Entering Russia as a standard tourist was not daunting. The route had been relatively well trodden by plenty of middle-aged sight-seers who spent a day or two in Moscow and then took a look at St Petersburg through the window of a bus, or ventured ashore from the comfort of their cruise ship on the Moscva river. That was European Russia. Open to tourists and the world generally, it was a craved destination of many westerners who had done Mediterranean Europe and wanted to complete the picture with a Russian glimpse. Where Mitchell had to go was a different Russia altogether. This was a place where shy tourists never came, a place that was not only absent from the thoughts of western tourists but absent even from the thoughts of most Russians themselves. It was the slave of the Federation, the forgotten, the hard working, the politically isolated, tawdry and resentful, formerly closed military warm water port of the Russian Far East. Vladivostok. Getting into this part of Russia was an intermediate goal. It was part of a plan which included diplomatic networking in Canberra and Sydney, business interests around the Asia Pacific and some personal greed and control.

Mitchell had passed forty four years old and at this time of life was nobody. He arrived early at Sydney Airport and was one of the first few in the check in queue. Noone noticed him. He was the invisible forty four year old non business non tourist. He looked around and could notice others. There were twentyish year old women, died hair, sometimes blond, often darker for travel, many with their mum chaperoning their departure. They were under dressed: something tight, something lovely and uncomfortable for the eight hour flight to Singapore. Their mum fussed, checking yet again that they had the big three: their ticket, passport and money. Businessmen also queued with small leather wheelie suitcases containing, no doubt ,a company laptop, underwear and shirts, but nothing more. Their business suit was their uniform and they had no need to wear anything else for the whole week away. Business women weren't so lucky. They had the business suit too but were expected to also have different and additional casual and evening wear, hence the check in bag. Nationals also travelled, home to parents or wives or children. Heavy with unnecessary luggage, one a hard shell case, the other two soft canvas or plastic dumplings, a contrast of baggage modes. There were older Anglo couples holidaying, comfortably dressed, white haired, organised and carrying matching luggage, hers red, his green. She doing all the talking, him nodding whether she spoke to him or not, and looking dolefully around pretending not to notice any others in the queue in case she caught him looking. Mitchell noticed these people, but noone noticed him. Lone middle aged travellers move through queues like automatons and can't be too ready to chat. The upside was that invisibility brought anonimity and he could look where he liked, but not for too long. Like walking down the footpath in Parkes compared to walking in Penrith, if he held the eyes of the anglo tourists a moment too long they'd nod a friendly g'day, but if he dared hold the twenty something's eyes a moment too long she'd be likely to scowl back, or call security. In the queue, two to go before he could check his bag, Mitchell started to concentrate on which counter he'd get. Then a text message: 'Assume you are on your way. Meet local contact SNG. More info in Beijing. SB'. With the text message a small anxious spasm slithered through Mitchell's stomach. He might be physically travelling alone but there were people in Canberra who were tracking him and expecting results. Nothing like a reminder of responsibilities to spoil the airport mood, and from a public servant too. Were all public servants willing to let you die if you forgot to breathe?

In the air SQ322 was a blur. The curtains were pulled down soon after takeoff to encourage sleeping and to help reduce cabin crew numbers, and the new release movies were all approximately newly released. Mitchell started to watch one when the lumpy guy in front tilted himself and his seat all the way back and into Mitchell's lap, forcing Mitchell to crouch and squint at the now partially visible LCD. He watched another movie and ate the first airline meal of the trip, which was relatively enjoyable. He watched part of a third movie before dosing and waking, dosing and waking, each time jerking awake and hitting his head on the back of the seat. He was woken for another meal, this time more amorphous, less enjoyed. Tired and uncomfortable but only ninety minutes to Changi. Watching the flight path and trying to find some comedy in Krisworld was futile when the pre-landing routines began in earnest.

Tinseltown Changi never sleeps, neither day nor night. Carpets for quiet travellers, LEDs for fountain water surrounded by local flowers, the creamy car lottery and wan girls in information booths. Upstairs to the bar, one hundred identical tables, each attached to a railing two metres from the glass wall which kept the people and the airside apart. One waitress, older, tired. Slap of the leatherette laminated menu onto the timber tabletop. 'Beer?'. Not a bad idea actually, to have a cold one, might help the constipation. Nine local dollars or eight Aussie ones.