Code Shield (34 page)

The owner, a feisty single woman in her sixties was nowhere. Neither were her two farmhands, both from India.

Tara pulled on a pair of leather gloves and headed straight for one of the wooden shacks that doubled as a car park. Her knee length boots under her jeans crunched heavily on the gravel-strewn path.

The shack did not have a door. Inside the dim structure, she found the truck, the keys in the ignition and a motorcycle helmet on the seat. The helmet fitted snugly and Tara fastened the chinstrap.

Climbing into the seat, she twisted the ignition, bringing the engine to throaty life. With the casual expertise of a seasoned trucker, she engaged gear and eased the huge vehicle out the narrow door. The truck trundled and bounced along the tight path, missing the low wire fence on either side with centimetres to spare.

Tara emerged onto the six-lane carriageway. The road doubled as an emergency runway for the air force by the ingenuous expedience of having streetlights that straightened upright and telescoped into the ground. Like most weekday afternoons, the carriageway was deserted, an oasis of tranquillity in a city-state synonymous for crowds and traffic congestions.

She drove down the dead straight road for several kilometres before turning right onto a side road that undulated and hugged the terrain. Cresting a hump, she stopped as she spied the car she was looking for.

Her metallic grey Jaguar convertible parked along the road shoulder about two kilometres away.

Tara manhandled and released the brake shaft and pressed down on the gas. She sent the truck lurching forward. Her feet alternated between clutch and accelerator as she shifted gear. The truck picked up speed and headed straight for the gleaming car.

Within a minute, the gap between truck and car was five hundred metres. The truck reached seventy and the distance between them thundered to three hundred metres.

One final gearshift and Tara floored the gas pedal and sent the truck boring down on the Jaguar. One hundred metres and she could see the driver, a woman.

The woman behind the Jaguar's steering wheel had long hair, tinted brown and tied up in a bun. Large dark glasses masked her face. She stared straight ahead, her posture awkward and rigid like a mannequin.

The truck thundered to within fifty metres. Closing fast!

The woman in the Jaguar did not budge. She seemed intent on playing out this game of chicken to its gory end.

Twenty metres!

Just before contact, Tara threw open the door of the truck and jumped out.

The truck smashed into the Jaguar, lifting it up and spinning it aside as though it was a toy. The impact twisted the front wheels of the truck and it went careening across the road, ploughing down a palm tree before coming to a mangled halt against a rain tree.

Tara fell on the road, twisted her torso and went into a roll. Her helmet, jeans, boots, leather jacket and gloves giving her ample protection against the tearing, slashing tarmac.

She rolled for about twenty metres and in one fluid movement stood up – her legs planted wide and firmly on the road, her body erect and taut buttocks pushed proud.

The impact spun the Jaguar several times and it came to a drunken halt across the road. A flock of starlings screeched and cried in the rain trees.

Tara stood still, staring at her mangled Jaguar, willing for what was to come next.

After a slow count of three seconds, the car exploded with a deafening roar. The horrendous blast lifted the heavy cat almost three metres off the ground before crashing it back.

The trees released an explosion of starlings and sparrows. Gradually, their panicked cries replaced by the crackling and popping sounds of the flames that took hold of the Jaguar, licking away the paint and snapping the glass.

Tara walked over to the blazing crackling wreckage, took out a small glass capsule and held it to the sun. Inside was a tiny square microchip. She tossed the capsule into the flames, stood staring at the yellow tongues and took a couple of steps back.

Then, she turned slowly and took long strides in the opposite direction for about fifty metres before cutting into the trees. The Ducati was leaning against an angsana tree. Straddling the chilli red Italian, she gunned the motor to life and slipped into gear.

The motorcycle snaked and slithered over the mulch as it accelerated, kicking up the loose leaves. She cleared the kerb with a leap. The wheels landed on the road, found traction and roared away from the burning wreckage.

Tara stopped and turned back for one last look at her car and gazed up at the plumes of black oil smoke billowing into the sky. Then, distant sirens from the nearby Tengah Airbase caught her ears.

She twisted the throttle with a snap of her wrist and sent the front wheel of the heavy Italian rearing up in the air. The Ducati landed with a bounce and rocketed over a hump of the undulating road. Behind her, the shimmering heat danced and distorted the images of the approaching fire and rescue vehicles.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of Yasenevo, Moscow, a flashing red light caught the attention of an operator. She was one of several dozen in the cavernous auditorium that had electronic wall maps punctuated with blinking lights and stacks of alphanumeric codes in Cyrillic.

The operator punched some keys on her computer, turned and addressed her supervisor, “We lost number 1-7-4.”

The man in a smart olive green officer's uniform leaned over her shoulder and studied the multi-coloured monitor screen. He tapped keys on the keyboard, studied the four stacks of alphanumeric digits and the undulating curves on the wall screen and said in a monotonous voice.

“Sputnik 8-9-7 should be within range of target in the next forty three minutes. Verify location of 1-7-4. Enter the last known coordinates of the target.”

“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the operator.

The officer checked his computer for the person in charge of the target. He picked up the telephone reserved for just such eventualities and punched a number.

“Colonel Plustarch?” spoke the officer, his voice crisp. “Sir, we lost your target 1-7-4, will have a satellite scan in the next forty two minutes. Once status is verified, we shall update you.”

Immediately Plustarch received the satellite report, he called Simonov and updated his boss,

“We also received a report from Singapore. There has been an accident. First reports indicate the victim is a female. Satellite images show the accident site as the spot where we last lost signals from Ms Banks.”

Many thousands of kilometres away, Tara also read the message on her cell phone, courtesy of the e-news from Channel News Singapore, available to subscribers worldwide.

Motor accident reported along Lim Chu Kang involving truck and car. Car destroyed in flames. Female driver feared killed
.

An hour later, she received an update,

Truck involved in accident along LCK driven by foreign national, arrested and helping police with investigations. Victim confirmed, Singaporean female. ID withheld until next-of-kin notified
.

Eight hours later another update,

Victim in grisly motor accident along LCK identified as Tara Banks, a career diplomat on home vacation…

Chapter 51

Simonov escorted his Singaporean guest to the VIP lounge of Domodedovo Airport. Colonel Plustarch and the six police bodyguards, all big and heavy men, stood a discreet distance away. The lounge hostess served drinks and canapés – vodka for the big police chief and Cloudy Bay wine for his guest.

Lowe sat with his legs wide open as usual. Overwhelmed by the VIP treatment he could not thank his host enough, felt obliged to reward Simonov.

“I received news that Tara Banks was killed in a motor accident in Singapore.”

“Oh dear, that's tragic.” Simonov removed his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What happened?”

“Apparently a truck ploughed into her car. She went up in flames, burnt beyond recognition.” Lowe sipped the wine, placed the flute on the low table and leaned back with a serviette, drying his hands.

“Hmm, burnt beyond recognition…” the Russian held his young guest's eyes over the rim of his glass of vodka.

“Is there something…”

“Oh, it's probably nothing my friend,” Simonov pretended to brush off his concern, making every effort to make a poor job of it.

“What is it Boris,” Lowe leaned forward, his eyes wide and eager.

“You know, in Russia many criminals try to shake off the police by staging their own deaths. It's usually an accident where,” Simonov crooked two fingers of each hand, marking parenthesis in the air, “they are
burnt
beyond recognition. In the old days it worked but, with modern forensics, not anymore.”

He threw his head back slightly and gulped his vodka, not taking his eyes off Lowe.

“But it's probably me, too long chasing after criminals, seeing a crime or a cover up behind every corner. These things probably don't happen in Singapore I'm sure. You're lucky my friend. Your people are generally disciplined, hardworking…honest, not like in Russia.”

“Perhaps you're right,” said Lowe, his brows crinkled as he considered his friend's reservation. “I'll make sure they do a DNA analysis.”

Simonov waved Plustarch over and turned back to face Lowe, “But you do know that the Russian Police has a special interest in Ms Banks.”

“She was caught carrying a weapon –” offered Lowe.

“No my friend, that matter is what our English friends would say, is water under the bridge.” He gestured to Plustarch to join them, spoke to him rapidly in Russian,

“Perhaps the Colonel can brief you about your man Mr Benyamin Logan.”

Plustarch clicked open a handcrafted attaché case and produced a slim folder from it, “We found your embassy BMW in the Moskva River a few hours ago… with the body of Mr Logan in it.”

Lowe gulped, spilled his wine on his shirt. Simonov raised a finger and a lounge hostess stepped forward with serviettes.

“Benjamin is dead?” Lowe dabbed at his shirt.

“Drowned, we think.” Plustarch glanced at his boss and continued, “The body is frozen solid –”

“That's no good for us,” interrupted Simonov. “Difficult to pinpoint the time of death.”

Plustarch waited for his boss to finish and then continued, “Once it's thawed out, we'll conduct an autopsy.”

Lowe puckered his face in revulsion, “
Thawed out
… Why didn't you –”

“Inform your embassy?” Simonov completed the question. “Death does something to a person's features. We recognised the car first and took it from there. We're unsure whether it's your man Mr Logan. We think he is, especially since he has gone missing for a few days.”

Plustarch spread photo prints of Russian police personnel and vehicles. There were several shots of a crane lifting a black BMW from the frigid waters of the river, the background gloomy, hazy and grey, and water pouring out of every joint of the car. There were shots of a body, bloated and ghostly, the eyes wide-open and staring blank.

Seeing the corpse, Lowe covered his mouth to staunch a retch. He looked away, swallowed hard and took several sips of wine to wash down the sourish taste threatening his throat.

Simonov nodded to Plustarch who slipped all the photographs back into the folder together with a form report that bore the impressive stamp of the Russian Police.

“Once we've positively identified the man as your Mr Logan, we'll contact your embassy. Meanwhile, this preliminary report is for you, a kind of a going away gift if you like. I hope you don't see this as macabre but…” Simonov chose not to complete.

“Thank you Boris,” Lowe dabbed the perspiration from his upper lips and blinked a few times. “What has this to do with Banks?”

“We found a small plastic capsule in a factory shed about a hundred metres from where the car apparently plunged into the river. We found fingerprints of Mr Logan on it. We found strands of hair as well, long hair like a women's.”

“Banks?”

“Perhaps,” Simonov loomed forward. “I'm sorry to say this, my friend, but after the eviction order we kept Ms Banks under surveillance. We saw a BMW, your embassy BMW pick up Ms Banks from her apartment. Traffic was at its demented worst and our people lost sight of the car. We did not pursue the matter. When Mr Logan subsequently went missing we didn't think it had anything to do with a possible murder.”

“Murder?” exclaimed the CNB man. “Why would Banks want to murder Benjamin?”

“Who knows my friend? She has been working quite independently in Moscow, who knows what little scams she has been up to. We had our suspicions when Kudrin and that drug runner, Donovich, were compromised. Where diplomats are involved, it's better to err on the side of caution, yes.”

Lowe nodded, the colour returning to his pale face.

“What we can do is to analyse the strands of hair and send you a DNA report,” Simonov wagged a finger. “Check the report against Ms Banks's DNA profile. It'll either clear or convict her of Mr Logan's death.”

“Of course if she died in that motor accident,” said Plustarch slowly, “if your police can positively identify her as the victim, perhaps we can also close the file here.”

“Yes,” confirmed Simonov. “Whatever she might have done, she is dead and God rest her soul.” Simonov made the sign of a cross across his torso, “We keep her public record stain free. She is after all a Singaporean diplomat. We don't publicly wash our friends' laundry even when soiled by one such as Ms Banks. I do this only because of our friendly relations, Colin. Let us know of your findings officially and we'll close the file.”

“Thank you Boris. I'll pass on your generous gesture to my minister. Oh, one more thing,” Lowe leaned forward but stopped.

Simonov looked at Plustarch, who took the hint and excused himself.

Lowe whispered, “You were right. That raid on the Tuas factory was a real screw-up. The Chinese are up in arms. No media, but they're outraged. I believe heads will roll.”