Code Shield (17 page)

Benjamin smiled but said nothing.

“I know that we got off to a bad start and perhaps I came across strong.” Then pointing his finger, Lowe continued, “But let's be frank here. Your negativity has something to do with…outside influence perhaps? I admit that Ms Banks does have a certain allure about her.”

“So, this is about Tara?”

“No, Ben,” Lowe let out a small laugh. He leaned forward and patted the file on the table, “I know what you went through and how the system has treated you. I know you had a promising career with the Commandos until that parachute accident –”

“It was no accident,” snapped Benjamin.

“That's not what the Commission of Inquiry concluded –”

“A Commission that reported to your uncle, the defence minister,” said Benjamin.

“I know –”

“Then did you know that the wind conditions were bad that day. The defence minister and his entourage had driven all the way from Dempsey to Changi and because of that, insisted we continue with the demo jump. We were using the new square parachutes, the wind was bad and the CO wanted to abort. But the defence minister insisted.”

Benjamin's chest heaved noticeably as he continued, “The entire troop was blown off course. Out of the twenty five men, seventeen suffered injuries that landed them in hospital. One guy remains bed ridden till today. I saw my buddy rushed on a stretcher to the
chopper
. His thighbone was sticking out of his torn fatigues. They were still building Changi Airport and luckily, I landed in the thick mud. But the fall still broke two ribs and dislocated my shoulder –”

“But accidents happen,” Lowe threw up his hands in defence, “especially when we constantly push the envelopes of performance, that's how Singapore not only survives but thrives.”

“Save me the civil service hog wash. Your uncle pushed the envelope with our broken bodies and ruined careers,” snapped Benjamin.

“Ben, I don't want to argue with you,” said the CNB man. “You can either keep looking through the rear view mirror or look ahead.”

“If there's nothing else,” Benjamin got up and walked to the door.

“I've something for you,” Lowe raised his voice, stopping Benjamin. “Here,” he threw a blue envelope on the table. “It's addressed to you.”

Benjamin moved cautiously back to the table and tilted his head to study the letter. It bore the Republic of Singapore Crest. He picked up the envelope, tore it open and read the letter within. He pushed out his pursed lips but his eyes softened.

The letter was from Human Resource. It informed Benjamin of his impending promotion and with the attendant salary adjustments. Benjamin waved the letter, “You reckon this changes everything?”

“The big man said that every journey starts with a first step,” Lowe leaned back again. “I'm not promising you anything other than, you continue to do the good job you're doing and I'll remove all the glass walls and ceilings.”

“What would you know about glass walls and ceilings?”

“Whatever else you think of me, that envelope proves that I know how to remove glass panels,” Lowe got up and stretched out his hand. “Come on, what have you to lose?”

Benjamin hesitated, then took the offered hand in a firm grip and said, “I suppose you reckon I'm beholden to you.”

“Not at all, you deserve that,” Lowe shook Benjamin's hand enthusiastically.

As Benjamin reached the door, the CNB man called out, “Oh, there is one small matter; from now on I'm
Mr Lowe
to you.”

Benjamin stared, did not utter a word.

The assistant director quickly added, “Especially in public you know. Give me some face.” Then he continued with a smile, “Oh, I'm attending a private party at Boris' dacha and managed to wheedle an extra invitation for you. There'll be many big shots there, including the Minister for the Interior. Care to come along.”

After reading the heavily embossed invitation and Simonov's hand written felicitations, Lowe had immediately dispatched an urgent message home.
Mother, please courier the Italian dinner jacket, the one I had made during my holiday in Milan. I had already worn both jackets, which I packed for Moscow, several times and do not relish being seen in the same clothes again
.

The house was in a quiet neighbourhood. All the buildings on Danilova Pereulok were old and tired, and the street potholed. Several birch trees, their barks rotting, cracked through the sidewalk. Their branches bent under the weight of the crusted snow, which wept and dripped under a mild sun that had escaped the smothering clouds.

Michael drove past the shabby house and parked about a hundred metres away. He crossed the road to the pavement opposite. Walking briskly towards the house, he kept his head down but his eyes looking out the corners. He had picked up a rabbit fur hat at the flea market and anyone glancing at him would have mistaken him for a Russian from the Steppes.

He trudged past a grey Volvo and caught a glimpse of the snuggling couple inside. They did not see him approach. The man had his hand under the woman's pullover and both locked in a long kiss.

Michael reached the far end of the street, which ended in a T-junction. He crossed the road and walked backed along the pavement next to the house. This time he looked directly at the house as he passed.

Paint peeled off the structure and the small patch of ground in front of the house overgrown by grass and ravaged by weed that pierced through the blanket of snow. The door was bolted shut and no one was about.

He found a café, an edifice tucked between a convenience store and a grocer. Letting himself through the double doors, he attracted a dozen eyes that turn to look him over. He forced an awkward smile but the people ignored him and turned back to their business.

The proprietor, a small man with a handle bar moustache, pushed out his chin, pointing the visitor to a few empty tables. The dining area was warm and the yellow lights kept the place dim and cosy, as did the naked timber beams that held up the ceiling.

Commandeering a seat by the window, Michael kept his white Fiat and the house in view. He ordered coffee and took small thoughtful sips. The coffee was bitter and abysmal but he did not care.

Michael guessed correctly that the proprietor would assume his customer with the heavily accented Russian was a foreigner, or at least from the Far Eastern regions of Russia. He looked about and realised this was a predominantly ‘white' neighbourhood, no Asiatic Russians here. He reckoned he could linger about an hour or so before he attracted undue attention.

Out came the street directory and Michael made a show of studying the pages.

True enough when an hour passed and the coffee had long since drained, the moustachioed proprietor kept throwing glances in Michael's direction.

Michael decided it was time to leave. He got up, tucked the directory under his armpit, and waved to the proprietor, “
Xarosevo dnja
(Have a nice day).”

“
Spasiba. Do svidaniya
(Thank you. Good bye),” the moustachioed man half raised his hand.

Michael pushed the door open, tinkling the bell above. He pulled the outer door and stepped out. Behind him, the door sprung shut and he was again in the cold. A fine shower fell as he pulled up his collar and headed for his car. In the one hour he spent in the café, it had turned dark and gloomy. He resolved to return, better prepared.

He drove past the grey Volvo but the couple could not be seen anywhere. The house that interested him remained with its door bolted and dark.

It was reaching nine o'clock when Michael cruised down Danilova Pereulok again. As he drove sedately past, he noticed a feeble light in one of the windows of the house and his heart missed a beat.

Cars, vans and pickup trucks filled both sides of the street, people having returned home from work. He was lucky to squeeze into an empty space about fifty metres from house number fifteen.

He killed the engine and lights, cracked the window open a few centimetres and reclined his seat, keeping the house in view. Beside him was his thermos flask of hot coffee, a packet of biscuits and his mobile toilet – the empty plastic bottle and a roll of toilet tissue.

What do I do when Kashin appears?'

Chapter 27

The dacha, once owned by a land baron, nested within fifty acres of pine and birch, about 150 kilometres northwest of Moscow, on the banks of the Volga. It was a single storey structure made of polished black stone cut from the living mountains of the Ural range. The centre courtyard hosted a helipad; Simonov's detractors said
boasted
a helipad.

The private wing, which faced the river, held Simonov's personal quarters, a heated pool, meeting and study rooms. The side wings housed guest rooms, quarters for servants and bodyguards, and the kitchens. The main structure housed a ballroom; a rectangular dining hall, an impressive library, a private museum and several smaller meeting rooms. A standalone garage with a covered walkway led to the main building.

Simonov greeted Lowe like an old friend. He studiously ignored Benjamin, who stood a discreet distance away.

The big Russian threw his arms open and gave the diminutive Singaporean a bear hug, almost lifting him off his feet. People stopped, amused at the display of abundant friendship and wondered who the guest was.

After a whispered exchange of personal snippets and well wishes, Simonov answered the question in everyone's minds, “Comrades, allow me to present Colin Lowe from Singapore, a top government scholar, Assistant Director of the Central Narcotics Bureau, a man with a vision that will take him places,” and with a tiny wink that embarrassed the Singaporean, “a man worth knowing.”

The crowd of men and deep cleavage women nodded and smiled. After the initial banter, people lost interest in him and Lowe stood awkwardly alone. He whipped out his cell phone and resorted to his usual ploy – busied reading and texting. To his great relief, Simonov appeared.

“Stop working my friend,” Simonov admonished playfully.

The Russian nodded and a waiter arrived with glasses of sherry. They downed the drinks and walked, Boris with one hand in his trouser pocket, the other around Colin's shoulder.

They emerged onto Simonov's large private balcony that stood sentinel over the river. There was a brisk breeze and Lowe felt the first chills but they did not affect the huge man towering over him.

“Colin my friend, I see strength in you and that's why we click. Strength attracts strength. The weak shy away, can't handle the competition.” Leaning forward, Boris spoke in earnest. “Your uncle was a strong man-of-action, retired much too early.”

The Police Chief shook his head in disappointment, “Speak to him my friend and he'll agree with us. Don't let your government be swayed by the Americans.”

The Singaporean looked up at the tall man; impressed by the Russian's courtly manners and elaborate courtesies. He saw in the big Russian genuineness unlike his father's English affectations; composure and silent strength unlike his uncle's scathing energy and raw use of power.

He saw Simonov as a rarity who harked back to what were days of czarist splendour and charms. Simonov had let known that he read Pushkin, Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky; and enjoyed Borodin and Rimsky-Korsakov. Other than Tolstoy, these names did not mean anything to Lowe, but he surmised correctly that they were luminaries of literature and music.

The young Singaporean marvelled at the man who revelled in the finer things. He thought of his own leaders back in Singapore, all brilliant scholars but clone-like technocrats. A deep cleft separated them from these Europeans…his leaders were somewhat passionless and pale.

He knew that many of his superiors were wealthy but still bought clothes off the shelf, or worse, during a sale and almost to a man, they drove nondescript Japanese and Korean cars. He grew up thinking that they were humble but in later years, he saw their lifestyles as inverted snobbery.

Lowe listened to Simonov and sat enthralled, a child at the feet of his grandfather. Simonov came across as profound and grave, and his courtly mannerism contagious. In comparison, Lowe recalled the numerous social gatherings back home at his father's and uncle's. Even so called luminaries indulged in superficial remarks and were incapable of in-depth discourses and their manner of speech conveyed flippancy and frivolity.

Simonov rambled in an easy and expansive manner, wagging the cigar in his hand for emphasis or waving it when generalising.

“Yes we know of the DEA request to dismantle the factory in Tuas. These Americans have a short-term view on everything. Business, war…everything.” The Police Chief sat down, inviting his guest to take the twin chair next to him.

Simonov lit another cigar, sucked it to life and blew a jet of bluish white smoke. “Good stuff, Cuban.” Then pointing the cigar at Lowe, he continued, rich with hyperbole.

“We're fighting a war, a real war, you and I. The enemy is out there, the drug cartels. Sure,” he shrugged his shoulders, “there are bound to be casualties, civilian casualties, friendly fire. These are the sad consequences of any war. But the Americans, who have not won a single war on their own in the last century, unless you think beating up Grenada and Panama as victories, want to inflict casualties but unwilling to
take
casualties. They spend more time on what their leaders do with their dicks than what they can do with their brains.”

The young Singaporean felt compelled to match the composed and controlled man. He resorted to what he imagined was an inscrutable mask, the hallmark of the Oriental. He pursed his lips, collapsed his brows and nodded to emphasize his understanding of the deep gravity of matters his host expounded.

When they exited the balcony, several serving staff stood politely aside to let the men pass.

If Simonov thought the Oriental mask made his glabrous guest even more ridiculous, he did not show it. Another deep inhalation and he blew the smoke out into a blue funnel. “We need to uncover how far the drug tentacles spread, like injecting a dye in the patient's veins to identify the terminal points. We need help; I need help. Will you help me my friend?”