He spoke on, but Trotsky tuned him out. “We must have got someone or something vital,” he said. “The files alone will simulate Stalin’s paranoia; he might not even have duplicates around somewhere.”
Yar smiled. “We’d better transmit a report back to London,” she said. “As it happens, we have to keep working on building the underground army and keeping it underground, and that won’t be easy.”
Trotsky nodded grimly. The plan had sounded simple when he’d proposed it; build up a small strike force in Moscow and an underground anti-Stalin movement. Stalin had retaliated – Yar had introduced him to the concept of defensive peremptory retaliatory strikes – by making arrangements for more food, although the comfort of the citizens was hardly his first priority. The bigger the organisation they created, with cells all over Russia and the nationalists in Byelorussia and the Ukraine – the more chance of the NKVD breaking open a cell and using it to break the entire organisation wide open.
“We’re going to have to take care,” he said, and meant it. The British would be quite happy for Stalin to be quickly assassinated, but he knew better. If anything worthwhile were to come out of the armed camp that Stalin was turning Russia into, Trotsky would have to move carefully indeed.
He smiled to himself. If the game was easy, anyone could play.
Chapter Eleven: The London Conference
Heathrow Airport
London, United Kingdom
10th April 1942
In the future, the American president – the most powerful man in the world – would travel around in a massive airliner, escorted by an entire flight of stealth warplanes and even a number of warships. For the moment, President Truman and his entire entourage travelled in a British 747 airliner, escorted by a set of the new experimental jet fighters from America until it passed beyond their range, and met by a flight of Eurofighters as they neared Britain.
Truman watched with awe as the aircraft passed over London. In many ways, it brought the fact of the Transition home to him in ways that meeting people from the future hadn’t; London was far larger and wealthier than he remembered it from his past visit.
“Please fasten your seatbelts,” an attractive Indian woman said. There were too few planes for the President to have been given one of his own; they were needed for the trans-Atlantic run. The crew had been nervous about the guns his bodyguards carried, even though they had been granted permission by the British Government.
Truman stared as the ground came closer and closer, the field near the airport giving way to a lighted runway. The plane touched the ground, bounced once, and ran along the runway, slowing down to a stop.
“We’ve cleared the airport for you,” the stewardess said. Her badge read SUMRITA. “There’s going to be quite a press experience, though.”
“Thank you, Miss Sumrita,” Truman said. He smiled as she left him and the plane came to a halt. His bodyguards, already nervous in the futuristic surroundings, headed for the egress. He allowed himself one moment of relaxation, and then pulled himself to his feet.
“Once more into the breach,” he said, and walked slowly to the end of the plane. The hatch was opened and mated with a corridor; Sumrita was waiting for him beside the hatch.
“I’m to escort you into the arrival room,” she said. “I believe that someone is waiting for you there.”
Truman blinked at the informality, but allowed her to lead him along the corridor, his bodyguards taking up positions as he walked. He smiled to himself; more of them were watching the exotic girl than their surroundings. She was pretty, in a slight kind of way, but he had other concerns at the moment.
“Ah, Mr President,” a voice said, as they reached the end of the corridor. He gazed around a room of stunning luxury, and finally looked at McLachlan, who was standing up to greet him.
“John,” he said, shaking hands. “I was wondering if I had been forgotten about.”
McLachlan laughed and dismissed Sumrita with a toss of his head. “No, we just wanted to allow you time to settle in,” he said. “It’s been… pretty bad for the Contemporaries and the others who have come here.”
“Thanks, I think,” Truman said. He stared around the room; every surface spoke of astonishing wealth. “Is this where your King leaves your country?”
McLachlan shook his head. “No, this is the luxury suite for people with more money than sense,” he said. “A lot of the businesses here have either been pressed into service for the war effort or placed in long-term lockdown. It’s hoped that once we get enough of your planes, some of them can reopen business.”
“You don’t use trains for travelling around, these days?” Truman asked. “What about cars?”
“Trains have been in a bit of trouble over the past few years,” McLachlan said. “As for cars, we were in the process of switching over to hydrogen when we… came here. Everything was rationed for the first few months, then we started to move again.” He coughed. “Anyway, we can discuss that later. Tell me, are you feeling fine?”
Truman nodded. “Why?” He asked. “Does jet travel cause problems?”
“Only airsickness and jet lag,” McLachlan said wryly. “We do have a program for you; a meeting with the Prime Minister today and an interview with a lucky reporter, but those can be postponed if you need a rest.”
“I see,” Truman said. “Which one first?”
McLachlan led the way to a large black car. Truman looked rather dazed as he looked around, there were countless items that he couldn’t understand as they passed through the airport. He felt a sudden wave of dizziness and nearly fainted.
“Culture shock,” McLachlan said sympathetically. “Are you sure you don’t want a rest?”
Truman shook his head. “Do I get to choose which one first?” He asked. McLachlan nodded. “I choose the interview,” he said.
McLachlan grinned. “On your own head be it,” he said. He opened the door of the car and waved Truman in. His bodyguards got different cars. “We’ll go see the reporter first.”
Charlene Molesworth had never met an American President before. She’d heard of them, of course; she’d marched against some of their policies, but she’d never met one, even in her career as a reporter. Until recently, she hadn’t been allowed to do much interviewing, and she found the constant prompting from her supervisor annoying. What was wrong with her hard-hitting questions, as opposed to the ones he wanted to ask?
She allowed herself a full smile, nearly hugging herself with glee. The Government had decreed, much to the annoyance of almost the entire reporting population, that there would be no major press conference, but one reporter would be allowed an interview on the condition that the interview was shared. She might not get an exclusive – not like her interview with Travis Mortimer – but it would be hers. She giggled once, checking her appearance in the mirror.
“You may follow me,” the Asian girl who was her escort said. Charlene giggled and followed her; all Asian girls were ridiculously formal to her, even the ones who worked for the mandarins of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. She didn’t even have make-up on; her only ornament was a badge celebrating the foundation of the Republic of Arabia.
Charlene sneered inside. A couple of female reporters had been beheaded in Iran and she didn’t see the Republic of Arabia as being any different, just another place for women to be oppressed. Why wasn’t the world safe for reporters?
She put her widest smile on her face as she stepped into the room, seeing President Truman sitting on a sofa, facing another sofa. He stood up and bowed to her, gently kissing her hand as she extended it. Charmed, Charlene turned up the wattage of her smile a bit more and took her seat, regretting her long skirt. From where he was sitting, he could have seen right up her favourite skirt… and that loosened a man’s tongue like nothing else.