Code Shield by Eric Alagan Page A

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