Code Shield (22 page)

“Thanks,” said Tara as she strode past him. She did not reveal that she had programmed her custom-made cell phone to switch on automatically for durations lasting between two to three minutes, insufficient for anyone trying to track her. It gave her enough time to read her messages and return urgent calls.

“Ah, Ms Banks, please have a seat,” the ambassador pointed to the seat opposite his table. Peering at her over his reading glasses, he continued, “As we both know, I don't know which government entity you're working for. But sometimes I get the impression that
I'm
working for you.”

The ambassador also did not know that Tara's office in the embassy and her apartment a few hundred metres away had more layers of electronic security than even the communications room in the embassy. Her laptop did not rely on fibre optics but on one of several communication satellites launched and managed by Singapore Satscom.

The ambassador leaned across his wide desk and patted a black briefcase. “As usual no markings, came in this morning's diplomatic pouch.”

He turned the box around, retrieved a wafer thin plastic biscuit from his pocket. Snapping the biscuit in two, he took out a sliver of paper that had an alphanumeric code. Punching the code on a keypad embedded on the top, he hit the
Enter
key and pushed the box to Tara.

She thanked the career diplomat and excused herself from his presence.

Locking the door behind her, Tara settled behind her desk and took out another plastic biscuit, one of a set that she had received a few days earlier. She broke the thin biscuit to retrieve the second code and tapped the alphanumeric digits into the keypad. The internal latches clicked open.

Wielding a paper cutter, she cut through the leather along the edges and gently pried out the keypad. In the recess was a touch screen. Tara keyed in another code and the lid popped loose.

Lifting up the lid, she disarmed the miniature explosive and removed a thin foiled circuit board. Singapore had ensured that even if the box went through x-ray, the foil would generate multiple non-linear electronic distortions, rendering any x-ray images useless.

The contents gave her the reply she had been waiting for – she is to go operational.

Tara ran her fingers over the length of the black tube, about eight inches long, embedded into the foam cut-out. She moved her fingers over the thirteen 19 millimetre rounds, each specially designed to distort on impact and disintegrate upon exit. There was another clip of six rounds, similar in design but for a .38 revolver.

She keyed in her access codes and passwords and the high priority message came on her laptop screen. Uncle Smiley did not believe in video communications or audio messages –
The more data transmitted over cyberspace, the higher the chances of interception
.

Tara keyed in a code and within seconds, received an answer back code on her cell phone. She tapped in the answer back code and her laptop screen switched to a slideshow.

She recognised the faces of the men, below each photograph a code:
837646283
.

There were two more shots – of Annette and Michael Liam with equally cryptic codes underlining their photographs.

Her face expressionless, she re read the deciphered numeric codes and exhaled softly.

Tara drove Benjamin to Gorky Park. The sun had tired of fighting the thick clouds and disappeared to the west. The thermometer had plunged to five degrees but there were still a few hardy souls, people jogging in pairs or groups.

Benjamin grew more incredulous as she related her orders.

“A smooth bore barrel and rounds that disintegrate; very shrewd, no chance of any ballistic ID,” conjectured Benjamin. He rolled the six rounds in his palm as he spoke,

“So, you carry a Beretta, cool. I'm still stuck with a .38 standard issue, something to scare away the cats from the rubbish bins.”

Tara remarked, “It's not always the bigger the better but how you use it.”

“Ouch!” Then, shaking his head Benjamin continued, “Anyone can take down a target with rifle and scope but a semiautomatic Beretta…close range?”

Tara ignored the question and shoved a receipt at him. “You'll have to sign for the rounds.”

“Of course,” said Benjamin, scribbling his initials and handing the note back to her. “Just electronic communications… nothing else…no names, no ID…Nothing? They can deny everything. If things pan out wrong, they can nail us.”

“That's the idea.”

“How long have you been doing wet jobs for them?”

Silence.

He tried another tack, “Who do you work for?”

Tara remained silent.

“This is exactly my point. I figure you don't know who your masters are, or perhaps you know too much. These guys will not let you retire and write a book.”

“Ben,” Tara sighed, turned to her passenger and feigned regret. “You're with embassy security. Perhaps this is all a mistake. I should never have approached you.”

“No, don't get me wrong. I'll do it. I…I just worry for you.”

“That's sweet of you Ben, but I'm a big girl.”

“I know Tara. But –”

Tara studied his face, “But?”

“You know that I'm an orphan…like you.” Facing her, Benjamin continued, almost choking, “Sometimes I feel like you're the only family I have.”

He turned away, blinking.

“Oh, Ben,” Tara reached out and gently caressed his face. He closed his eyes, rubbed his cheek on her palm.

She felt the day old bristle on his face, stiff and rough.
Like a cat's whiskers
.

“What did you say?” Benjamin opened his eyes.

She withdrew her hand quickly and looked straight, “I've contacted Singapore and made sure Lowe doesn't interfere.”

“You can count on me Tara,” said Benjamin. “Anything else I can do?”

“No, just watch my back and keep the engine running,” she replied with a smile. “Come, I'll drop you off at your apartment.”

“Want to share a night cap?” asked Benjamin. “I've got a nice bottle of premium whiskey.”

“Thanks Ben, but let's celebrate after the job. I've to return to the office.”

About forty-five minutes later, Tara had logged onto her laptop and sent an encrypted email to Singapore. Transliterated it read:
Pressed and pinned
.

Chapter 34

Michael woke with a start, shook the fog off his tired mind and stared at the fourth floor window. It remained shuttered and dark. He was cold and stiff and his mouth tasted bitter and bad. He unscrewed the cap on the stainless steel flask and was grateful for the warm coffee as it coursed down his throat. He thought of Yvonne and thanked her silently for her foresight in packing this small but useful utensil.

It was already six in the morning. The streetlights illuminated a steady silvery drizzle interspersed with tiny snowflakes. A few vehicles drove past, grey smoke spiralling from their exhaust pipes.

Michael pushed the door open and stepped out of the stale but comparative warmth of the car. Rubbing his arms, he stomped and hopped a little to get the blood into his numb legs. He knew where the public toilet was but decided to give it a miss as he guessed it would be a refuge for street bums and other unsavoury characters.

He looked up and down the length of the street and found no signs of Tara's grey Volvo.

Unzipping his trousers, he pulled aside the heavy overcoat, threw furtive glances about him before urinating against the rear wheel of his car. A sharp pain caught his breath and he immediately stopped but the pressure was intense. Relaxing his muscles slowly, he gritted his teeth and squirted short spurts of urine. The noise of the water splattering against the hubcap was deafening and he was sure it would rouse the neighbourhood dogs. But the dogs were probably sound asleep, the windows remained shut, no lights came on and there were no indignant shouts from their masters.

Pulling up his zipper, he rubbed his hands briskly and took out a scraper from the glove compartment. Within minutes, he had scrapped off the frost on the front and rear windows. He peered at the fourth floor window. It remained in darkness. He guessed that after the previous day's late night the occupants would not awake for several more hours.

After letting the engine warm up, he slipped into gear, eased out of his parking space and onto the street. He found his way to Alexander Gardens, the park he had visited with Tara.

He sat on a wet bench overlooking the small lake. The water was sluggish, with fragile sheets of ice on the surface. A ghostly grey fog hung over the park, and towards the east, he spied the first pale blanket of light.
Somewhere in that direction was Singapore and home
.

Michael munched moodily on a cold sardine sandwich, which he had rustled up the night before. He did not taste the bread or the bitter coffee that washed it down his throat. He played in his mind the plan he had hatched and wondered if he had missed anything.

A brisk wind came up bringing sleet with it, and Michael retreated quickly into his car.

Taking out the English-Russian phrase book, he practised the strange sounds. He had the radio on, was convinced he would never be able to roll out the words as quickly and fluently as the newsreaders.

It was touching nine when he parked along Polyanka Street. Ducking under the narrow awning and running up the small flight of steps leading to the entrance of the apartment block, he rang the doorbell. He stepped back and pulled his coat tightly around him.

“What do you want?” A gruff woman's voice crackled in Russian over the intercom.

“Looking for a room,” squeaked Michael. He cleared his throat and repeated more confidently. “I'm looking to rent an apartment.”

“No vacancy,” snapped the voice and clicked off the intercom.

Michael looked about sheepishly. Not knowing what else he can do, he walked away, turning a few times to look at the apartment block. He reached the end of the road that ended in a cross junction and stood at the traffic light. There were people already about. The light turned green but he did not cross.

He saw a squat Asiatic man cross the road towards him and tried to catch the man's eyes. Their eyes met but the man looked quickly away and brushed past him. Michael followed the man, though not knowing what he wanted to accomplish other than hoping to strike up a conversation. But the man had quickened his steps, looked left and right, ran across the street and was gone.

Alone again, Michael dreaded what lay ahead as he trudged back to the apartment block. His daughter was only a few metres away but he felt utterly helpless. He could not leave his car along the street, as the mechanised street sweepers would make their appearance anytime soon.

He decided to pay Savoy Gorky a visit, to use the bathroom facilities and gather his next plan of action.

As he exited the elevator, the receptionist whom he had seen Tara speaking to, the day he had lunch with her, met him. The tall blonde woman apparently remembered him and tried to strike up a conversation. But he excused himself and ducked into the washrooms.

When he exited, the foyer had become noticeably busier. Men and women in heavy coats strutted about, their heels falling loud and ricocheting off the marble floor. Sharp chatter pierced the air.

Michael took refuge in an empty armchair and rubbed his temples with finger and thumb, trying to press away the throbbing.

He felt a light touch on his elbow.

It was the receptionist, her hair blonde and her eyes deep green. “Hello sir how you are okay?”

Michael wanted to shoo her away but hesitated. His mind raced, wondering whether he should ask but even before he knew it, he blurted out, “I need to view an apartment. Can you help me?”

“Aparter –”

“Room, room…”

“Room, yes we have little rooms later in the afternoon. Follow me please –”

“No,” Michael had raised his voice before he could stop himself. His desperation made him irritable. “I'm sorry I meant to say no I'm not looking for a room.”

She maintained her calm and smile. “It's okay, no room?”

“I'm
prasti
, sorry,” Michael repeated, tried to express himself but soon realised that her English was better than his Russian was. He spoke slowly in English.

“I am looking for an apartment…apartment.” Michael took out his phrase book and showed her the address that he had scribbled in the blank pages at the back. “I want to rent an apartment in this building. Can you help me speak to the landlord?”

The receptionist stared at his mouth and nodded slowly as she tried to grasp what he was saying. He repeated several times before a small smile broke on her face.

“Ah yes, the apartment not far. Twenty minutes. Okay. I help, ten o'clock,” she stretched out the fingers of her hands.

“Ten o'clock?”

“Yes ten o'clock you wait outside…I come…you wait,” she kept pointing to the door.

Just then a well-scrubbed young man in a black suit walked past, said something to her in rapid Russian to which she replied hurriedly and turned to Michael,

“I've to go now, what's your name please?”

“Michael.”

“Oh, Mikhail. Hello, I'm Tania. So pleased to meet you,” she stretched out her hand and bent her knees slightly to lower herself to his height.

Michael took her cool hand and felt the strength in her grip. Embarrassed, he pulled away his hot sweaty palm. He watched her hips sway as she hurried away in catwalk.

Recovering his seat, he debated on how much he can tell her. He kept playing back the events of several nights ago: the knee capping of Andrei; the Russian police, and how someone had tipped off the abductors. He thanked god for the millionth time that Annette was still alive and had looked okay. Resolving not to share any more information than was necessary, he settled in the lounge and ordered the cheapest drink on the menu, a rough coffee. He dawdled over the black brew, still taking small sips long after it had turned cold.