by Tal Bauer
We’re landing in a few. I have to clean up.
When Ethan had been on the detail, he’d always wander in and help Jack clean the tornado that he created whenever he had a chance to spread out. Laughing at him, Ethan would play along, sliding papers into folders and then stacking them in Jack’s mercurial filing system: stuff to do soon, stuff to put off, stuff to be read on the toilet, and stuff that could be forgotten. He’d made up new categories on the fly for Ethan to laugh at. Something they’d shared, both before and after they were together.
After they’d gotten together, Ethan would sneak in kisses when they were done clearing the table. And once, Jack had sat on the conference table’s edge, drawing him close until Ethan had laid him back, kissing his neck, and then they’d nearly rolled right off when they’d gotten carried away kissing and missed the landing announcement.
Luckily, Collard had been at the door. Jack hadn’t known at the time, but Collard had reamed Ethan behind the privacy screen in the Beast, while Jack and Secretary Wall had traded notes in the backseat.
[Any new files? :) ]
There was, but Jack wouldn’t admit it. Stuff to read after nightmares.
Sadly, it’s all stuff I have to do. One big file.
He tucked everything back into his briefcase and sat back down, letting the thrum of the plane rise into his bones.
[I’ll be online all night. Call whenever. I’ll be here.]
They’d miss their scheduled Skype call, but Jack refused to let a day pass without seeing Ethan’s face and hearing his voice. I’ll call as soon as I can.
[I believe in you. I love you.]
You are my rock. I love you too.
From LaGuardia, Jack was driven to the UN, running a full motorcade with lights and sirens and the NYPD closing off streets and guiding him through the traffic. Agents Collard and Daniels had their serious faces on, stone masks behind mirrored shades and thin lips. Jack sat in the back of the SUV, watching New York City roll by outside the black-tinted windows. His fingers tapped on his thighs, an endless thrum.
They parked in the underground garage beneath the UN Conference Building, an army of Secret Service agents surrounding Jack the moment he stepped out of the SUV. Daniels grabbed Jack’s briefcase and passed it to Welby, out of the close detail and following behind the main delegation. Lawrence Irwin and Secretary of State Elizabeth Wall stepped out of their own SUVs and joined Jack at the elevators. Behind them, Secret Service agents and his staff hung back, almost oppressively silent.
Jack wanted to scream.
The ride up to the fourth floor, the top floor, seemed to take an eternity. Collard and Daniels stood in front of him in the elevator, hands clasped before them, legs spread wide, like they were Roman Legionnaires facing off against the world. In a way, they were.
They cleared the hallway off the elevator before Jack stepped out and then moved in close, staying just behind his shoulders as Jack headed for the Ambassador’s Terrace, the rooftop patio and bar for ambassadors, heads of state, and world leaders.
For now, it was host to the Security Council of the United Nations, the five permanent member nations―the United States, Russia, the United Kingdom, France, and China―and the ten nonpermanent member nations currently in rotation, along with their heads of state, their staff, and ambassadors.
It was a smorgasbord of political power. A who’s who of countries, policy makers, and influencers.
Some of them supported Jack and his relationship with Ethan.
Others vehemently opposed him. Had railed against him in their countries. Had withheld their hands from him when he went in for a handshake, or turned away entirely, as if he wasn’t even there. Or worse. As if he was something disgusting.
Heads turned, everyone staring as Jack strode onto the terrace surrounded by his detail. Eyes slid over him, their slick, hot slide shivering down his spine.
God, he wished Ethan were there. He’d wanted him, desperately, at the G20 over Thanksgiving, but it would have been impossible to bring him along. Not with their commitment to keeping themselves low-key and Ethan wanting to rebuild his career in the Secret Service. If he had asked, though, would Ethan have accepted? He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to face it if Ethan had turned him down. Or worse, if Ethan had said yes because he thought he had to.
But, what would it feel like, having Ethan at his side, his acknowledged partner, during these events? It would feel better than winning the presidency; he was sure of it.
All the other spouses were there. Why not Ethan, too?
He shoved that down. Tried to focus on the terrace and the reactions to his entrance.
There were some smiles. Some waves. The British prime minister sent him a terse smile. South Africa’s president nodded. Germany’s chancellor gave a stately tip of the head. Canada waved and sent a big smile, but that was Canada’s reaction to nearly everyone.
Most everyone stared. Japan’s delegation. China’s delegation. Cameroon’s. France’s president and his staff.
And then there were those who despised him.
The Gambia’s president snorted and turned his back. Nigeria’s president started shouting at his delegation, pointing at Jack and laughing boisterously. It wasn’t a friendly kind of laugh. It was the kind of laugh a bully would make.
Pakistan’s president led his delegation off the terrace.
Jack straightened his jacket, clearing his throat. He didn’t regret the choices he’d made. He would never regret Ethan. Never regret their love.
But that didn’t make the consequences any easier.
“Mr. President!”
And there was President Sergey Puchkov, striding across the terrace, his long legs outpacing the hulking Presidential Security Services agents behind him. Puchkov waved and called out to Jack again. “Mr. President, it is good to see you again.” He held out his hand.
Jack took it with a smile. “Mr. President. You shocked the hell out of me at the G20. Are you usually so dramatic?”
Puchkov laughed, loud and full. His head bobbed back and forth, one hand waving in the air. “Mmm, occasionally. I can be known to have some fun.” He winked. “Come! Join me, Mr. President. Let us have a drink together.”
“We’ve got a great deal to discuss, President Puchkov.”
“In a while, Mr. President.” Puchkov beckoned across the terrace again, toward the crowd of heads of state, ambassadors, and delegates. “Come. Let us drink first. Get to know one another. Before we try to build an alliance and change this world.”
Jack swallowed but pasted a bright grin on his face. “I assume you’re drinking vodka?”
Puchkov laughed, and they fell into step together, slow strides through the crowd. Agents from Jack’s Secret Service and Puchkov’s Security Services jogged ahead, staging around an empty table and a couple of cushioned rattan couches beside a heater. “Mr. President,” Puchkov scoffed. “While I am sure your New York City offers only the best vodka, nothing can beat Siberian vodka strained through diesel engine.”
“I’m not sure I could be that brave.”
“Takes a year away from your life with every shot.” Puchkov winked and waved over a waiter balancing glasses of champagne. “I will have a whiskey,” Puchkov ordered and then turned to Jack, his eyebrows raised.
He needed to keep his wits around Puchkov. “Vodka tonic, please.”
Puchkov scoffed as the waiter vanished, an agent each from the Secret Service and Puchkov’s security shadowing him back to the bar. “You dilute your vodka?” He pretended to glare at Jack, seeming to assess his worth based on his drink order alone.
“How was your flight?” Jack’s molars scraped over each other. When he spoke with world leaders, there was always an agenda. A set dialogue, questions to ask and statements to give. Small talk wasn’t on the menu, except at NATO, where the delegation thrived on cloakroom gossip and bar-side chats. How was he supposed to make small talk with the Russian president?
“Was good, w
as good.” Puchkov relaxed, unbuttoning his jacket and leaning back with a sigh. “Is always easy, coming to the United States.” He paused. “And yours, Mr. President?”
“Fine. Short.” Jack grinned. “DC isn’t far.”
“Yes. Playing host to the United Nations. Perhaps, one day, Russia will host the headquarters.”
A subtle dig at the United States’ standing in the world, her superpower status Russia always sought to knock down.
The waiter reappeared, saving Jack by passing over Puchkov’s whiskey and Jack’s vodka tonic. Puchkov held his glass up for a toast, and then they drank. The agents who had stalked the waiter and the bartender took up their posts behind their respective leaders, fierce masks of stone firmly in place.
“Do you have any family, Mr. President?” Jack tried to change the direction of their repartee. He kicked himself a moment later. Of course Puchkov had family. He hadn’t popped out of the Siberian wilderness, harvested from the permafrost and raised by wolves.
“I have a Russian pair. Two ex-wives.” Puchkov smiled. One hand moved while he talked, big gestures in the air. “That was long ago. Now, I am devoted civil servant. I serve my people.” He took another sip, his eyes pinching at the corners. “And you, Mr. President? Mr. Reichenbach is not here with you tonight?”
Jack shook his head. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He drank instead, sipping the vodka tonic and squinting over the East River. Snow huddled on both banks and clung to New York’s skeleton trees.
“He is working in your state of Iowa, yes?” Puchkov peered at Jack, practically staring.
So the Russian intelligence system was keeping tabs on them. Jack smiled, big and bold, and turned back to Puchkov. “That’s right. In Iowa. Catching bad guys in the Midwest.”
Puchkov laughed. “Like a cowboy. Chasing down the bad guys on a horse, yes? Does he have a hat? One of those big ones?”
Was Puchkov making fun of them? Sometimes he couldn’t tell. Jack tried to picture it, though. Ethan as a cowboy in the Old West. He chuckled. “No hat. No horse.”
Silence fell over the pair as they both drank again. Jack’s thumb stroked down the edge of his class, tapping where Puchkov couldn’t see.
“It… must be difficult,” Puchkov finally said, speaking softly. His lips were pursed, and he stared into his glass of whiskey. “To be separated by such distance. Like Moscow to Prague. Very far.” His eyes flicked up, meeting Jack’s.
Jack’s throat clenched. The vodka he drank soured in his stomach, sitting heavy like lead. His lips thinned, and all he could do was nod, holding Puchkov’s gaze. Behind him, he could just hear Agent Collard, his voice a whisper of breath. “Asshole.”
Puchkov’s gaze jumped, moving like a snake to something beyond Jack. Heavy, boisterous laughter erupted, and then footsteps, and from the throng of world leaders on the terrace, the Nigerian president emerged, heading for their table.
Puchkov jerked his chin toward their approaching visitor. “This man, he was disrespectful to you at the G20, yes?”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. His heart hammered and his blood roared through him as he watched the Nigerian president come closer. “Yeah.”
At the handshake line, the official reception for the G20, the Nigerian president had stepped away from Jack, sniffing and scoffing and turning away with both hands held dramatically up in the air. “I don’t shake hands with your kind,” he’d growled in his deep voice. “We do not allow or encourage abominations in my country.”
The world’s media had caught it all. The clip played over and over in between football games on Thanksgiving Day, on political commentary shows over the weekend, and still kept turning up, hauled out for dissection whenever any of Jack’s increasingly hostile Republican colleagues wanted to sling mud.
It wasn’t the first moment Jack had been washed in humiliation, had bathed in furious mortification, and it wouldn’t be the last. He’d known it would happen. Had tried to prepare for it.
But how could you prepare for that? He’d wanted to scream. Wanted to storm away. Wanted to call Ethan and hear his voice, take the next flight back to the US, to Iowa, and grab Ethan and run. Run away from the world’s spotlight, from everyone’s censure and criticism.
Instead, he’d smiled politely, nodded, and moved down the line to the president of The Gambia, who’d pretended Jack didn’t exist. Saudi Arabia’s king came next, and he had embraced Jack, kissing him on both cheeks, his weathered hands like old leather on Jack’s skin.
Puchkov leaned back, steepling his fingers as his elbows rested on the chair’s woven arms. He watched the Nigerian president amble toward them and settle into a chair beside Puchkov.
“Mr. President!” the Nigerian president crowed, clapping Puchkov on the shoulder. “How wonderful to see you again!”
Puchkov said nothing. His lips quirked up on one side.
Jack sat silent, ignored. His blood boiled, but he stayed still.
“Mr. President.” The Nigerian president leaned back, his long black overcoat spreading around his portly body, his fedora tipped back on his bald head. “Do you have a moment to discuss our nuclear partnership? We would like to accelerate the construction of the two nuclear plants you promised to our country. Thanks to our oil exports, Nigeria’s economy is booming.” He laughed, a thick gold chain at his neck flashing.
Puchkov’s head tilted, just so. His lips pursed, and his index fingers rested against them for a moment. “That project has been canceled.”
The Nigerian president froze. Stopped breathing.
“The Russian Federation is cancelling all future work projects in Nigeria, in fact.”
“What?” Breathless, the Nigerian president stared. “Mr. President,” he chuckled, reaching for Puchkov. “What has brought this on? Our countries have grown close―”
“You, Mr. President, have brought this on yourself.” Puchkov held up two fingers, almost in the Nigerian president’s face. His voice was soft, almost like he was talking to a young child. “This is twice now you have paid great disrespect to my friend, my ally.” He gestured to Jack. “You think you can disrespect Russia’s friends and suffer no consequences? No, Russia is a better ally than that.”
It was Jack’s turn to stop breathing.
The Nigerian president sputtered. He turned to Jack, his eyes narrowed. “Mr. President,” he tried, leaning forward toward Jack. “You have to understand. The choices you’ve made. We simply cannot support this lifestyle―”
Puchkov stood, grasping his whiskey in one hand. “President Spiers, I believe we have business to attend to, yes? I will join you to speak about these things now.”
Jack rose silently.
“President Puchkov!” The Nigerian president reached out again, grasping Puchkov’s sleeve. “You can’t do this!”
“Mr. President.” Puchkov smoothed his jacket, pulling free. “Russia’s economy has also grown. Especially our oil sector. Russia no longer has any need of your oil exports. We will cease all business with your country. Immediately.” Puchkov gestured for Jack to lead the way, back across the terrace and into the UN.
“You will regret this!” Storming up, the Nigerian president stomped his foot, almost spitting in his fury. “I will vote no on your resolution!”
“We do not need your vote.” And with that, Puchkov buttoned his suit and followed Jack through the crowds.
Jack traded long looks with Agents Collard and Daniels as they stepped off the terrace and waited for Puchkov. The Russian president appeared a moment after, warmly shaking hands with the Belarus ambassador before striding to Jack. He clasped his hands together and grinned. “Shall we change the world, Mr. President?”
They ended up in the empty chambers of the Security Council, spreading out on the semicircular delegates’ table. Jack took his briefcase back from Welby and pulled out his papers and his reading glasses. For hours, he and Puchkov walked through each scenario, through what they were willing to provide to the alliance and the rol
es their militaries would jointly play in an invasion force. Sharing bases. Sharing forces. Command authority. Splitting costs.
When the words began to blur together, they took a break, stretching and grabbing cups of coffee long gone cold.
Jack had to ask. “Your economy has lost half a percent in its GDP. Our intelligence says your oil exploration in the north and the Arctic hasn’t gone as well as you hoped.”
Puchkov smiled, sly, and the lines in his face furrowed, exhaustion warring with his humor. “We still don’t need their oil.”
Jack stayed silent for a moment, but returned Puchkov’s smile. “Thank you.”
Puchkov waved him away. “Is nothing, Mr. President.” He stood, rolling his shoulders. “We should discuss the language in our proposed resolution―”
Jack glanced at the clock mounted above the phoenix painting stretching on the far wall, behind Puchkov. “Do you mind if we take a short break? I… need to make a phone call.”
Puchkov’s eyebrows shot up. “Something to talk with your advisors about? We can discuss, Mr. President. Is there something we must adjust?”
“No. It’s personal. I call Ethan every night. One way we stay close.” He pointed to the clock. “It’s already late.”
Puchkov tapped a pen against his palm. “I need to stretch my legs. I think I will take a walk. I will return shortly.” He winked, tossed his pen on the papers, and headed out, his hands in his pockets.
Jack slumped in the Pakistani delegation’s main chair at the Security Council table and spun his laptop toward him. A few quick strokes, and he had the secured signal the White House IT guys had put on his laptop enabled. A few more, and then he was opening Skype and dialing Ethan’s number.
The call answered, the screen onlining to reveal Ethan hovering in front of his computer as if he’d just run across his apartment to answer. He was shirtless and his hair was damp.
“Hey!” Ethan beamed. “Lemme grab a shirt.” He disappeared.