Code Shield (11 page)

It had taken him some time but he had managed to unearth some interesting details about Benjamin Logan's girlfriend, Jessica See. As indicated by Lee, the woman had jumped off a twenty-five storey apartment block. She was an only child of a divorcee and had worked as a sales clerk in a shopping mall. The doctors and hospitals had stalled him but Uncle Smiley managed to extract the files he wanted.

The woman has had a history of depression and paranoia. She had called the Singapore Embassy in Moscow, demanded to speak to Benjamin Logan. Unable to reach him, she had unloaded on the female clerical officer who had taken the call.

Uncle Smiley read the telephone transcripts.

She had accused Benjamin of two timing her, some remarks about
that blonde bitch
. The clerical officer had promised to relay her message to Mr Logan.

A few days later, Mr Logan had received word from the Singapore Police about a suicide note addressed to him.

But the woman's mother, a Madam See, intrigued Uncle Smiley even more.

This Madam See had picked up someone in Orchard Towers and had contracted syphilis from the man. The doctors prescribed penicillin and she had suffered a violent reaction to it and died. That baffled the doctors, as she had no records of any allergy.

What stumped Uncle Smiley was – going by the records he had unearthed, Madam See appeared on official records only about twenty-five years ago. The first thirty years of her life – simply did not exist.

Chapter 16

Michael spent the next two days in Sheremetyevo Airport, shoving the pictures of Annette and Kashin to anyone who made eye contact with him. He had picked up a few Russian phrases and repeated them parrot like.

“
Izvini. Govorite li vy po angliyski
(Excuse me. Do you speak English?) Have you seen this girl or man?”

Almost everyone shook their heads and hurried away. Every few hours either a police officer or a tout would accost him. Michael would hurry away, reappearing to start his forlorn search again.

On the second day he was cornered by a policeman who pushed him to the wall and searched his pockets. Michael acted swiftly, pulling out a bundle of roubles and scattering them on the floor. This immediately attracted a melee as people dived and fought for the notes. In the confusion, he managed to break away, never to return to Sheremetyevo Airport.

Michael hurried to the train station and just as he reached it, received a text message from his PI. An extremely excited Andrei asked him to come over immediately as he had some news.

Snow sliced in flurries as Michael disembarked from the train. He upturned his collar, tucked his hands into his pockets and walked briskly, taking every opportunity to take short runs across roads and pavements. He had turned down the flaps of his cap but his ears still turned numb and hurt.

He reached Andrei's terrace house much quicker than the time it took on his first visit. He ran up the short flight of stairs, hid in the recessed alcove and rang the bell. The cold was cutting through his overcoat and his bladder was bursting. He rang the bell again just as the light in the foyer came on.

Andrei opened the door a crack. Recognising his visitor, he opened the door wide, matched by his wide grin. A blast of stale air mingled with tomato and garlic escaped through the opened door. The PI pulled Michael into the house with a jerk, stuck his head out, looked left and right and slammed the door tight.

Andrei helped Michael with his coat and called out to Maria. She shouted back and her voice gave Michael a welcomed sense of homeliness and safety.

“Toilet yes, no problem, follow me,” Andrei ushered him in and opened a door next to his tiny office.

Michael came out of the washroom, feeling light and comfortable but famished. The bitter cold burnt away whatever he ate and he felt perennially hungry. He stood outside the opened door of the office. A pot of coffee and some thick home baked cookies sat invitingly on Andrei's table.

Maria spied Michael from across the kitchen, came and hugged him before bustling him into the office. Her huge frame blocked the door to the office, keeping her husband out. For the next two minutes, she stood akimbo, berated Andrei who smiled and nodded repeatedly. Then, turning to smile at Michael, she disappeared from sight, leaving the two men alone.

Andrei sank heavily into his chair behind the desk and grimaced. He leaned to the side, felt under his buttocks and produced a cordless telephone. Replacing it on the desktop charger, he gave his attention to his visitor.

“I have some news my friend. This Mafioso, Ruslan Kashin has a friend, Alexis Donovich, who seems to be the boss.” Andrei produced a police mug shot of a burly man who had thinning hair and several days of stubble on his chin.

“He is also coming from Singapore, same flight actually. Kashin has disappeared, went underground or perhaps making a new film –” Andrei caught himself.

“Film? You mean like a movie star?” asked Michael. He noticed that Andrei fidgeted, his eyes darted about. “What is it Andrei, is this Kashin a famous movie star?”

“Not famous, he is more like the opposite,” said the PI, not looking at Michael.

“You mean infamous?” Michael suggested helpfully.

“No, it is ah…” Andrei's outstretched finger scribed a circle, as though trying to dislodge the word, “He is a notar…notary?”

“He is notorious?” corrected the Singaporean.

“Yes, he is notorious.” The Russian changed the subject, “But this Donovich –”

“You're not telling me everything, Andrei,” Michael folded his arms.

“There's nothing to tell, Mikhail,” protested the man.

“What about Kashin?”

“Oh, that one,” Andrei threw up his hands, “It's better not to know some things…”

When the words left him, Andrei shook his head, realising that he had again made matters worse. Exhaling sharply he said,

“What do you want me to tell you Mikhail? That this Kashin is a special porn star; that this animal does things with knives that make me want to throw up –”

The Russian stopped, his mouth still left open in mid-sentence. The room fell silent for a long minute.

Andrei exhaled dejectedly and looked Michael straight in the eye. “I'm sorry Mikhail but my English…don't know how else to say it…”

Tears welled in Michael's eyes and he wrapped his arms around his body. He ground his teeth, put his head down and rocked back and forth. After a few pronounced minutes, a whisper escaped his lips, “I'll kill the bastard.” Michael looked up, his eyes red and ugly, his lips quivering, “I'll kill the bastard.”

Andrei nodded slightly, pushed a box of tissue towards Michael. The PI got up, muttered something about having to use the toilet, and excused himself.

When the PI returned about twenty minutes later, he saw Michael sipping his coffee – his eyes staring into space. Andrei waited patiently.

Finally, Michael asked, his voice soft and resigned, “So, what do we do now?”

“We try and find this Alexis Donovich instead,” said Andrei.

“This man was in Singapore the same time as this…Kashin?” whispered Michael.

“Yes. The police have a file on this Donovich.” Though they were ensconced in his home office, Andrei looked left and right. “I'm sorry Mikhail but this is also bad news for us, as the police make a file only for the big fish. This one I think is such a big fish.”

“Back home the police maintain files on all criminals,” said Michael, a little absently.

“Yes, formerly our government also makes files on everybody, even babies. But now, the small fish simply drown in the Moskva River.”

Noticing that Michael remained expressionless, Andrei asked, “You don't understand my joke, fish drowning in the river?”

Michael ventured a smile but otherwise remained moody.

“Hmm…” Andrei scratched his chin and attempted another tack. Pointing his fingers in the universal sign of a pistol, he said, “For the small fish, no files, only bang-bang and throw in the river. No files, no crime, the statistics look good except the water level in the Moskva River goes higher every year – we also blame everything on climate change.” He laughed with a small bounce.

Michael lifted the corners of his mouth in a stiff smile but remained preoccupied. At length, he cleared his throat and spoke,

“How soon can your friends in the police help to locate this Donowitch?”

“No, not Donowitch,
Donovich
,” corrected Andrei.

“Donowitch…no, I call him Alexis – it is easier to pronounce.”

“Yes, for you, Alexis is a good idea, I think. Well, my friends gave me all this information. But will they go looking for Alexis Donovich, no I don't think so.” Seeing the worried look on Michael, Andrei added, “The police say they'll try but don't – what the Americans say –
don't hold your breath.
” Andrei shrugged, “But maybe, just maybe, they give us a lead because of the girls.”

“Girls?” asked Michael.

“Oh I didn't mention?” Andrei slapped his forehead, “Sorry. This is also why we need to find Donovich, I mean, your Alexis. He was seen in the company of four women –”

“Was my Annette one of them,” interrupted Michael, his voice pitched.

“I don't know Mikhail,” Andrei shook his head, then his face lit up. “But the good news is all the women were Asian. Maybe one of them is your Annette.”

“If Annette is with Alexis, then she is not with that…Kashin,” deduced Michael, hopefully.

Andrei understood Michael's overriding concern and he nodded, “Yes, I'm sure she is not with Kashin. Mikhail, as I said he has gone underground. He is a loner, but some say he has a mother who lives in a poor suburb –”

“Mother?” Michael's eyes narrowed, “Andrei, we must find the mother –”

Chapter 17

The prime minister, in his mid-fifties leaned forward over the coffee table, his elbows forming a bipod on his gangly knees, his chin resting on his hands. The PM and his deputy prime minister, a man in his late seventies and a thirty-five year veteran in the Singapore cabinet, contemplated their options.

“So, the Russians and Indonesians want to inject three hundred million US dollars into our property market. The injection might look small but not when it all goes into districts 9, 10 and 11. As it is, the condominiums in these districts are changing hands in the secondary market at 2,500 dollars a square foot. This injection will take it over the 3,000-dollar mark. We can't contain the knock-on effect on the mass market HDB flats,” summarised the PM.

“What if we get them to channel the money into infrastructure?” re-joined the DPM.

“Channelling the money into infrastructure is a nice theory, but our finance people seem to think otherwise,” explained the PM. “As it is we're approaching near zero interest rates and the Americans are intent on sailing out of this recession on a sea of crisp new greenbacks. If the developers borrow US dollars from the

Indonesians, they would repay in US dollars. I wouldn't want to hold US dollars, so why would the Indonesians? Like them, I too would bet on property.”

“That's correct,” agreed the DPM. “The stock market is teetering and though we have a bubble in the property market, long term it's still the best bet. We need to deflate the bubble but in a disciplined and calibrated fashion.”

The PM sipped his sugarless tea and continued, “National Development has contingency plans to cool the market. Within a week they can dust off, update and roll out the measures.”

“That's good to know,” remarked the DPM, turning to glance at Reginald Lee, who was also present. “Perhaps we can extract a stiffer price from Moscow, much more than reams of emails and reports on IndoTel.”

“What do you have in mind?” asked the PM. “They've already conceded not to equip the Sukhoi's with over-the-horizon radar. This'll ensure that our F15's retain air superiority.”

Again, the DPM turned to regard Lee, “According to Agent Shield's report, in return for letting the Indonesians park the money here, the Russians have also got Jakarta to agree to our demand that the Sukhoi's would not be deployed on Batam or Sumatra but confined to Semarang and further east. That gives us a clear twelve minutes warning of any approaches, eighteen minutes with our AWAC assets.”

“Well, our Australian friends have also requested our help. Canberra doesn't want the Indonesians to acquire Russian air-to-air refuelling capability,” the PM referred to notes from his Minister of Defence. “Even with drop-tanks the Sukhoi's don't have the range to reach Brisbane or even Darwin. But with air refuelling…”

“And I suppose in return Canberra would look favourably to renew the training agreements for our SAF. You know we need those training grounds in Queensland for our Leopard tanks and artillery.”

“Yes, they've also agreed to renew the agreements to cover all the other training grounds and airspace across the continent,” the PM nodded and breathed out slowly, letting the issues soak in. “If it's not the economy, it's about national security.”

“Actually they're one and the same,” said the DPM. “Good, we're agreed then. We allow the three hundred million in, introduce new rules to dampen the property bubble and exact more concessions from Moscow.”

The PM and DPM turned to Reginald Lee. The permanent secretary got the hint and pulled out a report from a sheaf of papers,

“According to the information we received from Agent Shield, the final price the Russians paid for IndoTel was
ginormous
. No way could Tengli have matched that and remain on the right side of commercial sanity.”

“We're looking at a huge laundry machine here,” the PM blew out his cheeks as he shook his head.

“Yes and meanwhile the self-appointed business gurus, especially the Oriental Review in Hong Kong, have a field day tearing into Tengli's failed business initiative,” added the DPM.