged the ceiling.

“All of you remove your clothes,” ordered Donovich, his deep voice startling the women.

“Where is our luggage?” pleaded Annette.

“Remove your clothes now,” Donovich raised his voice, “wear these.”

He tossed a bundle of pyjamas and walked off. Kashin stood at the doorway, a leer on his face.

Annette ran up to Kashin and hugged him. “Baby, what is going on? Do I have to as well?” She turned not with a little disdain towards the other women, trying to distance herself from them.

Before Kashin could reply, Donovich brushed past them with a growl, “Yes, you too.”

Annette turned with pleading eyes towards Kashin. He smiled, pushed her gently away and back-stepped, “I need a drink. You do as the big man says.”

Donovich had brought a plastic bucket of water. He pointed to the three women,

“Remove all your clothes here. Into the bathroom one by one, remove the condoms, wash and place in the bucket. After you come out, you wear your pyjamas here.”

He growled at Ying, “You first.”

The Chinese national stood facing him. She loosened her clothes and let them slip to her ankles. Then, she removed her bra, pulled down her panties and stood upright, as though daring Donovich to gawk at her. Then slowly and deliberately, without taking her eyes off Donovich's she stepped into the bathroom.

Annette watched in horror with her jaws dropped open. She covered her mouth with both hands and sobbed.

One of the Filipinas protested, “You promised us jobs, not to be humiliated like this –” The other Filipina clung to her friend's hand.

“Somebody has to pay for your airfare, food and lodging until you start to earn your keep. There are also agents' fees.” Donovich's voice rasped.

“That's why we agreed to carry your filthy drugs for you, to pay for all the costs. Why must we strip like this?” The Filipina pulled her arm away as her friend tried to restrain her. She pushed her chin out defiantly at the big Russian.

Kashin had re-joined them in the room and handed Donovich a tall glass of vodka. The glass in the younger man's hand was already half-empty. “Oh, a feisty one this, should be fun tonight.”

“Come near me and I'll scratch your eyes off,” screamed the Filipina. Her friend continued to whimper and hide behind her.

Annette had squeezed into a corner on the floor, between a bed and wall, her knees drawn to her chest, her body breaking into shivers.

Donovich flung several digital photographs at the Filipina, pictures of her family taken by Karpov when he had visited the provinces in Philippines.

“You'll do as you're told or people close to you, your two daughters will suffer,” Donovich's voice gravelly and measured.

The Filipina hesitated, shocked, then squatted slowly on the floor and gathered the prints. Recognising her family, she hugged the pictures to her bosom and looked up into Donovich's eyes, the fight bleeding out of her as the seconds ticked away. Her friend joined her on the floor.

Donovich slapped a small stack of photographs on the second woman's head. She flinched with a small cry and grabbed the scattered pictures of her parents and young sons, reverentially, to her chest.

Just then the toilet flushed and the Chinese woman stepped out, naked, her manner truculent. She moved calmly to the bed where a pile of pyjamas lay crumpled.

“No you don't,” Donovich snatched the clothes away. “Not yet.”

Kashin went into the bathroom and came out with a smile, “Ten full sausages. I wonder where the other hundred forty could be?”

Donovich held a rectal bulb syringe between his thumb and finger. “You know how to use this or you prefer for me to do it for you?”

The Chinese snatched the enema, entered the bathroom and slammed the door violently.

Turning to the two Filipinas who remained huddled on the floor, Donovich growled, “You've seen the Chinese whore. It's the same routine for you too. Within the next one hour, I want to see the hundred fifty sausages from you, each of you.”

The braver Filipina glared but said nothing and the other woman sobbed.

Donovich bent down and grabbed the glaring woman's face in his large hand, his fingers and thumb digging into her cheeks,

“I'll say this only once. You can either shit it out or,” he gestured in the direction of Kashin, “lover boy here will cut it out.”

He kept the grip on the woman's cheeks until she nodded slightly. He pushed her back onto the floor and turned his attention to Annette.

“I'm not carrying anything,” whimpered the Singaporean.

“I know my little darling,” he leaned down until his nose almost touched hers. “That doesn't mean you can't work for a living. You like polishing Ruslan's knob. That's good because there're many knobs requiring polishing – starting with mine today.”

Annette cringed, turned her face away from the foul breath of her captor. Her eyes pleaded with Kashin. Her boyfriend returned a vacant smile. He tested the edge of a sharp kitchen knife with his thumb and his attention turned to the two Filipinas.

Chapter 9

The next morning, Tara read the report from her contacts in Russian Police. She had relayed the digital photo of the Kalashnikov toting thug to the police who identified him as one Dmitri Karpov. The man, a heavy who worked for the local godfather, Ulrich Sobyanin, had graduated recently to international drug and human smuggling.

There was a knock on the door and a clerical officer stuck her head into Tara's office,

“Ms Banks, the ambassador wants to see you, right now please. Mr Logan is already there.”

Lowe was in the ambassador's office. He leaned back lazily on his armchair with his hands clasped behind his head.

Tara took the seat beside Benjamin. She held the ambassador's eyes as he studied her over the rim of his reading glasses. She knew that he had no direct authority over her but that did not stop him from trying to exert himself as he hid behind his
overriding responsibilities
.

He reiterated that
Assistant Director Lowe
was in charge of the operations and
the office of the ambassador
expects
Ms Banks
to accord
Assistant Director Lowe
her full cooperation. The ambassador then dismissed Tara into
Assistant Director Lowe's
charge.

The assistant director wore a smirk on his face and led the way, with Tara and Benjamin in his wake. He had installed himself in the room next to the ambassador's office. Lowe placed a carton box on the polished table in his new office and proceeded without preamble.

“During baggage inspections in Changi we slipped locating beacons in the checked-in luggage of all six people,” patting the carton box, he continued, “the receivers just arrived via diplomatic pouch.”