Authors: Eric Alagan
“I'm sorry about that, didn't know it was that time of the month for you. But you know how it's supposed to work â men bear arms and women bear babies.”
“A pervert and a male chauvinist pig.”
Simonov threw his head back and exploded in laughter.
“But about your clothesâ¦I must admit that I look more impressive because of this uniform, medals and ribbons. All of us do this. Some wrap a stethoscope around their necks, others wear funny wigs and robes, and yet others insist on certain titles, even if it's only a mere
mister
. We men, we're not satisfied with our facial hairs, we need our little cockerel feathers.”
The tall Russian folded his arms, let his eyes wash over her from head to toe and tapped his finger on his lips.
“But you, you don't need such embellishments my dear and I wish I was twenty years younger.”
Tara sniffed, making known her derision.
“But Ms Banks, or would you prefer Agent Shield?”
Tara looked away.
“Okay, let's keep it
our
little secret and get to the matter at hand. It'll take your people several days to track you down, if at all. Meanwhile, I need to know who you're working for.” Simonov pulled out a small notebook from his breast pocket, licked his thumb and flipped the pages.
“Let's not even go near your, eh, diplomatic credentials. We both know that you don't work for narcotics or any of the regular police agencies.” He kept circling her as he spoke. “So, what's the name of the agency you work for? We know it exists and you work for them, but we don't have even a name.”
Simonov walked to the far end of the cell, away from the light. Tara could not see him but heard his voice.
“After the British left Singapore in â68, your government disbanded their Special Branch, delegated its duties to the police, CID, CNB and ISD. But there was one little known section, which your colonial masters referred to with a typically quaint and understated name â The Foreign Desk or simply,
The Desk
. Which of your agencies took over the duties of thisâ¦
Desk
?”
Simonov continued to circle her, keeping to the shadows and finally stood before her again.
“There you have it Ms Banks, an agency so secret we don't even have a name for it and most of your own cabinet ministers don't even know of its existence. That, my dear, is a true secret service. Your little red dot of a country continues to impress me.”
Simonov came out of the shadows and into the light again. “In comparison, the CIA, MI6 and even the Mossad are all open books. So much for western style
glasnost
, openness,” he sniggered.
“But your Singapore agency, come Ms Banks, just a name. We have days to get it out of you. Why don't you make it easy on yourself? Electric prods to loosen sphincter muscles and other such devices, so very,” Simonov screwed his face in mock disdain, “abominably Soviet era.”
Tara starred ahead. The dizziness gone, she had become fully lucid and alert. The cold crept up her naked feet and her body begun to shiver uncontrollably. This type of torture left no obvious physical evidence.
“After the Americans hijacked the name John Doe, the British, ever inventive came up with a new name for people unknown or whose identity had to remain anonymous. What was that name,” Simonov snapped his fingers repeatedly, pretending to dislodge the name from his memory.
“Yesâ¦Blogg, Joe Blogg. We can't keep referring to your organisation as the Joe Blogg Agency. Come now Ms Banks, today you give us the name. Tomorrow⦔ Simonov again wore that wide smile of his,
“Tomorrow I'll think of something else to talk about.” He exhaled loud and long, pleased with his monologue.
“I'm patient. Unfortunately, patience is not one of the virtues of some of my less,” he snapped his fingers, “yes, less cerebral compatriots.”
Simonov leaned forward, his nose almost brushing against Tara's nose.
She spat!
Simonov did not jerk back but his eyes bored deep into hers. He was expressionless and let the saliva creep slowly down his cheek.
After a few moments, he smiled, stepped back deliberately and retrieved a handkerchief from his trouser pocket. He flicked the white linen open and wiped the spittle off his face. Clicking his tongue, he continued,
“Pity that. I expected a more cultured response from a
cultural attaché
, my dear. I'm going to enjoy your visit with us.”
Then his face went hard. For a moment, Tara had a glimpse of the look that must have terrified condemned men when Boris Simonov, in his much younger days in the KGB, had set to work on them.
“We'll continue our little discussion when I return.” Simonov leaned low to meet her face. “I'll leave you now with my einsteins. Who knows, when we next meet you might be more reasonable. We men, where women are involvedâ¦we live in eternal hope.”
He snapped his fingers and the guards returned. Before he left, Simonov ordered his men in a stern voice, “No visible injuries or marks, or I'll boil you in oil.”
His men snapped to attention and gulped.
Tara heard him strutting away, his footsteps echoing long after he left the cell.
Chapter 43
Colonel Vladimir Plustarch rapped on the heavy door, heard a sharp command and stepped into the vast lavishly furnished room with the high ornate ceiling.
Simonov was in full dress uniform, two gold stars on his shoulder boards, lapel tabs and an impressive array of medals and ribbons on his specially reinforced jacket. He sipped his coffee from crystal and gold and eyed Plustarch over the rim of his reading glasses.
“I was summoned by the Foreign Minister,” growled the general, removing his reading glasses. “That spineless bourgeois could not stand up even to a little red dot.”
Plustarch remained standing, eyed the newspapers carefully strewn for effect on Simonov's heavy desk. Every paper carried news reports of the previous night's operation with large pictures of the police chief and his impressive silver grey moustache.
The summons from the Ministry had flustered the old man and dampened his moment of glory.
Simonov tossed a stiff folded letter, bearing the Lion and Tiger Coat-of-Arms of the Republic of Singapore, on the table.
“The Singaporeans have acted swiftly,” remarked Plustarch.
“Yes, impeccable timing indeed. Obviously, Ms Banks has connections, probably within our own organisation. I'll enjoy it when I finally locate that ferret.” Simonov held the colonel's eyes, hard and long. Then he continued, “We're writing a protest letter to the Singaporeans and their ambassador has been summoned to the Kremlin to receive it.”
Without warning, Simonov sprang to his feet, displaying remarkable agility for his age and frame. He stood looking out the window, admiring the multi-coloured minarets of Saint Basil's Cathedral.
“Meanwhile, Russian Police, that's me,” said Simonov half turning before continuing, “have been advised by our Foreign Ministry to locate Ms Banks, wherever she might be and facilitate her return to the Singaporeans. Facilitate her return⦔
Plustarch remained rooted; his shoulders straight and held back stiff, his chin out proud like the Kremlin Guard on parade.
“Excuse me sir,” said a female voice over the intercom. “The Press is gathered and waiting for you.”
“Thank you dear, I'll be there directly.” Simonov turned and addressed Plustarch, his voice mocking,
“Please
facilitate
the Foreign Minister's request.”
Plustarch clicked his heels, saluted and swivelled smoothly on the balls of his feet and strode the length of the deep office.
Simonov stared at the back of that immaculately cut tunic and just as Plustarch had his hand on the doorknob, he called out,
“Vlad!”
Plustarch stiffened, ramrod straight but still facing the door.
“I believe there's still spark in your love affair?”
“Yes sir, I would think so,” Plustarch's voice rang sharp and crisp in the cavernous room.
“Good, meet me here after the press conference.”
Plustarch clicked his heels, nodded and let himself out
That afternoon amidst suitable media glare, the ambassador and Lowe appeared with Simonov and the First Secretary of Russian Foreign Affairs. It was the official handing over of the kidnap victim, Annette Liam to her father.
Simonov, seated at the centre of the table, and his retinue grouped obsequiously behind him, gave a long speech that traced the excellent relationship between Russia and Singapore that somehow led to the highlight in which he played a pivotal role â the rescue of Annette from the Mafiya.
The girl stood next to him. Though seated, Simonov was still a head taller than the teenager.
At the appropriate time, the doors opened and Michael strode out self-conscious and stiff. As primed, he hugged his daughter and forced a smile for the cameras in an Oprah-style reunion.
Amidst blinding camera flashes, Simonov and Lowe stood up and put their hands together. Everyone present joined in the clapping.
Michael was surprised to receive a quick hug from the police chief and grimaced from the pain in his side but managed to retain his stiff smile.
Simonov gave the diminutive Lowe a huge bear hug. The two clung to each other and faced the cameras. The general sank into another impromptu speech about the friendship between the Bear and the Lion, epitomised by the friendship of the two men.
The double doors to the reception hall flew open amidst a volley of applause. As the VIPs walked in, tinsel floated gently down from the ceiling.
Lowe made the rounds under Simonov's armpit, taking extra care to exchange business cards and to have his picture taken with everyone he met. Nursing a flute of Cloudy Bay, he sidled up to his Russian patron, picking up every word uttered by the big man.
“Colin, we're friends yes?” Simonov leaned over the Singaporean like a stork over the water's surface. “Let me show you how I look out for my friends.”
The towering man took his friend's upper arm in his huge paw, leading him gently to a side.
“You mentioned that your CNB will raid the Tuas factory. I believe it'll happen after the next shipment of rice containers. My suggestion for you is,
don't
get involved.”
The Singaporean was perplexed and made a mild protest. The raid would be a perfect opportunity for him to hang some scalps on his war-lance, which was still bright and virgin.
“Trust me my friend,” pressed the police chief, his florid manner shelved to emphasize the weight of his suggestion. “The raid is ill conceived and will incur the ire of the Chinese. Stay away, or as the English say, there will be the devil to pay and the currency might just be your career.”
Then with a smile, Simonov bowed in that courtly manner of his. “Would you be terribly offended if I excused myself?” He moved smoothly to join the Minister for the Interior.
Everyone had long forgotten Annette and Michael, and no one saw them leave the reception with Benjamin.
Even fewer knew of the reams of paperwork exchanged between the Singapore embassy and the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The following day, a grim faced protocol officer and his clerical assistant from the embassy turned up at a nondescript police station.
He signed several more documents, before two uniformed police officers escorted Tara out to him. Without a word or exchange of greetings, the three Singaporeans left in an embassy car, followed a discreet distance by an unmarked police car.
Tara wore fresh clothing delivered by the embassy. The Russians had returned all her leathers and personal effects, except for the automatic pistol.
The Russian doctor, whom the embassy retained, met her at her apartment. He gave her a thorough medical check and pronounced her unaffected for having spent time in a Russian police cell. As the doctor reported, quite truthfully, she looked a little tired but nothing more. Other than some tenderness on her left cheek, he detected no traces of physical abuse.
Tara did not protest that she had spent time in a dungeon and not a regular police cell; neither did she reveal what Simonov's
einsteins
had done to her.
She took the doctor's advice and spent that afternoon and most of the following day sleeping, resting and pushing away the events in the dimly lit cell in the bowels of Lubyanka.
Her emails to Uncle Smiley revealed nothing about the icicles wielded by Simonov's goons, the treatment repeated on the hour.
In the terror of the forbidding dark and stinging cold, she had recalled the loss of her parents and her beloved Johnny. She had let out small cries of pain and was unsure whether she hurt from what Simonov's
einsteins
did or whether it was something else.
She had also thought of Plustarchâ¦
The doctor was right. There were no outward traces of physical abuse.
Chapter 44
Tara walked into the ambassador's office, keeping her strides long and confident. Painkillers and her natural resistance to distress subsumed all outward signs of her incarceration.
The ambassador's face flushed red and he dry washed his hands. Summoned to the Russian Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he had returned with their note.
“The Russians are demanding that Ms Tara Banks,” he peered at her above his reading glasses, “that's you, having abused her diplomatic privileges, and found to have on her person a weapon without proper authorisation, be repatriated immediately in order to maintain the cordial and excellent relationship between our two countries⦔
He finished reading the note, wiped the spectacles off his face and flipped the protest note to her.
“I've never had to face such a situation before. I don't know who you work for but I'm glad to be rid of you.”
Tara scanned the terse note. It observed how the Russian police during their operation to rescue kidnap victims, who incidentally happened to be Singaporeans, came upon Ms Bank who was unable to explain her presence in the company of the kidnappers. Furthermore, they found a weapon on the person of the cultural attaché.