Quinn shook Richter’s hand cordially. The businessman smiled, but his eyes showed no warmth. His shrewd mind seemed forever occupied, tackling figures and percentages, calculating prices and profit margins. It was a mind which also judged every person as a tool on his way to success, with no capacity for human affection. This emotionless calculation was a characteristic that had always been present in him. Even back when Clayton Richter and Jim Quinn had still shared the executive floor of the SI headquarters in Manhattan.
Ambassador Quinn’s own career as plenipotentiary had launched from the offices of Seton Industries. Prior to his assignment as Head of Mission in Astana, Quinn had been Richter’s closest associate at the corporation. When Richter had arranged Quinn’s posting as Ambassador to Kazakhstan, Quinn understood the importance of the move. Richter needed to have his own man in Kazakhstan, a man loyal to him alone. The company’s interests in Kazakhstan far exceeded construction and logistics. After contributing as a donor to the President’s successful campaign, assuring a nomination and approval in the Senate had posed no problems.
James Quinn acted as a secret liaison between Richter and the President of Kazakhstan, Timur Kasymov.
Today, Clayton Richter had arrived to Astana incognito following an urgent request for a meeting coming from President Kasymov himself. Quinn was taking Richter straight to Kasymov’s residence, as Kasymov had insisted. This way, no outsider would be privy to the arrangement, even among the presidential staff.
Together, the businessman and the ambassador emerged from the private section of the terminal. Outside, they were instantly assaulted by a dry wave of air which was so hot that it might have been coming from a furnace. The embassy’s Cadillac, distinguished by the flying Stars and Stripes, already stood idling. The sun made its black body shimmer with elegance. A Diplomatic Security officer held the door open for them. The former Secret Service agent now worked for Blackwood Solutions, a private security company that won the U.S. State Department contract to protect the U.S. diplomatic mission in Kazakhstan. Blackwood belonged to Seton Industries.
Climbing inside, Quinn was grateful that their exposure to a temperature of 95 ended quickly. He sank in the seat, its coolness soothing. Richter’s complexion was pale, but he wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow.
“Damned heat,” Richter said.
“It’s the climate of the steppes,” Quinn said. “Astana in the summer is hotter than a desert, and then it freezes over during Siberian winters.”
As the diplomatic car departed from the Japanese-designed terminal, cruising along the highway, silence fell between the ambassador and the businessman. As a rule, Richter never discussed business while they were in the car, even though an armored polycarbonate partition sealed all sound from the DS driver, and a jamming device prevented electronic eavesdropping.
The airport was located only 16 kilometers from Astana’s southern limits, and soon the effects of the city’s booming progress came into view. Skyscrapers, shopping malls and residential blocks formed a glamourous maze of glass and concrete. Unsurprisingly, the most intense construction was concentrated in this area, since Astana’s south was the most prosperous part of the city. Entire districts had been built from scratch.
Richter admired the city skyline.
“Look at that, Jim. New buildings are growing by the day. I see true ambition here. The Kazakhstanis are putting their oil revenues to good use. And it’s just the beginning. It’s going to be a country of fantastic growth, with dozens of cities like Dubai and Doha. The difference is that the Arab oil empire is grinding to a halt, while Kazakhstan is reaching its zenith.”
“I don’t know,” Quinn said. “I’ve never taken a liking for Astana. It’s not just the weather that turns me off. The climate is so harsh only because of the terrain. Astana is in the middle of nowhere. The Soviets couldn’t have have picked a more fitting place for the women’s gulag that Stalin set up here. What sort of nation’s capital is so remote and desolate that it’s hard to access from the rest of the country. I understand the logic behind relocating it from Almaty, the desire for a new start after they got their independence. But they didn’t have to take it literally, for God’s sake! These buildings are here only because the rulers wished to flatter their egos. A Potemkin town. No matter what you try to do here, it’s still a wasteland.”
He motioned at the stretching plane that the road cut through. All the way to the city limits the earth was a scorched flat surface covered by low weeds.
Richter laughed at his friend’s rant.
“I see that you’re getting a bit homesick, Jimmy.”
“Sure as hell. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ll grind it through another year, or as long as it takes to finish what we started.”
“A wasteland, hmmm? Funny that you mentioned the word. How very ironic. You’d be surprised if I told you the reason I’m meeting Kasymov today.”
In fact, Quinn felt astonishment.
He had always assumed that Richter’s latest visit was related to the Caspian. It had been the most important aspect of SI’s operation in Kazakhstan, the one Quinn handled personally. It had to be the Caspian. Nothing else could demand such an extraordinary summons.
And yet, something far more sensitive than the oil project was going on, behind his back.
There was at least one skill Quinn had acquired from his diplomatic work in order to save face — pretending not to hear the remarks he didn’t wish to respond to.
The presidential residence, known as Ak-Orda, was also located in the southern part of Astana, taking up a sizable estate on the left bank of the Ishim River. It was a massive granite palace that evoked a mixture of awe and confusion. Ak-Orda’s exterior, and especially its semicircular portico, bore a striking resemblance to the southern facade of the house at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC.
What made Ak-Orda radically different was a gigantic blue dome crowning it at the center, a feature more appropriate for mosques than government housing.
The name Ak-Orda chosen for the residence also signified Asian tradition — it meant White Horde, a part of the ancient Golden Horde that had ruled this land.
The golden spire topping its Islamic dome was about to come into view.
A quiet neighborhood separated the American car from the parkway that led directly to Ak-Orda. The Cadillac was easing through light traffic, only a few blocks away from reaching the turn to the parkway, when suddenly, from behind, an old Toyota sedan burst forward and cut into their path, braking. Trying to avoid a head-on collision, the DS driver turned the wheel sharply, and pressed the accelerator. Even though the fender battered the Toyota’s taillight, metal scraping, the Cadillac was about to drive on, but the maneuver was destined to fail. In the next instant the Toyota disappeared in a tempest of flames.
The force of the roaring blast pounded the Cadillac like a sledgehammer. Shockwaves quaked through Quinn’s body. Shaken by the concussion, he shut his eyes. He wanted to scream but no sound came, agony ringing in his head, the pain deafening.
The ambassador regained his senses, moaning. He saw that the car’s inch-thick windshield had disintegrated. Corrugated by the explosion, the hood had bent upward, obstructing the view ahead. The driver’s slumped body was held in place by the seat belt. He was dead, the partition painted red with his blood.