Empire Builders Page 10

  FIFTEEN

  IT WAS A gray day in Ulan Bator, although by craning his neck and looking up high, Altan Lodoi could see that the sky above was the perfect clear blue for which Mongolia was famous. Tourists flew in from all over the world to see that brilliant cloudless sky and the endless desolation of the barren Gobi . Too much of Mongolia ’s economy depended on tourism to suit Lodoi. Whole Dans dressed up in costumes out of the Great Khan’s era and lived in round feltgers like nomads while the foreigners taped pictures and called the mobile tents yurts, their Russian name. All the days were gray here in the capital, he thought as he stared out the window. Five million people have crowded into the city. Their automobiles and heaters and cooking fires draped Ulan Bator in a perpetual canopy of choking, foul-smelling smog. He wrinkled his nose, even though inside the capitol building the air was filtered and cool and almost as lovely as a spring day out in the grasslands of his home. Altan Lodoi was the nation’s Minister for the Environment, the youngest member of the powerful inner cabinet, and the least likely to be listened to. “His Excellency the President!” called the cabinet secretary as the door to the old man’s office swung open. Jamsrangyn tottered in, a little bald man with a perpetual one sided smile caused by a stroke that had nearly killed him more than a year ago. But the President of the Mongolian Republic was as tough as they came, physically. The only visible reminders of his stroke were the smile and the slightly uneven stumbling of his gait. “Be seated, gentlemen,” he said as he took the slightly raised high-backed padded chair at the head of the gleaming conference table. Lodoi and the four other members of the inner cabinet took their customary chairs, Lodoi at the foot of the table. Each of the men wore Western-style business suits. Even though Lodoi yearned for the old days of legend, it would not have occurred to him to wear anything else. The secretary sat himself slightly behind the President, his Japanese digital recorder on his lap. “I call this meeting to order,” said the President, slurring the words only slightly. “Fill in the proper time and date, Hatgal,” he told his secretary. The five ministers seated around the table used both their family and given names, a custom adopted from their neighbors. The President, however, stuck with the older Mongol tradition and allowed people to address him only by one name. His secretary followed suit, a small affectation but an annoying one. President Jamsrangyn turned to his Minister of Energy, a lean and bony dour-faced former engineer. “Oyun,” said the President, “I believe you have good news for us—for a change.” The others laughed, even the Energy Minister. All except Lodoi. As Minister for the Environment, he knew he would have to speak out against Energy’s recommendations, and that the rest of the inner cabinet would hate him for what he had to say. “Very good news,” said Energy. “For a change,” he added, with a rare smile. “All the results of our test cores and preliminary mining samples confirm that the Altai deposits are enormous. We can be exporting coal to China and the Russian Federation within two years,” “The price of coal on the world market is climbing steadily,” said the Minister of Commerce. “Predictions for the next two years?” the President asked. “Coal will increase in value as the price of oil increases. And oil prices are climbing steeply as global oil reserves continue to be depleted.” Lodoi raised his hand to be recognized, but the President instead asked the Foreign Minister, “Will the Global Economic Council enforce a limit on the price of coal?” The Foreign Minister, sleek and overweight, with greased-back hair and manicured fingernails, said smoothly, “Even if they do, it will be at a higher figure than the world price today.” Lodoi waved his hand this time, but the President continued to ignore him by asking the Energy Minister to continue his report. Energy went back to extolling the treasures of the new coal deposits that had been discovered. Unable to control his growing anger, Lodoi interrupted, “What is the sulfur content of this new coal?” The Energy Minister stopped in the middle of his presentation, blinked several times. Without turning his face away from the President he said, “Sulfur content is about the same as our older coal deposits to the north.” “In other words,” Lodoi snapped, “high sulfur, high pollution.” The former engineer finally turned to face him. “The sulfur can be removed by scrubbers.” “If the users go to the expense of installing scrubbers in their power plants.” “We use scrubbers.” “Yes, and look how much good it does us!” Lodoi angrily waved a hand toward the window. The President glared down the table at his Minister for the Environment. “What does it matter to us if those who buy our coal use scrubbers or not? Let them foul their own nests if they want to, it is of no concern to us.” Jumping to his feet, Lodoi pleaded with the older men, “Don’t you see? Can’t you understand? It does matter to us! Even with scrubbers, coal-burning is turning our city into a cesspool. Cases of asthma, emphysema, tuberculosis and even lung cancer are rising faster than our medical facilities can handle them? “That’s not true!” the Foreign Minister snapped. “And even if it was, such tales should not be told where foreigners could hear them.” “It’s worse than that,” Lodoi said, inwardly surprised at the pain and sorrow in his voice. He wanted to sound strong; to himself he sounded like a crying old woman. “No matter who burns the coal, no matter where it is burned—it adds to the greenhouse effect. It makes the world hotter. Don’t you realize that the climate is already The Foreign Minister chuckled. “Yes. In a few more years we’ll be able to grow rice in the Gobi .” “And build seashore resorts with the profits from our coal sales,” laughed the Minister of Commerce. “We’ve got to stop burning coal!” Lodoi insisted. “And oil, too. All the fossil fuels are destroying our global environment. We must stop exporting coal-” “Never!” snapped the President. “Our coal exports are a major source of foreign income. With the .new Altai deposits, coal revenues will top our income from tourism and all other foreign trade. We cannot afford to stop exporting coal and we will not do so. Never.” “But the greenhouse ...” “That’s a problem for our grandchildren to worry about,” said the President. Everyone around the table agreed, except for the one man who understood the problem. You’ve done a great job of alienating anybody who can help you, Dan told himself as he waited impatiently to get out of the OTV. Jane was sitting stiffly in her seat, looking anywhere but at him. The cramped little spacecraft had finally landed at Alphonsus. Dan could hear through the open hatch of the flight deck the captain going through the landing procedures checklist with the ground crew. The access tunnel had been rolled out and connected to the OTV’s airlock hatch. Now they were checking the air pressure and the integrity of the hatch seal. All done remotely; the ground crew remained in the safety of their underground offices and teleoperated the machinery out on the open lunar surface. “Check. Air pressure in the green. Cracking the hatch now.” The copilot slid gracefully down the ladder in the low lunar gravity and went to the hatch built into the side of the passenger deck. “Hold your breath,” she said over her shoulder, with a wink. She pulled the hatch open. A puff of air sighed into the spacecraft. It smelled fresh and clean after more than eighteen hours in the cramped compartment. Dan had phoned his office the instant the OTV had touched down and made hard-wire connections with the Alphonsus spaceport. Now a quartet of worried-looking men stood at the hatch to the terminal as he and Jane made their way through the ribbed plastic of the access tunnel in the stalking, long-striding walk of one-sixth g. The two younger men wore standard lunar garb: single-piece coveralls, color-coded by job specialty. Dan saw that these two wore the policeman blue of Astro’s security department. The other two, older, grimmer-faced, were in identical business suits: pearl gray cardigan jackets over white turtleneck shirts, with sharply creased slacks of charcoal gray. The midlevel executive’s uniform, Dan thought sourly. He himself was in faded old coveralls that had once been forest green. Jane was wearing the business suit she had come to Tetiaroa in, beige slacks, tan jacket and off-white blouse. “Welcome, Mr. Randolph!” said the taller of the two executives. Dan scanned his memory and came up with the man’s name: Hubert Peel. Bert stuck out his ha
nd and tried to smile bravely. He was several centimeters taller than Dan, but his gut bulged unheroically. Dan shook hands with him and with the other guy, shorter, balding, his round moon face cut in half by a flowing luxurious dark moustache. Harold Schmidt, Dan recalled. “This is President Scanwell,” Dan introduced, “the American representative to the Global Economic Council. Madam President will want to arrange transportation back Earthside immediately.” Each man shook hands with Jane and mumbled his own name, seemingly embarrassed to meet a former President—and one of the enemy. Then they started toward the conveyor-belt people mover that led to the main dome of the A1phonsus complex. “I wish you had let us have some advance warning of your arrival, Mr. Randolph. All hell’s broken loose here,” Bert said. “I can imagine. Where’s Kate Williams?” “She went back Earthside a couple days ago,” said Harry, scurrying to keep up with the rapid pace Dan was setting. The two security youngsters had taken Jane in hand, literally; unused to the lunar gravity, she had stumbled and almost fallen. Now the two young men held her arms and helped her along. Dan glanced once over his shoulder and saw that she was in good hands. Then he turned his attention back to his two aides. “There’s a GEC team on its way here,” Bert was explaining. “We’ve already received legal notification that the GEC is taking over control of the entire corporation.” Harry said, “GEC teams have been hitting every one of our Earthside offices. It’s like police raids.” “Or a hostile takeover,” Bert said. “Very hostile,” said Dan. “We were told we’re not supposed to have any further dealings with you,” Harry added. “Not even talk to you.” Dan grinned at him. “You’re not obeying an official GEC order?” “Shit, boss, you’re the guy we work for.” “Not for much longer,” Dan said ruefully. “They’ve got me by the balls.” “The GEC’s really taking over?” Harry seemed aghast. “But they can’t do that! They don’t know how to run this operation.” “Doesn’t matter to those double-damned bureaucrats. They’ve got the law on their side, it looks like.” They reached the sliding way and stepped onto it. Still Dan kept up the rapid pace. Jane and her escorts fell farther behind. “What’re we gonna do?” Harry asked. “Get my legal staff together and see what grounds we have for fighting them. And call a teleconference of the heads of each of the Big Seven.” “That’ll take some time,” Bert said. “They’re all busy people.” “We don’t have time! Get them together on the phone. Open links, we won’t need scrambling or secure lines. Just do it now. We’ve only got a few hours.” Both men nodded in unison. “Right, boss.” By the time Dan entered his office, his one human secretary rushed to him, a stricken look on her fashion model’s sculpted features. “Thank god you got here!” she gasped. “We have just received notice that a GEC legal team is on its way from Paris with a warrant for your arrest!” Dan breezed past her and into his private office. She hurried behind him. “What charge?” he asked as he went to the minibar. “Kidnapping? Dan huffed as, kneeling, he opened the minibar and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s green label. “Is that all? I thought they’d try to stick me with mass murder and kiddie rape, at the very least.” The secretary did not crack a smile. “Dan, kidnapping falls under the World Court ’s terrorism acts. If they convict you, you could be executed!” “Yeah,” he said, pouring a healthy slug of the sour-mash whiskey into a tumbler made of lunar crystal. “That would save us all a lot of trouble, wouldn’t it?” His secretary had been with him for four years, a new record for a man who had a reputation for bedding his hired help and then I getting rid of them. Her name was Tamara Duchamps, and she had been a fashion model in Paris , where her smoldering Ethiopian beauty and flowing dark hair had set photographers and magazine editors into near-frenzy. But she had been intelligent enough to see that modeling was a dead end to all but the very few who allied themselves sexually to the high and powerful. A woman of thoroughly independent mind, she left the fashion industry altogether and entered the world of business. Within a year she was Dan Randolph’s office manager and irreplaceable assistant. Her title was “secretary,” but she knew that the title meant little. Her boss knew it too, which was more important. She was aware of Dan Randolph’s reputation; she evaded his early efforts, even though they seemed rather gallant to her. To her surprise,Randolph respected her caution. Everyone else in the office told her that once he had slept with her she would be transferred far away. They took bets on when the inevitable would happen. Now, four years later, all bets were off. “Dan,” she said, in her exotically flavored British English, “this is not something that you can talk your way out of. I have checked with the legal department and they are totally off the wall. They do not know what to do!” He plunked himself in his comfortable desk chair, took a sip of the whiskey, and leaned back far enough to put his feet on the desk. He still wore the sandals he had taken to Tetiaroa. “Tamara, honey, never ask a lawyer what you should do. They don’t know. Their brains are so stuffed with crap that they can’t find their way across the street without a court order. You tell a lawyer what you want him to do. Or her,” he added, his face hardening. “Kate Williams has betrayed you,” Tamara said, looking angry at the thought. “And I never laid a glove on her,” Dan mused. “Maybe if I had been more persistent she wouldn’t have done this to me. Hell hath no fury, you know.” Tamara shook her head. “She would have cut your testicles off, one way or the other.” “Pleasant thought.” Suddenly exasperated, Tamara nearly shouted at him, “So what are you going to do? You cannot just sit there drinking! There is a squad of GEC people on its way here to put you in jail!” With his free hand, Dan pointed past her shoulder. “Here comes my kidnapping victim.” Jane walked cautiously into the office, like a woman on a tight rope. The two security men hovered beyond the door, in the outer office. Before Jane could say a word, Dan told his secretary, “Tamara, please arrange transportation for President Scanwell back to Paris —or wherever else she wants to go.” Jane looked the younger woman up and down as she made her way past Tamara and sank gratefully into one of the clear plastic, foam-cushioned chairs in front of Dan’s desk. On Earth, the chair would have been too fragile to bear an adult’s weight; on the Moon, it bent only slightly as Jane sat on it. “Did I hear correctly?” Jane asked, her voice calm, subdued. “You’re about to be arrested?” Dan nodded. “For kidnapping you.” “That falls under the terrorism laws,” Tamara added. “This is very serious,” said Jane. Dan grinned crookedly. “Will you testify on my behalf at my trial? Assuming that Malik allows me to have a trial?” “Of course you’ll have a trial!” With a shrug, Dan said, “I could always have a fatal accident while I’m in custody.” “Nonsense.” “So, assuming I come to trial, will you testify on my behalf? Or against me?” “You did take me here against my wishes,” she said, with no hint of a smile. “Yeah, I suppose I did.” Tamara looked from Dan to Jane and back to her boss again. “You cannot just sit here! You must do something!” “What do you suggest?” Dan asked mildly. “I don’t know!” “Well, I do,” he said, getting up from his chair. “I’m going to my quarters and get some sleep.” “What?” “When the GEC goon squad arrives at the spaceport, wake me up. Ten to one, Kate Williams will be with them.” “Is that all you are going to do?” Tamara seemed on the verge of tears. Dan nodded. “And arrange transport for President Scanwell.” He came around the desk, bent over Jane and gave her a peck on the cheek, then waved to Tamara and left the two women in his office. Once in his quarters, though, Dan did not immediately go to sleep. First he went to his bedside phone. The display screen glowed a cheery yellow and showed in bright blue letters: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! WELCOME TO THE BIG 50