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Strait Flush Ch 17 Tuesday 1922
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Strait Flush Ch 17 Tuesday 1922 After a leisurely dinner and two Singapore Slings at the Hard Rock Cafe off Orchid Road, Tom settled into the comfort of his hotel room. The first program loaded into the hard drive was a general applications program with a variety of capabilities, including telecommunications and word processing. The second was a data transfer program famous for its ability to copy entire hard drives from one computer to another, including passwords, hidden files, and do so undetected. It also could tap into mainframe computers and scroll through files and retrieve any tagged by the original computer's operator. Both programs were loaded within fifteen minutes. Rossi ran some tests for the fine detailing and phoned the main number for the Orchid Road office. The call was routed to an answering service. Perfect. Tom fished his pocket for the number that Emma had given him and plugged his telephone cable into the port of his laptop, then dialed the modem of her computer. It rang immediately and linked, displaying an E-mail type of box format. Rossi tapped the sequence of keys on his laptop and studied the screen moments later. Her older processor and setup led one to believe that the unit worked on an older and smaller hard drive typical of those machines. It fit easily onto his drive, transferring within minutes. Rossi disconnected and began experimenting with the directories listed. An antique, he thought, no security to speak of, other than the routine password protection. The shell program allows a scan of the file; the security was usually on one of the startup files, so Rossi scanned the startup files according to the machine's configuration. The third file contained the identical security terminology and had one word in bold print. Back at the startup menu on a window screen, Rossi typed in the boldface word. Immediately the laptop's monitor went to an internal screen. 's play, thought Tom. He located several lists of directories and scanned the names of current businesses. Malagapa was listed in several files. Rossi read throughout the files, making notes on a hotel scratch pad of times, places and names. All of the deals seemed legitimate. A shipment of clothing to Sri Lanka. An inbound shipment of pipefittings, due in a few days from Japan. The common link was a local man in all of the deals who apparently oversaw all transactions of the operations. M. Ventura. Rossi checked the hotel room's telephone book for a listing on Ventura and located several, only two with a first name beginning with M. Matching the addresses with the city map, he jotted some notes and continued looking for additional information. After an hour of searching, Tom realized that the business agency had no information on the plane shipment, or anything else suspicious for that matter. Rossi transferred the files to several high-density discs and erased the data files, then stashed the laptop into his backpack. Locking the door behind, he went to his car to check the addresses of his hunch. The first address was in the southwestern part of the island, in Jurong West. He drove the Pan Island Expressway through Bukit Timah in the dark, the lights from the ten-story apartments marking waypoints westward. He turned off on Jalan Boon Lay Road, a wide four-lane heading directly south. After a quick map session, he turned off into a neighborhood of four-story condo-style apartments. He located the address and pulled the car to the curb. The house was similar to its neighboring buildings, whitewashed plaster, green balconies, surrounded by a six-foot masonry fence featuring a green-painted iron gate. There was a call box at the gate with eight buttons. In the purest tradition of the Singaporean regard to crime, all eight buttons had the corresponding names displayed in eight small windows. M.Ventura was the third. Tom scanned the grounds, a patch of grass with flowers and bushes native to the island, a bicycle near the stairwell. No weapons leaning against the doorway. He noted the types and licenses of the cars parked nearby, but knowing the high tax paid for personal cars and the ease of public transportation, it was of the greatest likelihood that M. Ventura didn't own a vehicle at all. No additional information could be gleaned from the area. Tom figured he'd check out the second address before jumping into the middle of a very large problem. Pulling the Bluebird back into the Jalan Boon Lay Road, he drove back to the Pan Island Expressway and headed east toward the airport. He turned south on Kallang Bahru Road and crossed the Kallang River, a twenty-meter wide concrete-sided canal that was home to several bonka-style boats. Turning south on Lavender Street, Tom rechecked the map and parked the Bluebird. After surveying the street, he hopped out and pulled on the pack containing the laptop and notebook. The street was in a seedier part of town, mostly Chinese businesses and older two-story buildings. The decor was faintly Victorian, the original buildings probably dated back to the turn of the century. There were cast iron window fences on the upstairs windows, most were lined with wooden shutters. The majority of the businesses were blue-collar, hardware distributors and welding shops. The sidewalks were covered with a wooden awning. Walking toward the source of light and sound, it became apparent to Rossi that this may be the type of atmosphere that his M. Ventura thrived in. He rechecked the address and located the building. No door buzzers. No names. The address was probably correct. It was a two-story building, a window light was on in the upstairs level. The street level consisted of a large garage door, a smaller foot traffic doorway, and a window between them. Peering into the window disclosed a dusty office in the dim light from the fluorescent lamp across the street. The window itself was dirty, its interior sill crowded with rusty nuts and bolts. The lock on the garage door was new, tire tracks leading in and out appeared recent. Tom counted the number of buildings from the end of the street and decided to check out the back. Around the corner was a back alley that paralleled the street, unpaved and covered on one side by a large water puddle from a recent rain. Two trucks were parked along the side of the alley, their silhouettes visible from the light of the street lamp on the other end of the alley. Tom counted the buildings and determined the rear of M.Ventura' s address. It was narrower than its neighbors, allowing for a small parking lot facing a rear door. There was a dark-colored Nissan sedan parked facing the door, the building's upstairs lights were on. Rossi moved cautiously and checked the doors of the Nissan, the driver's side was locked, and he jotted the license plate as he moved around the car. The passenger's door opened. He quickly moved to turn off the dome light switch and kept one eye on the upstairs windows. The interior of the car was clean but smelled of diesel smoke. There were no papers on the seats or any other identifying signs. The glove box was open, Tom checked inside. A map of the city. A penlight that didn't work. An owner's manual. Gas receipts for a Miguel Ventura, Rossi stuffed one in his shirt pocket. Four pens. A vehicle registration certificate. Asian Mountain Development was the owner. The address was listed as the building in front. Finding nothing else, Rossi replaced the contents except for the gas receipt and turned the dome lamp back on, then silently closed the door. The upstairs lights were still on, Rossi jumped when a shadow passed by the window of one nearest to him. He surveyed the back of the building, slipping into a shadow of the adjacent business. The building didn't appear to be any type of a residence, chances were that Miguel Ventura lived elsewhere. Tom scanned the street and satisfied with its solitude, leaned against the building to catch a glimpse of its occupant. After twenty minutes, one of the upstairs lights turned off. Rossi checked up and down the street, hoping M. Ventura didn't walk to work through the front door. He heard a door slam and noticed an upstairs half-window sway slightly from the change in room air pressure. A minute later he heard the downstairs door begin to open and turned to run back the direction he entered. He passed the rear of the parked truck as the Nissan's engine cranked to life and turned his head just enough to see the headlights switching on. He ducked around the front of the truck and hopped up onto the bumper, crouching low and hanging onto the windshield wiper arm of the cab over truck. As the Nissan sped by, Tom squeezed between the truck's fender and the wall of the adjacent building, noticing the glasses and haircut of the driver of the car. He remained motionless on the bumper, still trying to visualize the driver's features. The car turned right and sped away. Tom stepped back onto the pavement and rechecked the alley. Did Ventura lock the door behind him, or was there someone else in the building? He cat-walked back to the rear door. Locked. He stepped back and surveyed the windows for several minutes. No sounds or shadows. So far, so good. He quickly walked around the corner to the front of the building and checked the door. Locked, of course. He headed back to the alley and stepped up to the rear door. Picking up several small pebbles, he tossed one against the lighted windowpane and slipped into the shadow of the nearest building. No movement from inside. Another pebble went unnoticed. Tom checked up and down the street one last time and located a broom handle. He checked the shadows and found a plastic trashcan with a lid and positioned it beneath the open window. Climbing on top of the can, he was less than a meter from the open window. He pushed gently on the window and felt a wave of nervousness cross his body when it eased open. He silently set the broom handle down and repositioned the backpack on his shoulders. I'm getting too old for this, thought Tom, as he crouched and leapt upward toward the sill. His fingers caught the wooden frame, Rossi grunted as his elbows and stomach slammed into the wall under the window. The trashcan tipped over in the jump, heightening the urgency for success. Tom grimaced as he pulled his large frame up to the open window and jutted an elbow in. The interior was still quiet with a strange feeling of alienation. Tom located the latch for the second half of the window and swung both doors open, then forced his body through the opening. He landed clumsily, then looked around quickly to gain his bearings. The upstairs may have been a residence in its former life, now crowded with boxes and small crates. Tom searched for any type of weapon to no avail. One large room served as an office, complete with sofa and computer desk. Rossi switched the desktop computer on and resumed his search. The upstairs was otherwise empty, save for odds and ends in each of its four rooms. All of the boxes were dusty and showed little possibility of hiding any part of the weapons load. The stairway led to a darkened garage. Rossi eased down the stairwell, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark slowly. The lower half of the house appeared to be largely a garage. The air was thick with the smell of oily dirt and grease, similar to the shop in Dubai several lifetimes ago. The garage contained several boxes, mostly cardboard, scattered about the floor. A doorway led into an interior office. Tom looked through the open door and recognized the room that he inspected from the street earlier. He closed the door and located a light switch. The room came to a harsh light as the fluorescent overhead bulbs flickered and hummed. More boxes. Tom checked several and grunted. Nothing. He made a note of the warehouse addresses listed on the boxes and flipped the light switch off again. Upstairs, he searched the rooms more thoroughly and made notes of locations and contents. The filing cabinets in the office were locked, the desk was unlocked but sparse in clues. He turned to the computer. It was a late model, years ahead of the business agency's clunker. He pulled the laptop from the backpack and powered the system up. The desktop computer had similar password protection which Tom bypassed before connecting his own. He checked through several business files, then switched to the root directory and connected his laptop to the serial port. Tagging several directories to copy, Rossi guessed at the business files and loaded his hard drive almost to capacity. His disconnected and compared the directories, making notes of the uncopied files and wishing he'd bought a larger drive. Tom searched the files for clues. Many of the addresses in Singapore went to Filipino-sounding names, giving additional addresses in the Philippines. Other addresses were in Thailand, Malaysia, Vietnam, Taiwan and Sumatra, as well as several Middle East locations. Tom noted that two of the loaders used in Bahrain were listed with addresses in Manama. More addresses. Hundreds of names with addresses in the Philippine Islands, each given a contact number. Tom pondered the data for a minute. The computer apparently was a database of NPA operatives and sympathizers. Dangerous stuff. He switched off the system and checked the area for disturbances before leaving. He relatched the window and silently crept downstairs. The back door was secured by a deadbolt, the front by a spring-retracting bolt. Rossi checked the street through the window and exited quickly. He trotted around the corner and replaced the trashcan, then hurried back to the car. Tossing the laptop into the back seat, he cranked the engine and sped off into the night.  |
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carry on jim...im still reading... Love..Faith ..and Hope..
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