Code Shield (24 page)

He managed to stop a few metres away and peered into his rear view mirror, tilting it until he caught sight of the mini bus just in time to see it disappear into an alley. He looked ahead, had lost the Porsche in traffic.

Slipping out of the Fiat, Michael walked back, pulling his collars up to his ears to keep out the biting cold. He stood before the alley. On his right was a nightclub, Black Pussycat and to his left, a massage parlour. He ran across the road and entered the alley. There were open shutter doors leading to basement car parks on both sides. Unsure which joint the women and Karpov had disappeared into, he decided to take a chance.

A huge bald Russian stood at the entrance of the Black Pussycat. Seeing Michael approach, the man held out his hand. Michael placed a roll of roubles in the man's paw. The man licked his thumb, counted the money, smiled and pulled the heavy velvety curtains aside.

Michael found himself in a tiny foyer with a stained maroon carpet. Faint music wafted from behind the closed double doors. Before his eyes accustomed to the dim yellow light, a woman's high pitched voice rang out in Russian,

“Adin tysachia!”

“What?”

“One thousand!”

He stepped closer to the double doors. On the left was a cubicle with a small metal-barred window. Mumbling a soft apology in Russian, his fingers searched under his heavy overcoat and pulled out a small wad of notes.

The painted face behind the counter counted the money. She pushed what looked like a receipt through the bars to him and turned her attention to the bouncer who shared the cubicle with her.

Michael pushed the heavy door slightly. A man in round necked tees and black leather jacket pulled the door open from the inside. The man looked Michael once over, pointed to the coat racks and turned his attention to the women on the poles high above the heads of the crowd.

It took Michael a few moments to accustom his eyes to the smoky pink light in the auditorium. The strobe lights cut through the thick haze of cigarette. More flashing lights caught snatches of smiles here and there. Sweaty bodies danced and gyrated and the noise was deafening.

A waitress, in bikini and black netted stockings, appeared. She snatched the receipt off Michael's hand and in exchange offered him a selection of drinks from her tray.

Helping himself absently to a drink, Michael slowly worked his way through the dancing and bobbing crowd. A few times, people bumped into him causing him to spill his drink. Bowing and mouthing quick apologies in Russian, he worked his way to the bar counter, which was filled shoulder-to-shoulder with men, all eyeing the women who danced above and before them.

Michael beckoned to one of the young waitresses.

“Asian women?” nodded the girl, her voice raised above the music. “Follow me,” she slipped into the crowd.

Michael hurried after the waitress who had pushed deep into the thick crowd.

He broke through the crowd to see her speaking to a handsome dark haired man. Michael stopped immediately, turned and squeezed back into the pressing crowd.

He had turned away just as Kashin looked up in the direction the girl had pointed.

Through the gaps in the flailing arms and twisting bodies, Michael saw the Russian shrug his shoulders. The waitress shook her head and tip-toed to see above the bobbing heads.

Michael pushed through the crowd and returned to the far end of the bar counter which was set on a raised platform. He stood behind a pillar where he could spy on Kashin. His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard.

What if Kashin knew about Annette's father and recognised him? What if he had come upon Annette and in shock and excitement, she had sprung up to greet her Pa?

His lawyer, Venkat's caution resurfaced.
Even if you locate your daughter, what next, how do you plan to take on these Russian gorillas?

Michael raked his brain, felt prickly heat on his head and scratched. He had broken into heavy perspiration and felt the sweat run down his back. His bladder was full.

What next…I know where Annette sleeps and where she works…what next?

“You want Asian women,” the waitress had recognised Michael. “Over there, two Chinese. Come with me.”

“Nyet!” Michael blurted, instinctively reaching to hold her elbow.

She gently twisted her elbow away, “Nyet?”

“Nyet, gde tualet? (No, where's the toilet).”

“Oh, over there,” she said.

As Michael stood relieving into the urinal, which was filled with ice cubes, the question kept repeating.

What next…what do I do now…I need a plan
.

The pressure in his bladder released, he leaned with his palm on the wall, eyes closed.

I need a plan …I need
–

He resolved to get at least a glimpse of his daughter before leaving to make his plans. Reclaiming the position behind the pillar, he scanned above the people's heads, seeking Kashin. A panic seized him – Kashin had disappeared. Michael tiptoed, strained his neck and peered into the smoke filled auditorium – nothing.

He wondered if he should approach the young waitress as she seemed to know Kashin well enough but put that thought out of his mind as fraught with too much risk.

Staring at the spot he had last caught sight of Kashin, his heart missed a beat.

Kashin had appeared from the shadows and joined a circular settee on one of the raised platforms. There was another man, wearing a riverboat captain's cap, and two women seated beside him. Michael had not noticed them in the hazy pink-lit place.

One of the female figures leaned forward to pick up a drink. Michael was sure that it was Annette. She was too far and the place too dim but he had recognised her, that unique body movement that allowed loved ones to pick out each other even in the busiest of places.

Chapter 37

Pulling the heavy overcoat over his shoulders, Michael went out of the club, around the building and into the alley. At the entrance that led to the underground car park, an elderly man, cocooned in a heavy coat, muffler and woollen cap, sat on a chair under a spotlight. Seeing Michael approach, the man stirred to life and stared balefully. Recognising the Asiatic features, the man waved him away.

“Get lost chink.” He mumbled something about, “Pozvonite v militsiju (call the police).”

Michael's face flushed red, not because of the man's derogatory reference. Here was someone standing in the path to saving Annette.

“My automobile,” said Michael, pointing to the basement entrance.

“Get lost,” the man's voice was pugnacious. He got up but crumpled heavily back into his seat, wheezing and coughing. “Be gone, you chink.”

The man was about Michael's height, but bent and frail. He broke into a bout of coughs, but kept shooing Michael away.

Taking out a hundred roubles, Michael threw it at the man's feet. As the man's attention fell on the note, which had started to blot wet in a puddle, Michael walked briskly past him.

By the time the man had snatched the wet note, held it to the light, wiped it dry and tucked it into his pocket, Michael was already deep in the subterranean car park.

Light bulbs screwed horizontally into wall sockets gave the entire cavern a ghostly glow. Michael picked his way down the row of cars, vans and pickup trucks, most of them unwashed and muddy.

It did not take him long to locate the blue mini bus. With mild trepidation, he approached and spotted a ball of tissue on the ground, beside the sliding door of the minibus. The tissue was soggy and Michael was unsure whether it was soiled or merely wet from the damp ground.

He unfolded the tissue but could not make anything out. Realising that he should have brought along a flashlight, he slipped the ball of tissue into his pocket.

Taking out a postage stamp, he scribbled on the sticky side, licked to activate the glue and slapped it on the window of the passenger compartment. He used his fingernails to scrape out the earlier stamp. Satisfied that he had removed most of the sticky glue, he trudged heavily up the gentle slope to the exit, his hands buried in his pockets.

Then a thought struck him.
What if Annette rode the Porsche instead, unlikely, but what if?

He surveyed the car park, his eyes adjusting to the dimness that stretched towards the far wall. He admonished himself again for not bringing a flashlight. The Porsche was a bright red and he had thought it would be easy to locate but the further reaches of the car park was progressively dimmer.

He could not see any red car among the collection and his search led him to the end of the far wall.

He came across a hovel, stacks of cardboard boxes and plastic bottle crates that formed a wall on one side. A decrepit wooden cupboard and table formed a right-angled partition. Within the enclosure was a bed, dank and smelly. Several empty vodka bottles stood on the table.

Large rats crawled over a plate of chicken bones. Even when he approached the table, the rats did not scurry away. He picked up a small piece of timber and threw it on the table. A large rat sniffed the wet wood but seemed unimpressed.

Then, with a squeak, the rat disappeared in a flash into the darkness.

Michael felt rather than saw the man. Before he could react, he heard the swish and the crunch of wood. Pain exploded in his head and he fell as though slow motion.

The old car park attendant had swung a wooden pole.

Michael sat stunned on the floor for a few moments and through the daze heard shuffling feet. He looked up and saw the old man's silhouette, caught in the backlight from the alley.

The old man held a pole, his arms raised high and slightly to the side, like a baseball hitter.

Michael waited and as the pole swished downwards, he rolled to his side.

The momentum swung the man around, causing him to lose his balance. He slipped on the wet ground and fell with a curse.

Michael, still shaky, pushed himself to his feet and bolted out the car park, up the slight slope to the exit and into the alley. He heard coughs and curses echoing from the basement but kept running until he was out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.

Once in the open, he stopped abruptly and walked away as briskly as he could. He did not want to attract the attention of several men who loitered outside the row of clubs and bars.

His head throbbing, feeling a little nauseous, Michael's eyes flickered left and right before he darted across the road. Within a few minutes, he was back in the comparative safety of his Fiat. He sat slumped with his hands on the steering wheel and breathed heavily to calm himself.

A light layer of powdery snow had settled on the windscreen. Switching on the wipers, he slowly eased the Fiat into traffic.

Michael drove silently down Polyanka Street. Small mounds of snow had accumulated on the sidewalk and on top of rubbish bins. The street, with two rows of dark tyre marks where vehicles had cut through the snow, remained silent under the dim streetlights. The Fiat slipped into a blank spot along the side of the street.

All the buildings along Polyanka were of a similar design, right down to the canopy that covered the steps leading up to the entrances.

The apartment on the fourth floor was in darkness. He did not expect Annette and her captors to return for several hours more.

Michael switched on the light inside the Fiat, flipped down the sunshade and peered into the vanity mirror. He removed the rabbit skin hat and examined himself. The blow had caught him on the side of his head. Luckily, the thick hat with the earflaps folded up had absorbed most of the violence. But it still left him with a large and throbbing swelling on the left side of his head.

He remembered the ball of tissue paper and unfolded it carefully. Recognising the neat script of Annette's handwriting, he broke down and cried.

Pa, is that you? I'm afraid I'll be sold off anytime. They already sold two of the women. They make me do terrible things and inject me with drugs daily. At night, they chain me to the bed. Come and get me, hurry. I want to go home. Mei-Mei

It was a few minutes before he quieted down and wiped his tears. He sniffed as he read and re read his daughter's note and bit his lips with renewed determination.

Emptying the plastic bag of the tools he had brought along – a paper cutter with a blade two centimetres wide, a flashlight and a short piece of metal rod – he ventured down the street past the apartment block, taking care to keep in the shadows as suggested by Tara.

Stopping every few metres, he scooped snow into the plastic bag. He then took a pee against a rubbish bin before returning to the Fiat.

Michael reclined the seat, placed the snow filled plastic bag against the swelling on his head, and closed his eyes.

Unknown to him, the driver in a black BMW parked a few cars ahead of the Fiat had noted all that Michael had done.

Back in the nightclub, as the night wore into the early hours of the morning, Annette sat in the tiny room, nibbled on a cold sandwich and washed it down with bitter coffee. She wondered what her father had planned.

The door opened and Karpov cocked his head, ordering her out. She stepped past him and saw Kashin and Ying along the corridor. Annette followed them down the stairs with Karpov bringing up the rear, his heavy hand on her shoulder.

They meandered through the thick body of people in the smoke filled hall, slashed open by laser beams. The music was loud, but Annette had long since grown numb to it. She also ignored the women who gyrated around poles and in cages suspended from the ceiling.

She and Ying found themselves at a table filled with men in business suits. The table sat on a raised platform surrounded by a waist high wooden balustrade.

As the men looked up, Annette looked away but she knew that Ying would stare at whoever scrutinised her.

From the corner of her eyes, Annette saw a man point his cigar at Ying and said something to Karpov. The burly Russian whispered into Ying's ear and lifted the tablecloth.