Code Shield (5 page)

Sniffer dogs stood wagging their tails as the customs men used master keys to open the target bags.

Above ground, more keen eyes peered out of one-way mirrors and followed the three couples headed for Gate 36.

At the gate, an officer pointed to Annette and motioned that she use the Rapiscan® channel.

The young Russian turned several times to tease his girlfriend. His face smiled but his eyes did not.

Further, down the queue, the burly Russian watched the little drama played out ahead of him. He kept the Chinese woman close to him, his eyes darting from Annette on his right to the glass walls that caught the progress of the Filipinas on his left.

In a control room on the same level as the Departure Gates, two female uniformed officers stared unblinking at the screen, their male supervisor behind them. The image of Annette came through and cameras soft clicked. They had disabled the filter, which normally blurred the face and private parts of the passengers.

The telephone buzzed in the control room. It was the officer scanning the passengers at Gate 36. The male supervisor muttered into the mouthpiece,

“Let her through. Pull out one of the Filipinas for the scan.”

A few minutes later, Zain received a call from Changi Airport,

“Their cabin bags are clean but one of the two women we scanned, Louisa Guzman, showed signs of carrying something on her.”

“On her?”

“Sorry, in her stomach and vagina.”

“Good,” Zain spoke in undertones. “What about the other two women?”

“We picked only two, one of the Filipinas and the Singaporean, so as not to be too obvious. The Singaporean is clean.”

“Okay, send through the CCTV footage and scanner shots. Is our man on board?”

“Yes, seat 34D, one seat behind the last of the targets.”

When the Aeroflot flight took off from Changi, a cell phone in the Singapore Airlines office on the airside of Istanbul airport rang. A voice in Istanbul answered on the second ring,

“Yes?”

“The package is on the way,” replied Singapore.

“Does it have a tail?” asked the voice.

“Yes.”

“Should I make contact?”

“No. Observe, render help only if required but otherwise update their progress”

The Aeroflot flight thundered away, headed for Istanbul's Ataturk International Airport, almost fourteen hours flight time away. The pale-skinned man settled behind the three pairs of passengers. He noticed that the three couples studiously avoided eye contact with one another.

The two Filipinas sat glued to the inflight movies. They nibbled at the food, leaving most of the meals untouched. By the time the cabin lights dimmed, both had sunk into a slumber.

The young Russian smothered his girlfriend with kisses. When the lights went off, he raised the armrest between them and pulled the blanket up to his neck. The girl slipped under the blanket and rested her head on the man's stomach. After sometime, her smiling face surfaced from under the blanket; she spat into tissue and wiped her lips. The young man planted a peck on her cheek, rolled to his side and quickly fell asleep.

The pale-skinned man also noticed the Chinese woman and the heavyset Russian as they watched the amorous couple. If the burly Russian harboured any notion of a similar treat from his companion, the Chinese woman dashed it by pulling the blanket right up to her neck and snoring loudly with her mouth open.

They had just finished breakfast when the pilot announced seat belts and stowed food trays. Within minutes, the aircraft plunged into the thick canopy of clouds hanging over Ataturk International Airport situated on the European side of Istanbul.

The pale-skinned man saw Annette peer out the window. He knew that all she could see would be a sheet of grey interspersed with streams of water condensation on the windows.

By the time the aircraft broke through the clouds, the pilot was already on his final approach over the Sea of Marmara.

The control tower appeared to their left before the aircraft tyres squealed and screeched on the tarmac, throwing out plumes of burnt rubber and smoke.

The layover was for an hour.

The man with the pale complexion took a discreet seat in the far end of the rows of seats and kept his targets in constant sight.

Other than visiting the washroom, the pairs stayed away from each other's paths. The Filipinas window-shopped but stayed within view of their Russian handlers. The young couple curled up on a seat and cuddled. The large Russian and his sullen companion sat impassive, together but separate.

There was another man who also took a keen interest in the party of six and the pale faced man shadowing them. He waited until the seven people boarded the aircraft and then made a call to Singapore.

There was a ninth pair of eyes that kept all eight in view. He too made a call – to Moscow.

The flight time between Istanbul and Moscow was about three hours, and the inflight service had turned definitely shoddy. The Filipinas asked for water but did not receive any. When one of them insisted, the flight attendant promised to check but never returned.

The pilot banked steeply and came in to land, dropping the aircraft on the runway with such force that some of the overhead compartment doors fell open.

A blanket of thick grey fog covered Sheremetyevo International Airport. Baggage tractors and tow trucks moved silently, their beacons shooting blinding yellow lights. Light snow and sleet slanted down, turning the ground wet and the place gloomy.

Kashin kissed Annette on the lips and whispered, “Welcome to Moscow.”

Chapter 7

Sheremetyevo was a huge grey complex, the dim lighting accentuating the harsh weather outside and the cold reception from the Immigration and Customs people inside.

Tara Banks commandeered a vantage position in the arrival concourse from where she easily spotted the pale-skinned Lowe exit the green channel. She spied him as he repeatedly traversed the wide arrival hall, looked past her and searched without looking. She acquired an instant dislike for the man when she noticed the disdain written all over his face and the impatience he exhibited by constantly referring to his watch.

Two touts approached the diminutive man. One of the touts reached for Lowe's hand-carry. When he protested, the other tout pushed him on the shoulder.

Tara would have loved to watch how Lowe would handle the situation, but decided she had matters that are more important. She stepped forward and spoke sharply to the touts.

After more than two years with the Singapore Embassy in Moscow, her fluent Russian, acquired mannerism and dress sense helped her pass as a Muscovite.

The touts stepped back tentatively and with sheepish smiles, they withdrew.

She took Lowe's cold hand and shook it firmly as she introduced herself. Then ignoring that look of annoyance and awe on his face, the expression she saw on most Singaporean men whom she, at six one, dwarfed, she turned her attention to the arrival gate.

After what seemed like hours, the three couples stepped out of the green channel. They walked out in staggered pairs, first the Filipinas, then the big Russian with the Chinese woman, and finally a handsome man with his teenage admirer. As each pair came out, they lingered at the exit and waited for the others. At first, the touts circled the Filipinas but kept their distance when the two Russian men joined the women.

Tara fell behind and to the right of the small group, keeping a discreet distance from their targets. Lowe pushed his luggage trolley and kept close to her.

The two Filipinas were bubbly, the Chinese woman expressionless, the young Singaporean wide eyed and their Russian escorts noticeably relieved, shoulders relaxed. Two porters pushed the group's luggage and they headed for the Car Pickup Point.

A deep blue minibus appeared, collected the six people and their luggage and sped off, merging into the brisk Russian traffic.

Tara raised her hand, snapping her fingers. Within moments, a black BMW swooped to a halt, its boot swinging open in the momentum. As Lowe lugged his bags into the boot, Tara slipped in, next to the driver. Without pointing, she indicated the target.

The heavy BMW kept several car lengths behind the blue minibus. After a few minutes, the man behind the wheel mumbled,

“He's cautious. What do you reckon?”

“He's taking the service road around the airport. In a few minutes, we'll stick out like a meerkat,” Tara sighed heavily. “Take the next right turn and then the first left. That should put us back on the service road.”

“You got it,” said the driver.

They reached the second junction just as the minibus zoomed past them. It had picked up considerable speed.

The man in the passenger seat of the mini bus glanced to his right and for a second looked directly into Tara's eyes.

“He made us,” observed the BMW driver.

The blue minibus got onto the Leningrad Highway and sped towards Moscow. The driver did not attempt to evade his followers. The BMW kept several cars behind.

Though only mid-afternoon, the day had turned decidedly grey and headlights bounced and shone off the wet glistening road. The rain and sleet slashed sharp and relentless.

They crossed the intersection of the Moscow Circular Highway, the MKAD, and headed into the city. Several kilometres later, the rain petered out and replaced by a fine shower.

The minibus filtered left off the Leningrad Highway and zoomed along the Dynamo Stadium. Without warning, the driver swerved into the open-air parking lot and pulled up between two cars. The minibus' doors swung open, disgorging its occupants.

The burly Russian slipped into one car with the Chinese woman and one Filipina, while the younger man dived into the second with his girlfriend and the other Filipina. They shot off in opposite directions, one car heading into the city and the other westwards deeper into the industrial belt.

The minibus driver, a riverboat captain's cap on his head, stepped out. He had what looked like an assault rifle in his hands. The Russian held the weapon in his right hand and tapped the forestock on the palm of his left.

“Shit,” yelled Lowe in the back seat and ducked to the floor of the car.

“Which one do I follow?” asked the BMW driver, his voice calm and unhurried, the only sign of anxiety – his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Not receiving a reply, he asked again, “Which one?”

The mobster rested the butt of the Kalashnikov on his hip. He stood with legs spread apart but otherwise made no further moves.

“Say cheese,” said Tara as she touched the sensor screen on the dashboard and captured a snapshot of the gunman. Then she gave a small wave to the Russian mobster and spoke under her breath, “Let's go home.”

The driver reversed the BMW, turned the steering wheel to its hard stop, shifted to Drive and drove slowly out of the car park, merging into traffic on the Leningrad Highway.

Tara turned to her back seat passenger, “Are you alright down there?”

“Yes,” Lowe whimpered softly.

“Meet Benjamin Logan my partner, Colin Lowe – Assistant Director CNB Singapore.”

Benjamin twisted around, stretched his left hand over his shoulder, took the freezing cold hand of his passenger in his warm palm and gave it a brisk shake. He then focussed on the road.

“You should've had two cars for just such an eventuality,” complained Lowe, coughing to clear his throat, injecting some authority in his cracked voice.

Benjamin chortled but otherwise kept quiet. Tara flipped the sunshade down and stared at Lowe through the vanity mirror.

“We ought to have a lot of other resources too, like getting me some fulltime help. I exaggerated when I said Ben is my partner. He's with Embassy Security. I help him when I can and he reciprocates. Today is his day off and he offered to help.”

The assistant director ignored her, had his own question, “Why didn't you follow at least one of the cars?”

“You don't get it do you,” Tara's voice had an edge to it. “Try following them and they'll lead us on a goose chase, all the way to Vladivostok.”

“So what if they do, we follow them,” the retort flew from the back seat.

“Tell him where Vladivostok is,” said Tara.

“Nah,” Benjamin gave a slight shake of his head. “I don't think he can think that far.”

“What's his problem?” snapped Lowe, his face colouring sharply.

Tara threw a glance at Benjamin and nodded. He pulled the BMW smoothly onto the road shoulder and stopped, with hazard lights blinking.

She turned around, her elbow hooked over her seat backrest,

“How do you reckon the Mafiya made us?” Tara's voice was low but challenging. Lowe glared but said nothing and Tara answered for him,

“Some idiot in Singapore put a call through to Istanbul to shadow you and your flock during the layover. These people made Istanbul long ago. Istanbul led them to you and you to us.”

“What do you mean by
idiot
? I'm in charge of this operation –” blurted Lowe before he could stop himself.

“Thank you for making it clear. Seems to me you're not even in charge of your own fears,” snapped Tara.

Benjamin brayed, “This guy is really funny, haven't laughed this much since I don't know when.”

The CNB man changed the subject, his voice quivering with anger, “Why didn't you take down the number of the minibus?”

“I like this guy,” exclaimed Benjamin sarcastically. “No matter what you throw his way he remains focussed on what
he
wants.”

“If you really want his number, do it yourself,” retorted Tara, to more sniggers from Benjamin. “Mr Kalashnikov is right behind us.”

“What –?” Lowe turned, peered into the darkness and ducked to the floor.

A minibus, its hazard lights flashing, had parked about twenty metres away on the road shoulder behind them.

“He makes no attempt to hide, itching for a fire fight. That's the way it is down here.” The oncoming headlights spotlighted Tara's grey eyes, steely in her handsome face. “What are you doing down there? Don't worry, this Beemer is bullet proof,” said Tara.