Code Shield (25 page)

Without asking, Ying grabbed a bottle and poured the liquor into her throat, choking and coughing. She then slammed the bottle on the table and let out a deliberate and loud burp.

As Ying crawled under the table, Annette saw the man with the cigar unzip his fly. Another man smacked Ying's buttocks and laughed.

Annette closed her eyes and grimaced as she felt the rest of the men survey her.

It was past three in the morning and Ying took the seat just behind the wire mesh that separated Karpov from his passengers. She stared out, her eyes blank, tired and haggard.

As ordered, Annette sat in the rear double seat behind Ying. She saw the new stamp but this time, managed to control her emotions as she read her father's message.

Mei-Mei, got your note. Leave another at apartment car park. Tomorrow look for message behind toilet cistern in Pussycat. Pa

Early next morning Michael had his engine running and waited just outside the shutter that opened into the basement car park of the apartment block.

When he saw the shutter screeching and retracting, he exited his car and walked towards the control box.

“
Privet, dobroye utro
(Hello, good morning),” Michael called out cheerfully. He had been practising most of the previous night, hoped that he had the pronunciation right. He startled the man who heaved up the shutter. Michael hurriedly assured him in Russian, “It's okay I'll close it.”

The man did not reply but got into his car and carefully drove past Michael's Fiat, with centimetres to spare.

Michael switched off his engine and strode into the mouth of the cavern, heading straight for the deep blue mini bus. The stamp, still stuck to the window, had turned soft and soggy. He walked around the vehicle and peered underneath.

His heart thudded when he spied a tiny crumpled ball of tissue. Reaching underneath, he grabbed the tissue and straightened it. His heart sank when he read the message written in Chinese.

Pa, I heard they'll sell Ying and I tomorrow or maybe move to a new apartment. I am frightened. Hurry. Get me out today. Mei Mei

Michael read the message several times, his hands feverish as he turned the tissue back and forth. He looked about him, folded the paper carefully, pocketed it and took out another stamp.

He scratched out the soggy stamp of the previous evening and replaced it with the fresh one. He could not say everything he wanted to on the tiny space and had to contend with,

Rescue you tonight – don't forget, do per message behind toilet cistern in club. Pa

Michael crept to the control box that held the chain and sprocket for the shutter. It was a simple spring loaded contraption, needed a jerk and momentum to raise and lower. He took out the short metal rod from his coat pocket and jammed it into the track in the ground, ensuring the shutter would not close completely, but stops a half-metre above the ground.

He felt the key in his pocket, the key that opened the door atop the small flight of stairs that opened into the corridor, leading to the reception counter. It was early morning and he knew the chain-smoking manager would be deep in slumber and he could easily sneak past her.

Then what?
The words of his lawyer Venkat shook him to his senses.
Yes, after you reach the apartment door, what next, what next?

The Russians were probably armed. Even if they were not, he was no match even for Kashin, let alone the massive Karpov.

I
need a gun, a knife, something
. Michael raked his mind, did not know where to find a gun, knew that it was not an option open to him. He felt his bladder full and his head break out in itch.
First, I need a plan. Damn, I still don't even have a plan!

His walked out the car park, stood next to the wall outside, and his fingers worked feverishly as he unzipped his fly. With a heavy sigh of relieve, he sprayed urine on the wall.

Michael emerged from around the building, his hands digging deep into his pockets. He looked quickly to his left and right, bolted across the street and hurried down the line of vehicles.

Even if Michael had glanced inside the black BMW, which had heavily tinted windows, he would not have seen the woman behind the steering wheel. Swathed in dark clothes and a black sable hat, she sat absolutely still, even her eyes stared steady and straight before her.

She saw Michael stop and mouth a curse. He slapped his forehead, and darted back across the street to the Fiat. The small car shook to life, reversed, bounced and bumped over the kerb and into the street. With an audible crunch of gears, the car lurched and sped down the street.

The woman in the BMW was not the only one witnessing his antics.

Annette stood in the centre of the room, as far as her ankle chains would allow her. Though drugged and drowsy, she had forced herself to keep awake by pinching herself with a hair clip every time she dozed off. She had been waiting several hours, peering through the small gap of the curtain. She had seen a man run across the street and back again below the block, disappearing from her line of sight. Then she heard the car and saw the Fiat race away.

Pa… only Pa would forget where he parked his car
–

Just then, Karpov's snoring stopped. He grunted, broke wind and turned on the bed. Annette quickly gathered the chain and quietly slunk back to her bed.

Chapter 38

Michael had to enter the Black Pussycat to leave a detailed message for Annette but had not thought through how to do it. He could not enter the female washroom during club hours. He had harboured a vague notion of finding a job as a cleaner, anything that allowed him access before the club opened for business.

He guessed the cleaning detail would arrive in the late morning or early afternoon. Therefore, he decided to wait and approach them for a job.

Michael's heart sank when he saw the old man of the night before, the one who had attacked him in the car park. He saw the man bring out the rubbish in black plastic bags.

After watching the old man for a while and tossing around a cocktail of thoughts, Michael drove to a bottle shop not far from the Black Pussycat. He picked up two bottles of vodka and returned.

The old man, apparently exhausted from carrying the rubbish bags, sat on his chair at the entrance to the underground car park. The man wiped his lips with the back of his hand, sheathed in woollen gloves through which his fingertips protruded. On his shoulders draped crumpled clothes. On his feet, he had a pair of oversized and badly scuffed shoes with shreds of newspaper stuffed in to take up the slack.

When Michael approached, the man held up a small flat bottle to shade his eyes against the mild sunlight, which was fighting to shine through the thick canopy of grey sky.

Michael greeted the old man cheerfully and was rewarded with a cautious stare. He held the bottles of vodka to his chest, ensuring that the plastic bag had slipped down enough to reveal the labels of the premium vodka.

The scraggly old man scratched his chin and regarded Michael with suspicion. His eyes drifted to the bottles of vodka.

Michael struggled with his Russian, trying to convey that he was looking for work, any work – even cleaning toilets.

“Hey Viktor, there is a chink here,” yelled the churlish old man. “Come and help me clear this yellow thrash.”

Viktor, stocky, with prickly iron filing like hair sticking out of his head and equally unkempt, came out of the kitchen. His leather windbreaker, tired and cracked, parted to reveal a stained collarless shirt. In one hand, he held a plate of sliced bread, diced cucumbers and raw garlic. He surveyed the visitor warily, his eyes falling on the bottles tucked under Michael's arm.

Michael repeated his offer. “I work for half price,” he stammered in Russian and repeated in English.

“Work…salary half?” asked Viktor in English and translated it for the old man.

“No work,” the old man waved Michael off but kept his eyes on the bottles.

“
Da
, half price, any work and toilet…
tualet
cleaning is okay,” Michael spoke in English and what he thought was Russian. He took out one of the vodka bottles, unscrewed the cap and held it to his mouth.

The old man stared at the bottle, licked his lips slowly.

“Want a drink?” Michael deliberately ignored the old man and held out the opened bottle to Viktor.

Before Viktor could take the bottle, the old man snatched it from Michael. Smiling to reveal a row of yellow rotten teeth, he threw his head back and gulped the liquor with loud gurgling sounds.

Viktor grabbed the bottle and had a go at it. Twenty seconds and a quarter bottle later, he let out a loud belch and handed the bottle back to Michael with a reluctant thrust of his hand.

With a forced smile, Michael raised his hand and said, “
Nyet
, you keep it.”

“
Spasiba
(thank you),” said Viktor, only to lose the bottle to his companion.

The old man had turned his back to them and threw his head back, accompanied by more gurgling as the colourless liquid in the bottle bubbled and whirled down his throat.

“The toilet cleaning job…” Michael suggested. He doffed his hat, wedged it under his armpit and wore an awkward smile.

The old man leaned forward, wiped the liquor that flowed down the sides of his mouth and replied gruffly, “No job, go away.”

“You give me job, I buy you vodka every day,” said Michael in English, holding out the second bottle.

Viktor translated and that caught the attention of the old man. He studied Michael intently. But the temptation must have been too great and he ventured in Russian,

“Putinka is good but I prefer Starka.”

“Starka?” asked Michael, looking at Viktor.

“Yes, Starka,” the old man pointed to the label on the bottle and Michael nodded.

The old man continued and Viktor translated,

“Only half salary. Hundred roubles a day. He pays you Friday, okay?”

Michael nodded enthusiastically.

The two Russians stepped away and whispered darkly. They surveyed Michael, smiled and nodded.

Then the old man led Michael into the club by way of the entrance through the car park. He held out a mop and pail and pointed to the staircase with a smile, exposing those disgusting rotten teeth.

“You start with the toilets on the second floor and then ground floor.”

Michael did not understand the words but recognised the gesture. When he reached for the mop, the old man grabbed the unopened bottle of vodka, saying,

“I take this as advance for tomorrow.”

Viktor tried to grab the bottle but found his older companion too agile. The two men cursed at each other and in the ensuing argument, forgot about their new help.

Michael plodded up the staircase and turned into the long and narrow corridor. There were rooms on both sides, some locked. He pushed on all the doors and one opened. It was a small room with a narrow bed and a mattress covered in PVC leather. There was a table lamp atop a small cabinet next to the bed, a radiator painted in the ubiquitous white gloss and a ceiling light but no windows.

He found the washroom in the far end of the corridor and entered. There were two cubicles side by side, on one wall a vanity cabinet with a single faucet and a stained mirror. A fluorescent tube ran parallel above the mirror.

He pushed open the door to one cubicle. It reeked of urine and the sour stench of vomit. The second cubicle opened to reveal a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The toilet pedestal looked clean but the wet floor strewn with toilet tissue; the small waste bin brimmed with soiled and bloodied tissue paper.

Michael stared at the filth, and overcome he leaned back on the wall and collapsed slowly on his hunches with a small cry. He crossed his arms, buried his head between his knees and shuddered uncontrollably, his voice raked with anguish.

It was a few long minutes before he wiped his tears and sniffed. Then he took out a roll of masking tape and wrote his instructions to Annette. He carefully stuck the tape behind the cistern.

That afternoon Michael could not reach Tara on the telephone number, she had provided. He called the embassy switch and asked for CNB and the operator put him through to a man.

Michael asked the man to have Tara return his call. When told that she was uncontactable, Michael relayed a message for her,

“Just tell her to call me back as soon as possible or meet me at Polyanka Street tonight and she'll know.”

“Sure,” replied the man. “I'll make sure that she gets the message.”

Benjamin replaced the handset and his brows crinkled in thought. He popped into Lowe's office. To his consternation, the assistant director confirmed he had another dinner appointment that night with his Russian friends.

“I'll need you to drive me there,” beamed Lowe, and silently dismissed the intruder by busying himself with some reports.

Just as Benjamin left, he heard the telephone ring and the CNB man answer with a curt, “Yes?”

Benjamin gathered that it was a Singapore call. Lowe exchanged words with the caller and slammed the phone down without the usual courtesies.

A few minutes later, Lowe summoned Benjamin and informed him of the change of plans for the evening.

Close to midnight, Tara checked into her office and found the note Benjamin had left on her computer,

Sorry, can't join you. Mummy's boy wants me to be chauffeur/bodyguard tonight. Can we do the job tomorrow?

Tara shook her head.
No, it can't be tomorrow night, Ben
.

She had received confirmation that the Russians had found buyers for Annette, the Liam kid and Ying, the Chinese national. Money would change hands the following afternoon and after which, the women and the Russians would disappear.

Benjamin knew they must rescue the women and do the job tonight. Tara had informed him when he handed over the floor plan of the apartment from Tania.

God damn you Lowe!