Code Shield by Eric Alagan Page B

makeover. Away from the city centre, the now swanky neighbourhood escaped the perennial traffic snarl that afflicted life in Moscow.
    Vehicles pulled up to the valet counter outside the club and disgorged their occupants who walked briskly with their trophy women into the nightspot. The car jockeys would then drive the, almost invariably, exquisite cars to the parking lots that lined the back of the building. The ubiquitous queues that formed outside so-called hip nightspots were absent. The bouncers allowed in only members and member-escorted guests.
    â€œDid you inform the white horse of tonight’s stakeout?” asked Benjamin.
    â€œYou mean Lowe? Nope,” Tara spoke under her breath. “He has a cocktail reception this evening, claimed to have another engagement after that.”
    â€œAnother reception?” remarked Benjamin. “The white horse seems to have something on whenever we’re on the sharp end of the business.”
    â€œJust as well as he’ll only slow us down.” Tara spoke in whispers but her attention remained focused on the neon lit building across the road.
    â€œWhat makes you think Sobyanin will turn up here?” asked Benjamin.
    â€œMy contacts reported that his goons checked out this joint two days in a row, made sure the place was sterile. That’s when they noticed Donovich and his Asian bevy.”
    Even with Benjamin, Tara was careful whenever she spoke of her sources – no hint of gender and always in the plural.
    A white 4-door Porsche Cayenne pulled up and occupied one parking space in front of the Nirvana. Four men, swathed in heavy black overcoats, got out. The bouncers straightened as the men walked up. After exchanging a few words, three of them went into the nightclub. The fourth man stood outside with the bouncers, lit a cigarette and looked expectantly down the road.
    Benjamin turned to her. In reply to his unspoken question, Tara whispered, “Simonov’s goons.”
    Police Lieutenant General Boris Simonov, the Police Chief, was responsible for public order and safety and the burgeoning crime statistics. His influence extended deep into the Mafiya realms. He knew them enough to curtail their activities to acceptable levels. When elections loomed or when Moscow hosted important international events, crime dropped, miraculously picking up after the events. The man could literally turn on and off the crime-tap. Even politicians sought his protection if not counsel.
    Tara peered through her night vision binoculars while Benjamin constantly scanned their surroundings: using the rear view, wing and vanity mirrors to keep the blind spots in his sight.
    The men outside the club recognised the approaching vehicles and stiffened. Two black cars glided unobtrusively to a halt several car lengths away from the club entrance.
    These heralded two large gleaming black saloons, a Bentley and a Mercedes S Class, which sailed to the club entrance. Doors opened and shut smartly and tall figures surrounded the even taller figure of Boris Simonov who towered six feet eight.
    There was another man, diminutive, reaching only the shoulders of his companions. He spoke to the towering Russian who leaned down. Simonov waved his hands expressively in that deceptively genial manner that Tara recognised was his affected style.
    â€œI don’t believe it,” whispered Tara. She lowered the binoculars, and then peered through it again, muttering, “The fully bloomed idiot, I don’t believe it.”
    Benjamin stared at the nightclub; it was too far and too dark to make out the figures. “Well, tell me what you see and perhaps I too can join you in not believing it.”
    The party disappeared into the dim innards behind the club doors.
    Tara lowered the binoculars, lost in thought for a moment, then snapped out quickly. “Lowe, I think I saw Colin Lowe with Simonov’s party.”
    They fell silent, trying to understand the full