Code Shield (26 page)

Tara knew that Lowe pushed the boundaries of his authority. However, she did not think he would blatantly disregard a direct order from Singapore. Puzzled, she keyed in another password and accessed the embassy calendar.

Yes, there it was – Colin Lowe had logged his dinner appointment with Boris Simonov for eight that evening, followed by cognac and cigars that would probably stretch into the early hours of the morning. He had inserted Benjamin as the second attendee.

She checked the car pool status – yes, the Volvo booked by Mr Lowe.

She wondered where
mummy's boy
was now. She checked the embassy log, an on-line file that listed all entrance and exit by staff and visitors. She scrolled down the line:

The ambassador departed at 18.35 hours

C. Lowe departed at 19.20 hours

B. Logan departed at
–

Chapter 39

It was almost two in the morning and Tara, with her car headlights doused, cruised past the apartment block along Polyanka. She had left behind her black BMW in the embassy and drove a black Audi, an unmarked car with an equally untraceable history.

She noticed that the tiny glow of light over the reception counter had been snuffed. Tara thought it strange that the grouchy building manager, a relic of the Soviet era and a permanent fixture in the place, was away.

The Audi purred down the length of the street, made two right turns and parked along a parallel street. The apartment block was now on her right but about a hundred metres away.

She pulled out her Beretta, smacked the magazine into the grip, cocked a round into the chamber and flicked the safety-catch to
On
. Tucking the gun into the holster under her arm, she set off in an easy lope, her full black leather attire helping her to blend into the shadows. She slipped into the narrow alley, found the roller shutter to the basement car park standing half a metre proud of the ground. She smiled as she recalled observing Michael's little initiative.

Tara pushed her duffel bag through the narrow gap between shutter and ground. She rolled through the gap and stood up in one fluid movement in the dark basement.

In two leaps she made her way up the short flight of steps. Pressing her ear to the door, she listened. Other than the tiny creaks and knocks that all buildings emitted, she heard no other sounds, especially man made ones.

Picking the lock, Tara pushed the door open and stale tobacco smell greeted her. The building manager's tiny room behind the reception counter had been left open and the woman was nowhere in sight.

Tara sensed the building was empty, could not hear the usual sounds of television, susurration of voices and the occasional bawling of children, yet she had seen lights in some of the apartment windows.

She bounded silently up the carpeted staircase and found unit 04-02. Within seconds, she had let herself in, bent low to the floor. She knew the general layout of the apartment from the sketch Benjamin had handed her from Tania.

Donning her night vision goggles, she crept softly into each room, making a mental note of the type and location of all the furniture.

Cupboards blocked the windows of the bedroom that looked into the alley, effectively making the door the only entrance and exit. On the floor lay short chains terminating in manacles.

She moved to the second room that looked out to the main street. There was another bed and more ankle chains.

Turning towards the kitchenette, she froze.

The wall mirror beside the kitchen window caught the reflection of the apartment block across the street.

The curtains on the window overlooking the street had parted, letting in a faint glow from the streetlights. Tara stood well inside the room and peered at the mirror, sweeping the narrow scene as trained, systematically from street level up.

There was nothing unusual about the building opposite. Lights shone from a few windows, and through the curtains, she saw fuzzy images of people moving about their business.

One apartment directly opposite, also on the fourth floor, was in complete darkness. The curtains of what she reckoned was the living room, had parted, leaving a narrow gap no more than ten centimetres.

She would not have noticed the figure if not for her night vision goggles.

Seated well inside the living room and watching
her
apartment was a man, unmoving.

Tara stepped gingerly away from the window. Dropping to her knees, she let herself out the door. Bolting down the stairs, soon she found herself in the basement, the familiar stale smell of dried engine oil hanging in the cold air.

Rolling out below the shutter, Tara hurried down the alley, taking precautions to stay close to the wall.

Slipping into her car, she drove down the street, made two more right-turns and parked along the street behind the apartment block where she had spied the man. Tara knew that all the blocks in this neighbourhood were of identical designs.

Within minutes, she had crept to the door of the apartment where she had seen the man. She took out a fibre optic borescope from her duffel bag and knelt near the door. Hooking the eyepiece to her night vision goggle, she slipped the flexible fibre through the under-door gap.

The fibre twisted and snaked, caught glimpses of the window and two heavy coats hanging on wall pegs. The curtain remained parted, as she had first seen it. The gap let in the faint glow from the streetlights, enhanced as sharp green light by her night vision goggles.

She felt uneasy but put this to the tension rising in her guts, surprising herself as she always remained calm under pressure, having earned the nickname
Ice Lady
in the academy.

The chair that the man had evidently used was still visible, silhouetted against the soft glow from the window but Tara could not see him. He could be somewhere inside the apartment or could have even stepped out.

Tara glanced behind her. The staircase was about ten metres from the apartment door, enough room for her to react if he came up the stairs and upon her.

The uneasiness she felt earlier assaulted her but she did not have time to dwell on it.

Tara took out a dental pick and a flat metal spatula and gently worked the door lock. She heard the soft snicks of the pins as they fell into their shear point. In the grave silence, those metallic clicks sounded like clock ticks.

Keeping the tension on the spatula, she gently twisted the plug and felt it move.

She froze.

The man had reappeared and knelt beside the chair. He had what looked like a guitar case on the floor. He removed several metallic and wooden pieces and tubes from the case.

He unfolded and extended three metal legs that formed a tripod and set it to face the window. Then, he proceeded to assemble the other pieces with clicks and snaps, slapping the components into place, assembling the rifle with the confidence and familiarity of a professional.

Tara waited for him to snap the forestock. When the man hit the polished piece with the palm of his hand, she turned the plug of the lock with a click.

She stopped, held the pick and spatula steady and watched the man without blinking.

The man had not heard the lock open. He continued to assemble the weapon. Reclaiming his seat, he pushed the case aside with his foot and placed the rifle barrel on the tripod. His movements unhurried as he fiddled with the rifle, obviously adjusting and lining up the hairline of his scope on the target across the street.

A concoction of thoughts ran through Tara's mind. Annette and her captors would be returning soon. Were they walking into a trap?

Who were the targets, Karpov and Kashin? Why would anyone go to all this trouble? If the two mobsters were the targets, why not take them out as they had taken out Donovich, in full view of witnesses in the club.

Unless the target was –

As the seconds ticked away, Tara felt that premonition return. It was similar to the times she left home or office and having missed something…her cell phone, a file… But the feeling that engulfed her now was nothing so innocent. This was more intense and sinister.

Tara pushed aside her misgivings and applied herself to the task, searched through her duffel bag. She pulled out the specially modified flash grenade. The lab boys in Singapore Ballistics Inc. had replaced the grenade's loud disorienting noise with added brilliance, now measuring thousands of candlelight.

She waited and saw the man peer intently into his riflescope.

Removing her night vision goggles, she stood up and sucked in a deep breath. Holding the flash grenade in her left hand, her Beretta in her right, she pulled out the firing pin on the grenade with the pinkie of her right hand.

She pushed the door open and simultaneously rolled the grenade towards the figure hunched on the chair.

The man heard the door squeak open followed by the thud and roll. He immediately sprang to his feet and in one fluid movement reached for the Makarov tucked in his belt.

Tara rolled after the grenade into the living room and sprang to the side, with her eyes shut tight.

The grenade exploded with a soft poof and bathed the entire living room in a blinding flash of light.

The man yelped in stunned surprise and reached to cover his eyes, the Makarov still in his hand. The flash died off within a second but was enough to blind the assassin.

Tara was on her feet, her handgun pointed at the man. She released two shots in quick succession.

Both shots thudded into the man, sent him crashing against the wall. He slumped to the floor with his arms thrown wide.

Tara stepped forward, pointed the Beretta at the man and squeezed the trigger once more. The bullet spat out the silencer and smashed the man's face, spraying blood and brain on the wall behind him as the spent cartridge clinked to the floor.

Tara hurried to the window, stood a short distance away from the gap in the curtain and peered out.

Just then, the lights came on in the living room of the apartment across the street. She discerned several figures moving behind the curtains. Karpov and Kashin had returned with the two women. They must have been walking up the staircase, not seen the grenade flash.

As Tara holstered her Beretta, she caught a movement on the street below. Though the man kept to the shadows, his sharp movements had given him away and Tara recognised his gait – Michael – as he ducked around the side of the building.

Her heart pricked. That feeling of having missed something crucial flooded back. Then it struck her.

Two heavy coats on the wall pegs! Where's the other man?

She felt a tiny change of air pressure on the back of her neck and ducked instinctively, rolling to her side. She was too slow.

A soft swoosh and she felt a sharp kick to her ribs. In the darkness, she could not see the assailant who was dressed in all black. She felt and sensed her attacker. The streetlights had narrowed her iris and in the tiny second it took for her eyes to dilate to the darkness in the living room, she felt another blow. She lunged forward and grabbed the person's foot.

She saw the dark figure and lashed out with a vicious kick to her assailant's groin, expecting the man to groan and collapse. She felt her foot make solid contact, actually lifting the person by the crotch a few centimetres off the floor.

The kick made no real impact on her attacker. No man could have taken that punishment without buckling to his knees.

A wide swinging punch caught Tara's left cheek. She saw it coming and rolled with the punch but still absorbed enough impact to send her crashing to her side.

For a moment, she caught the full silhouette of her attacker against the dim backlight of the window.

Okay bitch!

The tall figure reached down but Tara caught the woman's foot in a scissor of her legs and twisted, sending the woman toppling to the floor. Both women fought silently.

Springing to her feet, Tara grabbed the woman by her hair and seat of her pants, and heaved her towards the window. The woman flew through the window, shattering glass.

Tara leaned out of the window and saw the woman hanging onto the ledge below. The woman had on a black balaclava. There was something familiar about her features.

The woman looked down at the street below and turned back to Tara.

Tara whipped out her Beretta and cocked a round into the chamber. But she hesitated as their eyes locked.

The woman's eyes darted to the gun, then at Tara. With a smile, in slow motion, the woman deliberately released her hold on the ledge, her eyes still fixed on Tara's eyes as she fell.

She landed on the awning, breaking her fall, rolled over the edge and dropped to the ground on both feet, bending her knees smoothly like a gymnast.

Tara, who had recovered, leaned over the windowsill, her gun hand steadied on the forearm of her left hand, waiting for the woman to emerge from under the aluminium canopy.

A black figure sprinted out – elbows swinging parallel to the ground and knees lifted high, like an Olympian on a hundred metres' dash.

Tara squeezed the trigger. The Beretta jerked in her hand with a soft spurt. She saw the bullet strike the ground in a small spark.

The black figure ducked, darted and twisted, zigzagging.

Tara aimed, her arm straight, swivelling at the shoulder. Anticipating the position of the weaving target, she squeezed off a second shot.

The woman dived headfirst into the open window of a car parked along the kerb. The bullet ricocheted off the roof of the car with a loud crack and spark. The car jumped to life and roared into the dark.

Tara held the Beretta in both hands, the muzzle pointing up, as she watched the black car lean heavily to its side as it disappeared around the corner at the far end of Polyanka.

…and a driver makes three
.

She did not have time to linger as shouts and screams came from the apartment across the street.

Chapter 40

Tara saw people struggling behind the curtains. Two men and a woman shoved, pushed and grabbed each other in the living room. Another man and a woman struggled in the bedroom. A table lamp in the bedroom toppled.