Code Shield (20 page)

Michael discarded any thoughts of violence or hurting the old woman. A second thought occurred, though more palatable, he still hated himself. But the thought of Annette, what she might be enduring, hardened his heart.

In the late hours of that night, Michael waited for the routines to unfold: the fat woman in house number seventeen walked her dog and the man in house number twenty-four returned drunk and brutal, and started a shouting match with a woman, probably his wife. The people acted as predicted and by the time the clock struck ten, the street fell dead silent.

Michael crept to house number fifteen, carrying with him two cans of turpentine. He placed the rubbish bag, which the elderly woman had brought out before retiring for the night, on the staircase. Splashing turpentine over the bag, he lit a match and bolted.

Reaching his car, he turned, expecting to see a small inferno. Nothing. The fire had not taken hold and the veranda remained in darkness.

Michael crept back, looking nervously about him. He lit another match, cupping it in his hand and holding the flame to the rubbish bag. The black plastic melted, receded quickly and collapsed into itself.

Before Michael realised what was happening the bag engulfed in flames, throwing him back in fright, “Whoa!”

He reached his car in a brisk walk and turned back. This time the fire had spread quickly and he heard soft crackling and popping sounds.

“Horrors,” he gulped. “What if it spreads too fast and traps the woman?”

Michael punched the number for the fire service, which he had researched and retained in his cell phone. A gruff voice answered in Russian.

Michael started to report the fire in Russian, as he had rehearsed all afternoon, but panic overtook him and he blurted in English instead. The man on the telephone growled, getting angrier by the second. Michael switched and stuttered from Russian to English and back.

“
Pomogite
! (Help!)
Pozar
! (Fire!) On Danilova Pereulok,” he stammered.

Another voice came on the line, also male but spoke in English,

“Fire along Danilova Pereulok?” repeated the voice. “Yes, we already had an earlier call and our engines are responding.”

Michael nodded with relief and heard the wailing sirens in the distance. Houselights came alive down the length of the street. Dogs barked and voices rose.

He decided it would not be wise for an Asian face to linger in this neighbourhood. He ducked into his car and drove away just as the fire engines and police cars, with blue lights spinning furiously, turned the T-junction into the street.

Michael's attention was on the fire and he missed the grey Volvo. He also did not notice the dim light on the face of a cell phone that had come alive inside the grey car moments before the flames caught.

Chapter 31

“He actually set fire to the place?” Tara shook her head and smiled. Two days earlier, she and Benjamin had noticed the Asian man staking out the same house that interested them. They had digital pictures of him but Tara's contacts in the Russian agencies had been unable to identify the man. They had nicknamed him
Phantom
.

“Yes, but it worked,” reported Benjamin. “Guess who turned up?”

“Kashin?”

“Yes, mummy's boy came charging in the afternoon in his red Porsche. We followed him to an old folks' home where he checked in the old woman. Then he returned to his lair. I'm right now sitting across the street looking at his fourth floor apartment along Polyanka Street.”

“Well done Ben,” said Tara.

“Actually, you should thank the
Phantom
for it. He flushed out Kashin.” Then with a small smile, “What is
our
mummy's boy doing?”

“Oh, gracing another function as the guest of the Police Chief.”

“Good, keeps him out of trouble and out of our hair. Where're you, when can I expect you?”

“In another second,” said Tara as she tapped on the passenger window of the grey Volvo.

Benjamin shook his head with a sheepish smile, hit a button and unlocked the door. “My locating beacon?”

Tara slipped into the seat next to him, rubbed her hands and warmed her ears. “That's right, left my apartment an hour ago, followed you here. Where's The Phantom parked,” asked Tara.

“Five cars ahead of us,” Benjamin pushed out his chin. “The white Fiat.”

Tara's contacts had checked out the licence plate. They had traced it to the rental agency and the young man at the counter had produced the driver's particulars. But police checks had reportedly drawn a blank.

“Kashin?” asked Tara.

“Fourth floor, first window on the right.” Benjamin pointed to the faint light that escaped through a slit between the halves of the curtain. “I'm going to shut my eyes.”

Benjamin pulled his overcoat tightly around the hot water bladder placed on his chest, remained still and silent. An hour dragged by.

Tara noticed that Benjamin's eyes shut but he was awake. She asked at length, “How is it with Tania?”

“I can't continue to put her at risk. She kept me company most of the day today and slipped away an hour ago, morning shift at the hotel.” Benjamin unscrewed the thermos flask and took a sip of the extra strong coffee.

Back in Singapore, they could call on an army of people to stakeout but here in Moscow they ran literally one-man-operations and relied on anyone they trusted.

“She's agreed to relocate to Singapore, in fact looking forward to it. She does a credible job and with the hotel industry booming back home, she'll easily land a position there.”

“I can't imagine you settled down. Benjamin Logan, a married man, difficult to visualise it.”

“Who said anything about marriage?” Then turning to Tara, Benjamin asked, “What about you? The way you and Lowe are, he'll have you inspecting the cargo holds of bulk carriers shipping manure.”

“Not a chance.”

“Okay,” Benjamin conceded. “What're your plans then?”

They shared their silence, each mired in his or her thoughts.

Then Tara spoke, as much to herself as to Benjamin.

“When I was a kid, I went to Australia on holiday, farm stay.” Tara mused, “There was something about the vast open spaces, away from people. It started off as a great holiday –”

Benjamin grabbed a furtive glance, detected a small glint in her eyes. He reached and patted her hand, “What happened?”

Tara withdrew quickly from his touch, “No –”

“You can't keep bottling it up Tara, wouldn't work.”

Tara turned to her partner, her eyes now steely, making clear that she wanted the subject dropped.

“Okay, I'm sorry,” Benjamin shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Another boundary marker.”

“I'll take a nap now and relieve you in an hour's time,” Tara reclined the seat flat, folded her arms and closed her eyes.

Moscow nights in winter are deadly cold and did not have any night sounds, not even a cricket.

Tara dozed off and allowed herself to relive those weeks in the temperate climate of Australia, in a farm with a cynical name managed by a Mark Granger, a former British commando who had seen action in Cambodia.

Her pet Jack Russell, Johnny, had died, run over by a drunk behind the wheel of a truck. Tara had withdrawn, refused to speak or even show up when her parents buried the dog in their backyard. They thought she had taken it badly, grappling with her pain. They did not know that instead of pain or sorrow for the loss, she had felt nothing. She had been embarrassed that perhaps she did not love Johnny as much as he had loved her, always slathering her face with his joy.

When the school organised a farm stay in Western Australia, her parents had welcomed the break as the antidote she needed. They saw her off at the airport, not knowing they would never see each other again.

While the rest of the girls from the convent school preferred to hang out in town, ogling at boys, she preferred to help old man Granger in the farm. He was only fifty but at age fifteen, anyone above forty was
old
for her.

She would finish her chores and sit by the campfire, under the wide-open sky, marvelling at the inverted bowl spotted with coloured diamonds.

Granger was a strong earthy man. He had the rough mannerisms of a soldier commissioned in the field, unlike the polished gentlemen who spewed forth from the hallowed halls of Sandhurst.

But one night, he had downed a stipple too much as he subsequently apologised. He had started out with a,
‘Seeing that you're from Singapore and all…'

She remembered vividly that night and even more the tale Granger related.

‘I
knew O'Donnell well, more than well. We were mates and I was the best man at his wedding, lovely local Indian girl, Stella, but a little spoilt perhaps, loved the good life. She gave him a son, doted on the boy and loved him fiercely
.

‘It was ‘77 and the Khmer Rouge launched murderous raids across the Thai border. The Americans had their butts kicked out in ‘75 and had lost all appetite for Indochina
.

‘The Thais appealed for help and Singapore despatched their Gurkha battalion. Everything was hush-hush of course. The Gurkhas wore Thai army fatigues and shoulder patches. Called themselves The Forgotten Buggers.

‘O'Donnell was the commanding officer, and I led a platoon under him. We'd left the British Army in ‘68 when there was a general withdrawal of forces east of Suez you see, bloody Labour commies. Anyway, we offered our services to Singapore.'

Granger had continued, ‘They called it hot pursuit. The colonel always led from the front. There were eighty-five men in the company. Three days later, I crossed the border with me own lads and a team of Thai rangers. We found them blokes all right, bloody hell!

‘The Gurkhas had fought to the last man, great buggers, redoubtable. We found O'Donnell's body surrounded by twelve Khmer Rouge, all dead of course.'

His voice dropped, as he recalled those momentous times. ‘He'd been disembowelled but took his killers down before collapsing; bled to death me reckon, under the stifling humidity and sun.'

‘I've never heard of this,' Tara had protested, forgetting her age
.

‘No one has,' said the old man. ‘Officially, Singapore was never involved you see. Everything went under wraps. Official Secrets Act, they said. After that, we pulled our laddies out, confined them to observer duties.'

‘I hope the government took good care of all the families of the men,” Tara had said
.

‘Yes of course. Your government paid them as per the contract. Technically, the men were all mercenaries you see
.

‘Of course the money ran out quickly and Stella made her rounds to all the government agencies seeking financial aid. Your government was frugal, asked her to find a job but she'll have none of that. How could she, with a child and no real education or training. No childcare facilities back then. Her family, traditional Brahmins they were, outraged when she went to work in the bars and had completely disowned her when she married O'Donnell. She'd planned to migrate but when O'Donnell died
–

‘She felt betrayed, sour and embittered. Went back to the bars, met and remarried an out-of-job journalist, Lagoon or something. He heard her story and wrote a book about the Cambodian incident.'

Granger went into his cabin and returned with several old pictures of O'Donnell, his family and a copy of a hard cover book
.

‘There're no records, no acknowledgment of the sacrifices made, only a handful of photos, some medals and ribbons, and this book.'

Granger handed the book to her, entitled Gurkhali - The Lost Battalion
.

‘Keep it if you wish, I have another copy. Of course, your government banned the book. Not long after that, Stella died, disillusioned and resentful. Drinks and drugs, some reckon. Others thought she died of heartbreak, especially after her new husband left her. ANZAC was a shell by then and most of the British army families had departed. She lost her social support network. One never can tell what led her to cop it. She left behind her hatred for Singapore in her twelve-year-old boy who grew up in a home
.

‘Meanwhile, the battalion was disbanded and I got sent home, couldn't handle the crummy weather in Cheltenham and ended up here. Don't know what happened to the boy. Reckon he'll probably be somewhat older than you.'

Tara revisited the book several times, the most recent about two years ago after her secondment to Moscow. She had remembered the boy in the photo plates. He was wedged between his parents and had haunting good looks.

In Moscow, she had seen that look again. It took her a few weeks to place it but was still unsure. She had left the hard cover book in the convent in Singapore but managed to locate a copy in a British library and flown into London for a weekend to research the book.

Tara had been especially interested in learning of the copyright owner of
Gurkhali - The Lost Battalion
. She had returned to Moscow with one more piece of the puzzle for solving the IndoTel Affair.

It was almost three in the morning when a deep blue minibus pulled up at the corrugated door of the basement car park along Polyanka.

Tara and Benjamin peered through their night vision binoculars. They saw two Asian looking women in the minibus, driven by a big man. Tara took several pictures.

“Mr Kalashnikov.”

“Who?”

“The same mobster we met on the service road near the airport – Dmitri Karpov,” replied Tara.

From where they sat, all Tara and Benjamin could see was a faint glow come on, throwing a feeble light out the entrance and onto the short steep driveway. The man trudged up the slope and pulled the shutter down.

A few minutes later, a light came on in the fourth floor apartment, the second window from the right.