Code Shield (31 page)

Tara took a sip of the bitter brew, screwed her face and continued, “I suppose once they sewn me up,
prishit
, you'd be expected to produce a dead Mafiya, my alleged killer.”

Plustarch nodded, “Normally yes but not this time. He doesn't want you messing up his beautifully manicured lawns.”

“Why the concern?”

“Well, he knows that you have deep moles within our organisation,” a small glint escaped his blue eyes. “You get rubbed off and if the Press gets hold of your story –”

“Simonov doesn't care for that kind of limelight?” Tara sipped her coffee, not taking her eyes off him.

“No. Though nothing would be proven, he has enemies in the cabinet and such a story might snowball into a scandal and scuttle his plans. He's on track to become the next Minister for Interior. The ministry has a multibillion-rouble budget. No one would miss a few hundred millions here and there.”

“It's nice to have career progression. So, Sobyanin holds the gun but Simonov has the trigger.”

“As always,” replied Plustarch.

“Where would the hit take place?”

“In Singapore…your police problem,” said Plustarch as he studied her face, which remained expressionless and unimpressed.

“Singapore is probably one of the worst places to commit a murder. The killers might succeed but would not be able to get away. The blood will lead to Simonov…and you.”

“Perhaps this time your police might find hidden obstacles.” Plustarch sipped his coffee, placed his mug on the coffee table and leaned back, one leg tucked under his buttocks.

“Lowe?”

Plustarch got up, turned the music louder. He saw her raised eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, “Just in case someone's got more powerful microphones. You never know.”

He re-joined her with a nod, “It would be made to look like him. That's the price of friendship with the General.”

He whispered and his hot breath tickled her.

She intertwined her fingers in his, studied his hand and looked at him as she whispered, “I'll miss your smile and your manicured hands.”

“And I'll miss my Black Widow,” he kissed her pouting lips. Then his tongue travelled to her ear and he nibbled the ear stud.

Tara closed her eyes,
Black Widow. How apt
. She wondered if he knew about her ear studs. She closed her eyes and let him savour her.

About an hour later, Plustarch gazed down on Tara, who was sleeping soundly. He wondered whether he had said too much.
What if the roles were reversed, if her boss had ordered her to rub me off?

The two agents in the radio truck parked below Plustarch's apartment block twisted knobs and crushed headsets to their ears but could hear only loud music. They did not use pinhole cameras or listening bugs as Plustarch was too clever for that, having layered his apartment with electronic countermeasures. His cellular phone had special blocking software that prevented anyone from activating the built-in microphone. The agents had to be content with a radio van and point-and-shoot microphones. Then they heard the loud snores of Plustarch.

Chapter 46

Tara sat beside Benjamin who was behind the wheel of the BMW. She stared straight ahead at the slippery road, recently cleared of snow. They were a few vehicles behind the snow removal combines, huge metal beasts puffing acrid black smoke that clanked at their top speed of 15 kilometres per hour. Snow removal trucks remained parked along the street.

“They expect another snowfall event,” observed Benjamin absently.

The combines, four abreast, blocked all four lanes, adding to the crawling traffic. Though it was past midnight, it seemed the entire city was on the highway. The combines removed the snow and sprinkled a mixture of de-icing agents mixed with crushed gravel.

Two hours later, Benjamin thankfully turned off the highway into a trunk road. The street glistened and reflected the headlights in a sharp glare. More snowploughs and trucks lined the sidewalks, awaiting the next avalanche of snowfall.

Another hour went past before they found themselves in the outskirts, north west of Moscow beyond the MKAD. Darkness blanketed the once bustling industrial estate, now home to only a few factories. But at this hour, even these were shut down and bolted.

They drove past great swathes of raw snow covered land. After another thirty minutes of jostling and bouncing on the snow and mud clogged path, a cluster of abandoned shacks appeared. The river in the horizon was frozen and looked like a ghostly playground of grey and silver. The narrow path leading to the jetty, that extended fifty metres into the river, was snow choked.

“Take the next right turn, second building on the left,” directed Tara, her eyes locked straight ahead.

“So, your man drops off his packages here and collects whatever you leave for him?”

“Man or perhaps a woman,” murmured Tara and turned to Benjamin, “I've not met my contact. This is the only communication mode we have.”

“So, after Biryukov got killed, you never met the mole who replaced him? What makes you think whoever this may be isn't treating you like a mushroom?” Benjamin kept his gloved hands on the steering wheel, drumming his fingers.

Biryukov? Yes, Tara remembered how the fetid odour of urine and faeces had assaulted her and led her to her informant's body. His hands gloved in leather so that when smashed with a hammer, the blood, bone, and gristle remained within, keeping the welter less repulsive. The excruciating pain had opened the man's sphincter muscles and loosened his mouth. But from what she gathered, he had merely spilled his well-rehearsed speech, one piece of information – his name, Biryukov
.

“If I'm kept in the dark and fed shit, what do you reckon of the smell so far?” She kept her eyes straight, “Is it shit or is it shit?”

Benjamin snorted, “Let's see what shit your contact, eh, male or female, had left behind.”

“Leave your revolver behind, including anything metallic – pens, keys and especially your cell phone.”

Benjamin grabbed her elbow, “What's going on, I'll never leave behind my piece.”

Tara stared at him, her voice steely, “Ben, this is not a request, it's a deal breaker.”

Though darkness hung heavily over them and he could not see her face clearly, Benjamin sensed her seriousness. He nodded and emptied his pockets.

“Remove your belt. What about your shoes?” she asked. “Any steel toecaps?”

“Nope!”

“On our lives,” she wheeled and walked away. “Follow me.”

There were dozens of factory buildings, many unoccupied and decrepit. A fine layer of snow lay on the ground, not enough to prevent vehicular movements but enough to leave behind footprints.

Benjamin headed towards the building that Tara had pointed out but stopped when he saw her walking away to the side. In a few strides, he caught up with her.

“I thought –”

“That's the building, but that's not the entrance.”

Tara walked on the sidewalk and turned, taking every precaution to avoid footprints. She stepped on hard ground, protruding rocks and discarded wooden crates. They reached the shed behind their target building.

Ducking into the second shed, they crossed the breadth of it and emerged to face the back entrance of their target building.

Tara pulled out a thin flat spatula and a dentist's pick, both made of plastic, and worked the lock. There were a couple of clicks as the pins fell into place. With a twist and push, she opened the door.

“No keys?” asked Benjamin.

“Do you need one, especially for a plastic lock?” asked Tara. She could not see his face in the dark but heard him smile.

“Plastic lock.” Benjamin followed close behind. “Lights?”

Tara produced a glow stick, shook it briskly and bent it. With the light of the glow, she picked her way to the front of the building.

“Why not use flashlights,” whispered Benjamin. “And what's that smell?”

“What you smell is microscopic traces of white phosphorus. This storehouse is full of it, my insurance policy against uninvited guests. We're in the entrails of a bomb. The slightest spark, even from a flashlight battery –”

“Jesus!”

“Yes, it'll be a good time to pray whenever you enter this place.” Tara had walked over to a low workbench.

She retrieved the yellow eight-by-six envelope, sealed in wax. There was also a wooden box, about the size of a cigar box, which she tucked under her arm. She took out a thick white envelope from her coat pocket and placing the money on the bench, turned to him,

“Let's get out of here.”

Benjamin followed Tara who reached another empty factory shed about a hundred metres away, closer to the riverbank.

“I think you'll like this next place,” she turned to him with a smile. “I've a key.”

They stepped into the comparative warmth of the musky place. Tara continued, “There're even light bulbs…that work…and best of all, no explosives.”

She tugged a light chain hanging from the ceiling. A naked yellow bulb, on a retractable wire, lit up right above a table, which had heavily chipped edges. Four chairs huddled around the table.

She placed the wooden box on the table and handed the large yellow envelope to Benjamin, “This is your baby from now on.”

“Thanks, what's inside,” Benjamin took the envelope and pulled up a chair. He pulled down the coiled wire, bringing the bulb centimetres above his head.

“Read it first and I'll fill in the blanks,” Tara removed her sable fur cap, shook her hair loose and removed one ear stud.

Benjamin broke the wax seal on the envelope and extracted the contents.

“Ouch!” exclaimed Benjamin, holding the side of his neck. “What was that?”

“That's me,” said Tara, pulling out the chair opposite him and placing a foot on the seat. She leaned forward, taking care to stay out of his reach.

Tara carefully placed the ear stud in a small leather pouch and slipped it into her pocket, which she zipped close. She opened the wooden box, retrieved her Beretta and examined it.

Benjamin had broken into a small sweat.

Tara continued in a deliberate tone, “In the Amazon jungles, there is a frog, colourful and shockingly beautiful. It protects itself by secreting a toxin. Scientists refer to it as a
lipophilic alkaloid toxin
. I suppose we mortals call it poison.”

Benjamin's lips quivered and his breathing laboured.

“Heard of the Amazonian Indians using poison tipped darts? Same poison from the same poison dart frog.” Tara clicked the magazine out of the Beretta's handgrip and counted the rounds, “Hmm…six.”

“Why?” gasped Benjamin, his body spasmodic. He loosened his collar and sweat streamed down his cheeks.

“First thing, first,” Tara took out a small plastic tube with a pointed end.

“Here is the antidote. You've just a few minutes while the toxin attacks your heart muscles, causing what the doctors call
ventricular fibrillation
.” Tara used her thumb to press the six rounds back into the magazine, one by one, “Cardiac arrest –”

“God it hurts,” Benjamin had collapsed on the cold floor, writhing slightly. “Why, what do you want?”

“Who're you working for?” With the palm of her hand, Tara slapped the magazine back into the Beretta and tucked it into her belt. She pulled a chair, reversed it and sat astride it, her arms folded on the backrest.

“What do you mean? Tara, please.” Benjamin's breathing turned ragged.

“We can play this game Ben. It's your life.” Tara, tall and slim, looked down at him. She felt no anger, hatred or contempt for the man lying at her feet and writhing away the remaining minutes of his life.

Benjamin grimaced and curled into a foetal position, his right hand reached for his foot.

In a blink, he whipped out the pistol from his ankle holster.

Tara had caught the flash of his pink skin under his dark trousers and reacted.

In one fluid movement, she lashed out with her foot and sent the hefty pistol skittering on the floor. The chair tumbled behind her as she leapt to her feet and landed with one knee digging deep into his stomach.

His body buckled around her knee and his head and legs rose off the floor. With a loud groan, his head fell back with a thud. Benjamin gasped and coughed, spitting frothy saliva.

“How did you know about Biryukov? Even my handler didn't know that name because it was not his name, but a code that only he and I knew.” Tara stood up, her foot on his chest.

“I don't know what you mean,” Benjamin reached out. “Please Tara, give me the antidote.” He scratched at his throat and pressed his hands against his chest.

“Lowe didn't pull you off the raid on Polyanka. He's an ambitious idiot but not a traitor. I checked the log, Ben. On the night of the hit, you left the embassy at eight. He left much earlier, used another driver from security detail,” she twisted and dug her heel into his chest. “Lowe let you off because I had specifically asked Singapore for you and Zain had ordered him to use another driver.”

She removed her leg and circled him slowly as she spoke, “How did Simonov know that I carried a Beretta? The night his goons arrested me, I had a Makarov on me. Yet the protest note signed by him said they found a Beretta on me.”

Tara walked around, squatted on her hunches next to Benjamin. “How is that, Ben? Was it because the protest note was already prepared even before the raid, just in case the sniper missed? If he didn't miss, the plan was to take out the Russian thugs and the two women and pin it all on me wasn't it?”

“What're you talking about?” Benjamin grimaced and fought for breath. “Help me Tara, please.”

Ben trembled and broke into spasms, his eyes rolled up exposing their ghoulish whites.

Tara's facial muscles relaxed. She held the capsule syringe between her finger and thumb,