Code Shield by Eric Alagan Page B

receivers,” he said as he ripped open the bubble wraps. “One is for you, one for us.” He handed the gadget to Tara.
    â€œUs?” asked Benjamin.
    â€œI have the Volvo from the car pool at my disposal,” announced Lowe. He spread a fold-in grid map of Moscow on the table.
    â€œThe transmitter has a radius of one kilometre, strong signals and the latest American model. No triangulation required, works more like ground radar and it bounces signals off cloud cover – perfect in this country. Battery life is seventy-two hours.” Lowe pulled back his sleeve and made a show of studying his watch, a frown on his face. “There’re more than thirty hours remaining. Ms Banks will cover this sector west of the Leningrad Highway and I shall cover this, east of the highway.” He straightened up,
    â€œWe locate, observe and trail them to the buyer, nothing more. That’s our target – the buyer.” Then with a smirk, “We don’t have jurisdiction here but Ms Banks shall call on her Russian friends to make the arrests at the appropriate time. Any questions?”
    Tara had a smile on her face but said nothing. Benjamin caught the smile but stifled his own when the assistant director turned on him,
    â€œLet’s move. You’re driving.” Lowe tossed the keys to Benjamin, who snatched it in mid-air with his left hand.
    They headed for the covered car park behind the building, with Lowe strutting ahead, bursting with enthusiasm.
    â€œInstant-coffee culture, the man wants to right the world’s wrongs today and preferably by close of business,” whispered Benjamin as he fell back.
    â€œMore like trying to make up for yesterday, when he peed in his pants,” said Tara under her breath.
    â€œDo we tell the white horse?” a mischievous smile on Benjamin’s face.
    â€œWhite horse? Oh, I get it. Nope!” winked Tara. “He’s still under toilet training.”
    After three hours of cruising, Tara picked up the first faint signals and made several turns before the signal grew stronger.
    She gave Benjamin the coordinates and about an hour later, they pulled up beside each other in a deserted industrial estate.
    The estate was one of several dozen that lay in disuse on the northern part of Moscow, between the Third Ring Road and the MKAD. Many of the buildings, with snow thick roofs, were former munitions factories and research institutes, hastily converted for commercial use following the collapse of the Soviet Union and just as hastily abandoned after the first few years of disastrous experiments with market economy.
    â€œThe signals are coming from the third workshop after the first right turn ahead, along Dmitrovsky Street,” Tara’s voice brisk, the sharp wind snatching away her words.
    Lowe had turned whiter than his normal pale complexion. He rubbed his gloved palms vigorously and his voice quivered as he spoke,
    â€œWe stake out the place, you take the first shift and we’ll relieve you at midnight.”
    Tara ignored him, slipped into the backseat of the Volvo and patted Benjamin. He engaged gear, gave a cursory glance to his left and headed the car towards the junction. A thin blanket of snow lined both sides of the street, bleeding runnels of water onto the black tarmac.
    â€œWhat’re you doing?” Lowe demanded furiously.
    â€œBen, turn down that goddam heater, it’s like a sauna in here,” Tara’s voice terse.
    â€œWith pleasure,” replied Benjamin.
    â€œWhat’re you doing? Stop I say,” the CNB man blurted in protest.
    â€œI’m not about to waste my time staking out an empty workshop, especially one which the Mafiya will never return to.” Tara pressed her face to the window, scanning every door and window along the deserted street.
    After two passes, Benjamin parked along Dmitrovsky Street, about fifty metres from the target workshop and got out of the car. Soft