hours at the airport. You'll travel under an assumed identity, of course.'
'Of course.' And Chung was still grinning his delight when Trask broke the connection…
Chung wasn't the only one who was met at the airport in the wee small hours. Premier Gustav Turchin was there first, along with his minder entourage. No one paid them much attention.
Russia was no longer a world superpower — in fact, she was rapidly crumbling, held under siege not by the world community but from within her own borders by political and ideological intractability, corruption, organized crime, and desperate poverty — but still Turchin was recognized as a world leader of sorts, if only a figurehead without any real power. In any case the Earth Year Conference wasn't diplomacy-conscious; it wasn't that kind of venue: the eco-summit's organizers were not so much standing on ceremony as requiring action.
Australia, now a republic and a very powerful nation in its own right, was still viewed as a 'clean' country and was determined to stay that way. While the all too frequent El Ninos and other ecological disasters were not caused by Australians, Australians were suffering their consequences. Now they and other like-minded — indeed right-minded — countries were considering real action, political, legal, and economic, against nations with bad-to- criminal ecological records. Since Russia was reckoned more than merely 'suspect' in this regard, and since Premier Turchin's attendance had been an eleventh-hour decision, no red-carpet arrangements had been made for him and his party.
A limo and driver had been arranged — which was literally the least that the organizers could do without being seen to be rude — but Trask had seen to it that these had been called off. This hadn't been the easiest thing in the world to arrange, but Trask's connections were second to none.
Diplomatic immunity saw the Russian Premier and his poker-faced party of four clone-like minders through the international airport's red-tape entry procedures without too much fuss, each man carrying his own spartan to modest luggage, until they were met in the arrivals lounge by a pair of'chauffeurs' who introduced themselves as 'Mr Smith' and 'Mr Brown'.
Swiftly escorted to the carport by Smith and Brown, Turchin was bundled into the back of the first limo… the doors of which immediately clicked shut and locked, all except the driver's door, which stood open. And before the jet-lagged, travel-disorientated quartet of grey-suits could even begin to object, Mr Smith slid into the driver's seat and drove away.
As the minders got into the second limo, one of them growled a concerned, heavily accented: 'Who was that man sitting in the front of the first car?'
'Er, that was Mr Smith,' said Mr Brown. 'I believe he's an important convention official. It seemed only right that a person of stature should welcome your Premier personally.'
'Oh, indeed, yes!' said the other, gruffly. And then, with a frown: 'But, er… wasn't the driver also Mr Smith?'
'That's correct,' said Brown, quickly recovering from his gaffe. 'We have an awful lot of Smiths, you know — and Browns, too, for that matter. Why, we even had a Prime Minister called Smith once over! And anyway, what's wrong with that? I imagine it's much the same with Ivans and Ivanovs in your country.'
'Yes, certainly. I understand. Pardon me. Ahem!' To cover his embarrassment, the minder coughed into a handkerchief.
Over the intercom Mr Brown chuckled and said, 'Let's face it, this is Australia! I mean, who did you think would be meeting you — Marx and Engels?'
'Oh, ha ha ha ha!' The minders laughed woodenly, almost in unison. 'No, not at all. Indeed, no!' But when they'd quietened down, their head man cautiously enquired, 'Er, how long will it be before we get to the hotel?'
'Eh?' said Mr Brown, grinning. 'Well, I don't really know, mate. All I know is I have orders to tail the car in front, and that's it. About an hour, at a guess — maybe more, maybe less. But now, if you'll excuse me, I have to concentrate on my driving.'
'Yes, of course. Just as long as you stay right behind the car in front.' But the car in front was already out of sight.
'Oh, don't worry, I won't lose him. No fear of that. But I do understand your concern. It must be very daunting, having to keep an eye on someone like Gustav Turchin. What, dodgy is he?'
But now Mr Brown's familiarity was getting to be too much. 'What's that?' the leading grey-suit said stiffly. 'Did you say dodgy? Something about keeping an eye on him? Now you listen to me, Mr…'
'… Well, that's what you are, aren't you?' Brown cut him off. 'I mean, just how long have you lot been special policemen anyway — or KGB as was — or whatever you call yourselves now?'
But suddenly the four were very tight-lipped, scowling at each other. And with his mouth twitching in one corner, and his eyes like black marbles, their leader slowly answered, 'We have been — ah, shall we say, specialists? — a lot longer, I fancy, than you have been a chauffeur, Mr Brown!'
At which Brown looked back, grinned, and then switched off the intercom…
Out on the airport service road, Trask got out of the front of the limo and into the back with Turchin. Then they shook hands, and Turchin hugged him in a typically Russian greeting. 'Funny, but we've never met person to person/ Turchin said then. 'Yet it seems I know you.'
'A meeting of minds, perhaps?' said Trask. And, 'Listen, I apologize for the subterfuge back there, but your friends—'
'No friends of mine!' Turchin cut him short. 'Indeed, they are only here to make sure I don't talk out of turn. But before you ask… yes, I do know about the despicable and destructive activities of our armed forces. They are like dogs fouling someone else's garden. But Trask, understand this: I am not the one who let those dogs off the leash. In today's Russia, my friend, they roam wild. Indeed, I've been lucky to hold on to what small degree of power still remains to me. But if I were to tell this conference everything I know, then even that would be lost, and our currently uneasy east-west relationship would slip a little bit farther downhill.'
Trask nodded. 'I understand, and it's much as I suspected. But Premier, you don't have to explain to me, not about that, at least. And I know that you won't be able — won't be allowed — to explain it to the conference. So, why are you here?' He fell silent, wanting to let the other do the talking. Maybe he would learn more that way.
'How long do we have?' Turchin inquired.
'The drivers are taking the scenic route,' Trask told him. I've asked for half an hour at least, an hour at most. In fact we could be at your hotel in twenty minutes, but I wasn't quite sure what degree of privacy you'd have later.'
'Half an hour?' Turchin nodded. 'Good. I'm sure it's going to be enough, but we'll need to get on. As for privacy later — huh!'
'My fault,' said Trask. 'I should have been more subtle. I didn't want to compromise you, but I simply didn't have time to make any other arrangements.'
'No,' Turchin shook his head. 'It's just how things are. I have made myself unpopular with certain people. If a country is rich and strong and its people are well fed, then maybe the man in charge can afford to be unpopular and do things his own way. Me, I can't afford to do anything my own way! The only reason I hold on is in the hope that things will change. But change is a long time coming.'
Trask had been studying him. The Russian Premier wasn't by any means the same man he'd known previously. Even though Trask had only ever seen him in television broadcasts or on-screen at E-Branch HQ, still he had radiated a lot more power than he did now. And Trask's mind took him back to a time all of five years ago, when he had negotiated a course of action on the Perchorsk Gate with this selfsame man:
Then, Gustav Turchin had seemed unshakeable. He had been a rock of a man. Blockily built, square of face and short in the neck — with a shock of black hair, bushy black eyebrows, dark, glinting eyes over a blunt nose, and an unemotional mouth — he had been a veritable bulldog. But even then the Premier had had problems. Coinciding with Trask's, they had served to bring the two together in a mutually beneficial understanding.
Now… there had been changes. Turchin was a lot thinner, grey-streaked where his hair was brushed back from his temples, less bright and sharp of eye; even his voice had lost something of its former authority. The intellect was still there — still lethal, Trask supposed — but the drive was failing. Seven years of political power, and nothing to show for it, had taken their toll of him.
But the way the Russian Premier was studying Trask… the head of E-Branch couldn't suppress a snort of self-derision. If he found Turchin changed, what must Turchin think of him? As if reading his mind, the other said:
