09-07-2013, 02:03 AM
The Square bustled as it did most mornings, upstanding Muscovites hurrying to and from offices and lofts scattered around the nexus of the CCD and deftly avoiding the slower-moving and often dead-stopped crowds of outer Russians, Dominions and Foreigners. This morning in particular they seemed to sense Takeo's well-buried apprehension. Their feet seemed to step a little lighter. Their eyes darted a little more, or fixed on the cold gray stones in front of them. Takeo could almost smell the tension in the air.
His nose wrinkled. That wasn't tension. "No, thank you," Takeo said, preemptively, as a young girl approached with a basket of overripe fruit. He pressed a ruble or two into her outstretched hand, and smiled when she stared back at him dumbly. "They're still good in the capital." She looked less than convinced. "Trust me."
The girl nodded, uttering a thanks, but was quickly shooed by the large German at Takeo's side. It was for the best. She had bananas. Rotting bananas always turned Takeo's stomach, for some reason.
Beneath Basil's Cathedral, Takeo's party might have been mistaken for tourists at first glance. Six Asian business men and women, and perhaps a German-Russian guide. However, one would need only take a second glance to see the non-plussed countenance of them all. Save the youngest, perhaps - he looked scared enough to be American, despite his obviously Japanese descent.
If one was at all current with the news, he or she would also recognize a man of monumental distinction. One of only seven individuals on this planet whom could truthfully call himself Privelege.
Takeo Onoda stood as tall as the German, his man Sergei, but was a third the girth. Decked in a white/gray seersucker suit, immaculately cut to his frame, black leather shoes, belt and tie, he put the most polished in the Square to shame, even his similarly-appointed right-hand man, the intensely blue-eyed Junichi, and the three-piece wearing woman with them. The others were in slacks and sleeves, though obviously they held no rank in the Privelege's cabinet.
After the stench of too-sweet fruit had abated, Takeo started off across the Square, quickly surrounded by his team. They even moved with purpose, and this time it was the onlookers' turn to steer clear. Many did recognize the Privilege - the trusted senior advisor to the Ascendancy Himself - and others learned as word of him spread across the Square. Even in Red Square, the Fourth Privelege was a spectacle.
Of course, with Sergei at the point and five bodies surrounding him, Takeo was unmolested by the masses. They reached the grand stairs of the Ritz-Carlton and, suddenly, they stopped. A small crowd had begun to approach, and the two women of Takeo's group - the older in the suit, the younger in a skirt, heels and a crisp, high-buttoned blouse - stepped forward to greet them. Yes, Privilege Takeo was in Moscow. He was not staying at the Ritz-Carlton. He was hosting Nicholas Trano of the United States. No, he would not be fielding questions right now.
Takeo entered with the other men. Save, again, the youngest. He peeled off to run his Priveleged's errands for the morning. That left Jun and one other Japanese man. Older, smaller, and infinitely less charismatic, Saito was, nonetheless, a genius when it came to history. Particularly Japanese-American relations. Takeo could have as easily kept the old man online, as he had any number of contacts, but Saito would never have forgiven him for that. The old goat.
Sergei led them to a pre-destined lift. A key gained them private access, and instantly they were ascending. "It's not too late to cancel," Jun said as soon as he switched on his short-range scrambler. "We have excuses for you. I can stand--"
Takeo merely moved his head to the left. No. Why should he fear this man? This corrupt media mogul who in no way represented every evil perpetrated against him as a child, nor reflected his present self down to the prize-winning news show and interviewer's guest list.
No.
Brandon had asked him, and so Takeo had come.
Ding. Sergei stepped off the lift and preceded ahead. After a quick scan, he nodded and Takeo and the others followed. The rooms here were separated by long expanses of neo-nouveau on canvas, in linen and on the floor. A statue of some lonely God occupied one alcove. Another held a Native American display of baskets, pots and leatherworks. Very subtle.
They stopped at the very last room, and Takeo centered himself. He checked his watch. 0900 exactly. He gave Sergei a nod, and Jun a wink, then faced forward as the German knocked soundly on Nicholas Trano's door.
Time to earn that title.
His nose wrinkled. That wasn't tension. "No, thank you," Takeo said, preemptively, as a young girl approached with a basket of overripe fruit. He pressed a ruble or two into her outstretched hand, and smiled when she stared back at him dumbly. "They're still good in the capital." She looked less than convinced. "Trust me."
The girl nodded, uttering a thanks, but was quickly shooed by the large German at Takeo's side. It was for the best. She had bananas. Rotting bananas always turned Takeo's stomach, for some reason.
Beneath Basil's Cathedral, Takeo's party might have been mistaken for tourists at first glance. Six Asian business men and women, and perhaps a German-Russian guide. However, one would need only take a second glance to see the non-plussed countenance of them all. Save the youngest, perhaps - he looked scared enough to be American, despite his obviously Japanese descent.
If one was at all current with the news, he or she would also recognize a man of monumental distinction. One of only seven individuals on this planet whom could truthfully call himself Privelege.
Takeo Onoda stood as tall as the German, his man Sergei, but was a third the girth. Decked in a white/gray seersucker suit, immaculately cut to his frame, black leather shoes, belt and tie, he put the most polished in the Square to shame, even his similarly-appointed right-hand man, the intensely blue-eyed Junichi, and the three-piece wearing woman with them. The others were in slacks and sleeves, though obviously they held no rank in the Privelege's cabinet.
After the stench of too-sweet fruit had abated, Takeo started off across the Square, quickly surrounded by his team. They even moved with purpose, and this time it was the onlookers' turn to steer clear. Many did recognize the Privilege - the trusted senior advisor to the Ascendancy Himself - and others learned as word of him spread across the Square. Even in Red Square, the Fourth Privelege was a spectacle.
Of course, with Sergei at the point and five bodies surrounding him, Takeo was unmolested by the masses. They reached the grand stairs of the Ritz-Carlton and, suddenly, they stopped. A small crowd had begun to approach, and the two women of Takeo's group - the older in the suit, the younger in a skirt, heels and a crisp, high-buttoned blouse - stepped forward to greet them. Yes, Privilege Takeo was in Moscow. He was not staying at the Ritz-Carlton. He was hosting Nicholas Trano of the United States. No, he would not be fielding questions right now.
Takeo entered with the other men. Save, again, the youngest. He peeled off to run his Priveleged's errands for the morning. That left Jun and one other Japanese man. Older, smaller, and infinitely less charismatic, Saito was, nonetheless, a genius when it came to history. Particularly Japanese-American relations. Takeo could have as easily kept the old man online, as he had any number of contacts, but Saito would never have forgiven him for that. The old goat.
Sergei led them to a pre-destined lift. A key gained them private access, and instantly they were ascending. "It's not too late to cancel," Jun said as soon as he switched on his short-range scrambler. "We have excuses for you. I can stand--"
Takeo merely moved his head to the left. No. Why should he fear this man? This corrupt media mogul who in no way represented every evil perpetrated against him as a child, nor reflected his present self down to the prize-winning news show and interviewer's guest list.
No.
Brandon had asked him, and so Takeo had come.
Ding. Sergei stepped off the lift and preceded ahead. After a quick scan, he nodded and Takeo and the others followed. The rooms here were separated by long expanses of neo-nouveau on canvas, in linen and on the floor. A statue of some lonely God occupied one alcove. Another held a Native American display of baskets, pots and leatherworks. Very subtle.
They stopped at the very last room, and Takeo centered himself. He checked his watch. 0900 exactly. He gave Sergei a nod, and Jun a wink, then faced forward as the German knocked soundly on Nicholas Trano's door.
Time to earn that title.