Code Shield (28 page)

They answered her with even louder shouts and commands in Russian.

Tara raised her hands above her head, her diplomatic card in her hand. She kept shouting,

“Diplomatic! Diplomatic!”

Chapter 41

Tara shouted in Chinese to Michael and Annette,

“Keep your hands up Mike no matter how much it hurts. These goons will fire anytime. Keep your hands up!”

The police formed a semi-circle around Michael and the two women. They held their weapons against their shoulders and fingers on the triggers, the barrels inches away from their captives' faces.

“Attention!”

Police Colonel Vladimir Plustarch elbowed past his men. He took Tara's diplomatic pass, studied it and barked some orders in Russian and turned to her,

“Your friends will be alright, I promise.”

He spoke in English. Pulling her away in an avuncular grip, he continued,

“The General is on the way here. You better leave.”

“No!” Tara wrenched her arm free.

“I know you've diplomatic bullshit,” Plustarch's voice was deep and steely, having lost his wide boyish smile. He had never spoken so tersely to her. “But I also know you're hot.”

Tara understood. Her diplomatic credentials did not allow her to carry weapons and diplomatic immunity notwithstanding Simonov could easily throw her in a lockup for forty-eight hours.

Plustarch turned towards the window. There was a faint sound of a siren, unlike the regular police sirens.

“That's the General's entourage,” he turned questioningly at her. “Well?”

“The man and his daughter –”

“Leave it to us. We'll admit them to hospital, take statements and turn them over to your embassy,” Plustarch turned, taking her arm in a gentler hold this time as they walked towards the staircase. He winked, his broad smile materialising, “The police of our Glorious Motherland had rescued them from criminals and kidnappers. You don't exist and the Press shouldn't see you.”

They walked to the end of the narrow staircase, down the three steps and stood behind the opened door leading to the basement car park. Plustarch held out his left hand, not saying a word.

Tara whipped out her Beretta and silencer, handed them to him.

He slipped the pieces into his overcoat, pulled out a Makarov from his right pocket and handed the heavy weapon to her, handgrip first, and studied her.

“Trust me, you know how it works.” Plustarch nodded towards the staircase. “Use that, the General would be coming up soon. Go!”

Tara slipped the Makarov into her holster, took two steps down and turned. Her gaze climbed up the stairs to the tall Russian.

“Trust me,” smiled Plustarch.

Tara bolted down the short flight of stairs into the cold brisk air in the basement car park.

A battery of flashlights stunned her vision. She shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to peer into the darkness behind the lights. She saw a swarm of men in uniform, on their heads the familiar sheepskin
ushanka
with police insignia.

Voices snapped, ordering her to raise her hands in the air. Dogs snarled and barked.

Tara shut her eyes to shake off her momentary blindness and raised her arms as ordered.

Two policemen in full leather and gloves torqued her arms behind her back and cuffed her wrists tightly. One man ran his hands up and down her legs. He patted her slim taut body, pulled out the gun from her holster and showed it to Plustarch who had appeared beside her.

When she caught the whiff of his familiar cologne, Tara opened her eyes. She stared at him, her face blank and emotionless. Likewise, he betrayed no sign of recognition, had lost his winsome smile again, twice within minutes.

Plustarch nodded and the policeman slipped her gun into a plastic evidence bag.

The men stepped back as a very tall man, in a well cut overcoat with sable fur collars, emerged from the shadows.

“Ah, Ms Banks, what a pleasant coup de theatre,” Simonov affected surprise and towered over her. “Checking out the lesser known cultural treasures of Russia are we?”

“Fancy meeting you in this rat infested hole,” replied Tara, her eyes burned defiantly. “The levels I've to descend to, to meet the cultural elite of Moscow.”

Simonov threw his head back and laughed. “You're ever so charming, my dear.”

A well-scaled row of teeth peeped below his Stalin-moustache.

“Unfortunately we can't continue with this pleasant exchange as I've other pressing matters to attend to. The Press is eager and in this era of
glasnost
, we can't keep the hounds waiting, can we. But rest assured we shall reconvene at a more…convenient time.”

The two policemen tightened their grip on her arms. Tara struggled to break free and protested,

“I've diplomatic immunity –”

“That you do my dear, that you do,” Simonov continued wearing that broad smile on his face. “But it'll be a few days before your ambassador makes representations. That's enough time for us to…shall we say, get acquainted.”

Simonov touched the tip of his peak cap in salute and hurried up the stairs in short hops, “Carry on Colonel.”

Plustarch stepped forward, brought his face close to Tara's and mimed, “Sorry.”

He stepped back and another man grabbed her arm, pulled up her sleeve and injected her with a hypodermic needle.

Tara stared at Plustarch, noticed his broad smile was again missing. As she slowly drifted into a daze, she heard his voice…distant…low…drawling.

The rescue was on prime time national television. Simonov had arrived with a rowdy group of journalists who jostled and stuck out their microphones under the face of the towering Russian police chief.

He held his press conference on site, projecting the image of a hands-on police enforcer. He stood before the apartment block, behind him ambulances and patrol cars flashed red and blues with impressive and blinding intensity. Yellow police tapes fluttered in the breeze and kept back the crowd.

Fine snowflakes settled on his tunic and quickly melted under the glare of TV lights.

Standing next to him, all the way up to Simonov's armpit was an Oriental man, wrapped up to his neck in wool. Lowe, grim and serious, nodded at every pause of the police chief who spoke rapidly in Russian.

Whenever Simonov uttered words that sounded like
Singapore
and
narcotics
, the Singaporean would put on an even sterner mask and nod.

Simonov then turned to Lowe and invited him to say a few words about the operation.

Stunned, he quickly recovered and said, “Yes, we have been trailing this syndicate engaged in international trafficking of women and narcotics. The Singapore Central Narcotics Bureau is grateful for all the help provided by Lieutenant General Simonov and the Russian Police in breaking up the syndicate. This successful operation by the Russian Police with suitable intelligence and input from their counterparts in Singapore brings the cooperation between our police agencies to a higher level.”

The life news feed caught the body bags of the two dead Mafiosi. However, the news channels did not mention the dead Chinese woman. Neither did anyone report on the dead shooter found in the apartment block opposite.

Colin Lowe hurried into the Press Secretary's room and the woman pointed to the telephone resting off the hook. She smiled as she leaned forward and pulled the door shut,

“It's a secure line for personal calls Mr Lowe – no recording.”

“Hello my boy, what a splendid job,” boomed his father's voice. “It's all over the news here. What a heroic escapade, could not have bested it myself.”

His Honour, Lowe Senior, at sixty-five was a round loud man. Elevated to the Bench, he had quickly gained a well-deserved reputation, some say notoriety, as
The Hanging Judge
. He had graduated from Lincoln's Inn in the UK and the four years in those hallowed halls had given him a peculiarly English accent, something that the subsequent forty years in Singapore had been unable to erase.

“Thank you, Father, it was nothing really,” his son fell in line, playing the pseudo English aristocrat's scion.

“Bollocks my boy,” bellowed the old battlewagon. “What with that dreadful weather, minus twenty I hear, simply moving out-doors is a beastly challenge. You not only overcame that but prevailed over the, what does the Press call them – righto – prevailed over the Mafiya.”

“It's not as dramatic as it sounds, Father.”

“You're a hero my boy. My generation is getting on. This country needs new heroes that the next generation can look up to, write stories about.” Then in a slightly lowered tone,

“I've had a word with Uncle, yes I had. He'll speak to PM. The country needs to recognise and encourage such bravado,” his voice rising with each word. “Perhaps a National Day Award is in order.”

“Father, it's so nice to hear your approval, but I got to go.”

“Of course you must, duty beckons no doubt.
Mother
is planning a grand welcome party upon your return,” his Lordship announced, using the word as a pronoun. In his Father's world, everyone knew
Mother
and
Uncle
.

Mother
was the one who gathered her friends, tired of long afternoon teas (charity functions reported the friendly editor of
Who's Who
), the company of gigolos (shopping guides, said
Adonis'
webpage) and idle gossip (
grassroots politics said Movers and Shakers
), and organised
Singapore's First Débutante Ball
. Though presented as a charity ball, the event received so much negative publicity about elitism that people subsequently remembered it as Singapore's
Last
Débutante Ball.

Uncle
, who wore a perpetual scowl, was the former defence minister who made the mistake of inviting his nephew, who was then doing national service in the army, out of the assembled men to join him during a parade review. The young Recruit Colin Lowe took a seat beside
Uncle
to the consternation of the military brass present. This indiscretion was one of several and coupled with other policies, and especially following his creation of white horse companies in the military, the governing party quietly dropped him from the cabinet.

“Is Mother there, can I speak to her?”

“It's Thursday, my boy. Mother is busy with her Lady's Group at
The
Club.”

“Oh, I see…”

“Did you say something,” roared The Judge. “Speak up my boy, be heard! Only weaklings and those with nothing to say for oneself mumble.”

His son cleared his throat, “I said that's lovely.”

“What did you say my man? Speak up, let yourself be heard.” The Judge was so loud he had not heard his son the first time.

“That is lovely what Mother is doing!” shouted out his son.

“Yes, yes of course it is,” then the almighty remembered, “You better be along now. Chin-chin. See you this Sunday. Cheerio.”

Click!

“Yes Father,” came the whisper, long after the line went dead.

Chapter 42

When she regained a semblance of consciousness, Tara found herself blind folded, her mouth taped and arms still in cuffs behind her back. She sat pressed between two policemen. They had removed her boots and her feet hurt from the cold. Though only semi-conscious, she moved her feet on the metal floorboard of the police van as she alternated between the balls and heels of her feet. The blue cold numbed her mind and she lost track of time.

The van lurched to a halt. Voices raised and hands grabbed and lifted her under her armpits. The men half carried, half dragged her through interminable corridors, the doors opening and slamming with loud cold clangs.

The steps hurried as they reached their destination. They threw her on a hard bed and held her down.

She felt another sharp prick on her arm, the distinctive sting of a hypodermic needle. Within seconds, she again lost consciousness.

Tara's head flopped to her chest; swayed fitfully and dropped again to her shoulder. She felt a heavy pounding in her head and her eyelids drooped.

Her arms stretched above her head and chains around her wrists held her upright. Her body hung from the chains and swayed gently. Her knees bent, she pivoted on the balls of her feet.

She slowly became lucid but kept her eyes shut, buying time to understand her surroundings. They had drummed into her during the training, that when caught, one would either focus or fold. She always focused. She sensed someone close. The faint cologne mixed with tobacco and body warmth was unmistakable. She parted her eyes a slit.

“Ah, Ms Banks glad that you could join us,” Simonov circled, his hands behind his back. Stopping in front of her with his legs closed as though in attention, he raised himself on the balls of his feet and dropped back on his heels.

Tara's knees gradually straightened, taking her weight off her wrists. She opened her eyes slowly, stared down at her naked pale body.

The cell was dark and a solitary light from the ceiling shone a cone of light on her.

“Leave us,” snapped Simonov and she heard several footsteps recede. He ripped the tape off her mouth with one violent tug.

A small click escaped Tara's lips but she did not otherwise betray any pain or fear. Instead, she had a mocking smile on her face.

“So, this is it,” Tara's voice hoarse. “The great police chief is nothing more than a pervert, gets his jerks off by ogling at women stripped naked and strung up in chains.”

“Ah, charming as usual, Ms Banks or should I say
Agent Shield?
” Simonov circled her slowly, noticed that the name made no impression on her. “Obviously you understand the psychological reasons for stripping a prisoner naked. Everybody does it, including the leading lights of human rights, the Americans, and of course, your own police agencies.”

Simonov stood before her, stared at the line of blood that had streaked and caked from her crotch to her knees.