Code Shield (9 page)

But the thought of his daughter and what she could be going through hardened his wavering resolve. He swallowed hard, playing in his mind the challenges he might have to surmount.

He had twelve thousand dollars from the car, another three from pawning his watch, guitar and the single gold chain, a gift from his grandmother. He also had the supplementary card from Yvonne. He estimated that he had enough money to last him about three weeks.

Some of Michael's trepidation exited when he gazed up at the high roofed passenger terminal building in Domodedovo International Airport. It was modern and well sign boarded in English. He went through Passport and Customs Control without any hassle, exited via the green channel, and negotiated through the great throng of people who were all hurrying purposefully.

Following the signboards, he walked the length of the right pier that extended from the terminal building and presented himself to the Aeroexpress ticketing counter.

Within half an hour, he was on the northbound train and the forty-minute journey from Domodedovo to Paveletsky Station in central Moscow. He could have taken the cheaper commuter train but that would have meant a longer travel time and he was intent on reaching his motel before nightfall.

When the train hissed and squealed to a stop, he followed the crowd, scanned the barcode on his paper ticket and went through the exit. Once outside the gate, he immediately felt alone.

Then the touts surrounded him. Michael, harried and afraid, simply shook his head and walked briskly into a toilet. After catching his breath and relieving himself, he stepped out and was grateful that no touts pounced on him this time. Heaving his luggage, he hurried down the corridor, turned right and plodded up a flight of stairs. Though his bags were made of light PVC and all his heavy attire – the overcoat and shoes were on him – he knew that he could not walk far with his luggage.

For a few moments, he stood outside the two-storey train station and again felt terribly lonely. Taking a deep breath, he approached one of the yellow
marshrutka
taxis. He knew that his motel, Basilica, was about twenty minutes' walk away. But it was five in the afternoon, already dark and there was a light snowfall.

He had never experienced snow and always harboured romantic and even childish notions about frolicking in the white fluff. Now, the snow meant only alienation, biting cold and dread.

The unshaven taxi driver, who had a torso like a barrel, stuck out four fingers.

“Four hundred roubles?” exclaimed Michael. He had just paid only three hundred roubles for a forty-minute train ride in a clean and warm compartment. He pointed out the address of the motel and again rubbed finger and thumb in the universal language for money.

Again, the driver stuck out four stubby fingers. Other drivers, all heavy men, started to gather around them.

Michael succumbed quickly and the driver opened the door and climbed behind his steering wheel. Michael understood this to mean that he had to load his own luggage into the back.

The mini bus-like taxi was cold. Apparently, the heater did not work. Michael rubbed his hands and wrapped his arms tightly around his body.

Thirty minutes later, they still had not reached his destination. He leaned forward and for the umpteenth time shoved the street map with his motel clearly marked out, under the driver's chin. The man hardly gave it a glance but muttered something in a low guttural voice and made yet another violent turn.

After ten minutes more, they pulled up before a two-storey building painted in ochre and white.

The driver lifted Michael's luggage out with one hand and dumped it heavily on the wet ground. He stuck out all ten fingers.

He wants a thousand roubles
. Michael hesitated. It was cold, dark and only a faint glow came from what was obviously the motel reception but he did not think the people inside would be of any help.

The driver raised his voice and closed the gap between them.

Michael smelled alcohol in the driver's breath. Though he did not understand the words, he knew that anytime soon the situation might turn ugly. He handed over the money.

The man grinned, gave Michael a mock salute with two fingers, got into his
marshrutka
, slammed the door with a loud bang and drove off, churning dirt and snow in his wake.

Michael stood helpless for a few minutes.
I am no Steven Segal. Venkat was right
.

The man behind the reception counter spoke no English. However, when Michael produced the computer printout of the booking, the man's face lit up. With a grunt, he collected Michael's credit card, swiped and handed it back.

Michael found his room at the end of a narrow corridor, the carpet worn to its underlay. The room was tiny, dank and heavy tobacco stench hung in the air. There was a narrow bed with an extremely thin pillow, a four feet high cupboard and a single yellow bulb at the end of a twist wire suspended from the ceiling. A PVC door, its bottom edge covered with mildew, opened into a musty windowless bathroom. The grout joints between the wall tiles were thick with grime. A tight shower booth and a yellowed toilet bowl left only standing room. The mirror above the white enamelled washbasin had dark blotches.

The brisk cold has given Michael a runny nose. Blowing into tissue, he looked around for a waste paper basket. Not finding one, he slipped the soiled tissue into a plastic supermarket bag and tucked the bag under his bed.

He fumbled with the knob on the room heater, placed his hand on the grills and felt it getting warm. Throwing his duffel bag in the cupboard, he slumped heavily on the bed and fell into a deep slumber, bothered by chequered and meaningless dreams.

Chapter 13

It was five days since they found the abandoned luggage bags in the rundown workshop. When Tara pressed Lowe on the next course of action, he had a simple solution – he delegated her to locate the Russian thugs. Meanwhile, he filled his diary with whatever luncheons, cocktail receptions and dinners the ambassador could arrange for him.

Tara's contacts finally came through – Alexis Donovich seen in the company of four Asian women who provided services in nightclubs.

More importantly and for a bundle of American dollars, the contacts had let known that Donovich was trying to set up a meeting with Ulrich Sobyanin at the Nirvana, a nightclub frequented by the wealthy and well connected.

Sobyanin, a godfather of godfathers, specialised in shipping high-grade heroin via his extensive distribution network into the major Western European cities – Frankfurt, Paris and London.

Tara and Benjamin doused the engine and lights and settled down in the BMW. Their eyes in line with the windowsill, they watched the nightclub from across the street. Parked in an alley, between two buildings opposite the Nirvana, the low slunk car allowed them to remain in the dark and to observe the nightclub.

The Nirvana was among several nightclubs and restaurants that occupied a stretch of former warehouses that had regained life after a multimillion-rouble makeover. Away from the city centre, the now swanky neighbourhood escaped the perennial traffic snarl that afflicted life in Moscow.

Vehicles pulled up to the valet counter outside the club and disgorged their occupants who walked briskly with their trophy women into the nightspot. The car jockeys would then drive the, almost invariably, exquisite cars to the parking lots that lined the back of the building. The ubiquitous queues that formed outside so-called hip nightspots were absent. The bouncers allowed in only members and member-escorted guests.

“Did you inform the
white horse
of tonight's stakeout?” asked Benjamin.

“You mean Lowe? Nope,” Tara spoke under her breath. “He has a cocktail reception this evening, claimed to have another engagement after that.”

“Another reception?” remarked Benjamin. “The
white horse
seems to have something on whenever we're on the sharp end of the business.”

“Just as well as he'll only slow us down.” Tara spoke in whispers but her attention remained focused on the neon lit building across the road.

“What makes you think Sobyanin will turn up here?” asked Benjamin.

“My contacts reported that his goons checked out this joint two days in a row, made sure the place was sterile. That's when they noticed Donovich and his Asian bevy.”

Even with Benjamin, Tara was careful whenever she spoke of her sources – no hint of gender and always in the plural.

A white 4-door Porsche Cayenne pulled up and occupied one parking space in front of the Nirvana. Four men, swathed in heavy black overcoats, got out. The bouncers straightened as the men walked up. After exchanging a few words, three of them went into the nightclub. The fourth man stood outside with the bouncers, lit a cigarette and looked expectantly down the road.

Benjamin turned to her. In reply to his unspoken question, Tara whispered, “Simonov's goons.”

Police Lieutenant General Boris Simonov, the Police Chief, was responsible for public order and safety and the burgeoning crime statistics. His influence extended deep into the Mafiya realms. He knew them enough to curtail their activities to
acceptable
levels. When elections loomed or when Moscow hosted important international events, crime dropped, miraculously picking up after the events. The man could literally turn on and off the crime-tap. Even politicians sought his protection if not counsel.

Tara peered through her night vision binoculars while Benjamin constantly scanned their surroundings: using the rear view, wing and vanity mirrors to keep the blind spots in his sight.

The men outside the club recognised the approaching vehicles and stiffened. Two black cars glided unobtrusively to a halt several car lengths away from the club entrance.

These heralded two large gleaming black saloons, a Bentley and a Mercedes S Class, which sailed to the club entrance. Doors opened and shut smartly and tall figures surrounded the even taller figure of Boris Simonov who towered six feet eight.

There was another man, diminutive, reaching only the shoulders of his companions. He spoke to the towering Russian who leaned down. Simonov waved his hands expressively in that deceptively genial manner that Tara recognised was his affected style.

“I don't believe it,” whispered Tara. She lowered the binoculars, and then peered through it again, muttering, “The fully bloomed idiot, I don't believe it.”

Benjamin stared at the nightclub; it was too far and too dark to make out the figures. “Well, tell me what you see and perhaps I too can join you in not believing it.”

The party disappeared into the dim innards behind the club doors.

Tara lowered the binoculars, lost in thought for a moment, then snapped out quickly. “Lowe, I think I saw Colin Lowe with Simonov's party.”

They fell silent, trying to understand the full implications. Benjamin broke the silence. “Does this mean that Sobyanin might not turn up?”

“Why shouldn't he? Sobyanin might be the godfather but Simonov is his patron protector. Nirvana is probably the safest spot in Moscow tonight.”

“And Donovich –”

Two black limousines drew up, identical Mercedes S-series. Men stepped out of the vehicles and crowded around one man who hurried into the nightclub.

“Sobyanin,” announced Tara, peering through her binoculars.

They saw no sign of Donovich. “Perhaps he's already waiting inside,” suggested Benjamin.

“No way,” replied Tara. “Though one of his lieutenants owns this place, Sobyanin likes to arrive first, have his goons secure the place before letting in his vassals. If the meeting is on, Donovich will turn up.”

The night bitter, the temperature had plunged to minus ten. The hot water bladders wedged inside their thick coats still made Tara and Benjamin break out in occasional shivers. They could not risk running the engine to turn on the heater as that would attract attention, in any event they had no way of knowing how long the stakeout would last.

About forty-five minutes later, Simonov and his police escort emerged from the Nirvana. This time, Tara managed to get clear photo shots with her camera, which was fitted with active infrared image enhancers.

She spied Lowe walk to the Bentley, open the rear door, bend down to converse with its occupant and hesitate before joining the men in the Mercedes.

“It looks like Simonov has other matters to attend to and is sending him home by taxi, I mean in the Merc. The
white horse
probably hoped to make a splash, arriving home in a Bentley and escorted by none other than the Police Chief,” remarked Benjamin.

“You don't like him, do you,” Tara turned to her companion.

“Don't you?”

“He's not much of anything to bother me,” replied Tara.

“He's a
white horse,
” murmured Benjamin, as though that said it all.

Tara kept quiet, her silence prodding him. He spoke in confessional whispers.

“In the army I was selected for a Green Beret course, went to Fort Bragg, North Carolina and graduated top foreign trainee. Imagine that, top trainee. Subsequently, I attended an officer cadet course in Singapore, again topped all the tests. But guess what, lost the sword of honour to another man, a government scholar. I was six points ahead. Dammit, even my CO was sure that I would win. But Mindef did the final evaluations. Apparently, this scholar had what they called
leadership
qualities.”

“A catch-all euphemism to screw the nobodies in favour of a white horse,” whispered Tara. She spied him through the corner of her eyes.

Benjamin stared ahead, as in a trance, reliving the memory. At length, he nodded and silently ground his teeth.

After a few hours, Sobyanin departed and Tara decided to call off their chilly vigil. She started the engine and silently reversed down the alley. At the junction, she swung the BMW left onto the deserted main artery and knifed into the light snowfall.