Chapter 3

I set a fire just to see what it kills

When Nicola Murray was called to a last minute meeting of the G8 to discuss officially removing Russia's suspension, she did not expect it to go quite so fantastically wrong. Of course the Russia question has plagued them as a group, and the imposition of economic sanctions has harmed them almost as much as Russia. This meeting request had looked rather like the light at the end of the tunnel, the Russians looking genuinely willing to negotiate for the first time in the process. So, the seven of them had made the trek to Novo-Ogaryovo with their most important staff, civil servants, and their security details. It's an odd situation, Nicola has found, being thrown together with the most intimidating and powerful people in the world, trying to negotiate for mutually beneficial outcomes while mostly coming from different ideological positions. She had been preparing to pack for a week away with her husband when the call had come through from her Chief of Staff, and honestly she had been barely this side of heartbroken. She and Malcolm had each had a suitcase open on the bed, discussing what they would do, what they would and wouldn't need (Malcolm had claimed clothes would be in very low demand), but suddenly it was no longer filling a case with jeans and cashmere jumpers she was tasked with, instead expensive jackets and official looking suiting.

"Oh it's a suicide inducing holiday in Russia..." Malcolm had sung to the tune of 'Jolly Holliday', dropping a beaten pair of jeans and a fleece into his little suitcase.

"I'm so sorry." She had groaned, crossing to a different wardrobe and flicking through her clothes. She'd pulled out a royal blue dress and an aubergine one, turning and holding them up for his decision. He'd nodded to the aubergine, and she'd added a grey jacket and a navy suit to the pile over her arm.

"I know it's hard t'believe, pet, but you're actually the fucking Prime Minister! As much as I want to drag you off to the weekender and shag you till you know even less about Russian economic sanctions than yeh do now, I do understand."

After depositing the pile of clothing on the bed, Nicola had closed the distance between the two of them, running well manicured fingers through his silver hair. "You're not allowed to give up on the idea of shagging me senseless." The brunette had mumbled, earning a little whine of frustration from her other half. The kiss she had graced him with had been nothing short of lascivious, and had Malcolm not known her plane was now leaving imminently, he would have been peeling clothes from her body before she had the chance to object. Unfortunately for Malcolm, Nicola had seemed to sense this and had peeled away from him slowly; his hand had lingered on her body as she crossed back to the bed to pack.

"What does this make it? Four or five international trips this month?"

"Six. Sometimes I fucking hate when Parliament rises." Nicola had shot the Scot a sympathetic smile, trying to resist launching into an extended rant about how much sleep she has lost in the last month and how close to crumbling she was. It's not that she really had been particularly close to crumbling, despite how much she'd believed it. What she had been was extremely frustrated that their plans had been dashed. Nicola had been looking forward to a few days punctuated by little more than blankets and skin.

Instead of doing any of the things she had so wanted to, like declare that her plane could wait, banish her suitcase to the floor, rid Malcolm of his layers of clothing, and making up for delaying their much needed time away, she had done her duty as the democratically elected leader of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and packed for a meeting of international leaders.

A loud noise snaps Nicola out of the memory of how she got here and back into the present moment. There is a specific spectrum in Nicola Murray's mind of 'ways G8 meetings can go wrong'. Sometimes it is virtually impossible to reach a consensus. Sometimes you get stuck sitting between leaders you'd really rather only share impersonal Christmas cards with. Sometimes the quality of food cannot make up for the lack of conversation. Sometimes the press highlights the fact that your outfit clashes horribly with that of a close counterpart. These are things Nicola prepares herself for before being thrust into international summits, and this is fine, because she is aware of them. She can deal with the impending doom of social awkwardness. She's prepared for it. She goes in having been fully briefed on what she can expect politically, and nine times out of ten, she bumbles her way through unscathed. What Nicola never actually prepares herself for when going to international meetings is the idea that she may not make it home to tell Malcolm of all the petty ins-and-outs. Of the time she almost spilled water on this ruler of that superpower versus the time she actively restrained herself from throwing water on an another one. What Nicola has never prepared herself for is the possibility of one of their host's household staff pulling off their jacket and revealing a very functional looking bomb strapped across their chest.

Nicola's first thought, before even the sensible question of what this might possibly be about, is of her family. Will Malcolm be able to see Josh still, or will James keep her son from his step-father? Will the others, legally old enough to make the decision for themselves, choose to spend time with her bereaved husband?

Her next thoughts are more practical ones: Where is the closest door? Who has a panic button? It takes Nicola a moment to remember that she in fact has one on her person. This realisation only occurs when she brushes the device as she dips into her pocket for her mobile phone. She fires hers off, but she's sure POTUS has beaten her to it. She always beats Nicola to the punch.

She is only half listening as the man barks demands in Russian and their translator scrambles to relay the messages. Nicola takes in things about the G7 imposed sanctions crippling the country, but her brain has gone into overdrive and Safe Mode all at once. She is scrambling to piece together an exit strategy, a way to get home. She is not as calm as she always hoped she would be in such a crisis, even with innumerable drills under her belt. Weighing up the shock on the Russian President's face, Nicola is relieved that he doesn't seem the be involved with this whole disaster. She would really rather Britain didn't have to wage a war until well after her term has expired. Being the first progressive female Prime Minister is quite enough for her. She doesn't want war criminal scrawled under her name in a history book like so many of her predecessors.

At this moment she notices security personnel feeding in slowly from the room's three doors. She knows how this works. There is a procedure about which she has been read chapter and verse. Someone takes out the threat, someone gets her out. She is not supposed to consider the finer logistical details, like which of her Protection Command is allocated to which task. She is not allowed to try to keep track of who is where. She wants to though. God how she wants to. She is a woman who likes to know her staff, likes to know where the people close to her are in dangerous situations. Cruelly, this makes her think of her husband, probably reading something in their weekender with a fire going, waiting for her to bustle through the door and make a beeline for the bathtub, dragging him in her wake. Her throat constricts, and she realises there is a very real chance she will break down at this negotiation table. She knows she can't. She knows the best way to get home is to hold herself together, keep her head, and do exactly what she has practised, exactly what her security detail has spent hours and hours drilling into her brain. The reality of this knowledge does not increase the ease of its execution.

Nicola doubts she will ever be able to decide whether the next seven minutes feel like a mere moment or a dozen long hours, but in this time, everything changes. Someone has wrenched her from her seat at the same moment the security personnel at the back of the room make themselves known. She is turned away before she can see what is going on, half pushed and half dragged along with her seven colleagues. In the mess of everything she is unsure who has her and who is missing. She is hustled downstairs to one of several panic rooms in a scrum of security and world leaders. The whole thing is going basically according to procedure aside from some bumps and knocks. She does not feel where her Protection Command have grabbed her too hard with the sole idea of getting her out, getting her away from danger. She does not recall a single thought that passes through her head, although she remembers the feeling that ideas were streaming through her mind faster than Usain Bolt. On the least treacherous concrete stairs known to man, the American President's bodyguards - are they the CIA or the FBI? Or something else? For a moment this is the most pressing thing Nicola Murray thinks has ever occurred to her - push past her roughly and send her hurtling to the ground. With such little distance to the panic room her Protection Command have resorted to guiding her rather than pushing her, holding her. No one has enough of a grip on her to stop her tumbling, and the fucking heels don't help. No-one except her PC officers pause. They are focussed on their own charges, and frankly she doesn't blame them. Her PC officers don't blame them. If someone else had taken a dive, neither of them could promise that their minds would have turned for a moment from Nicola's safety. It's partly their training, but also their sense of duty. Nicola understands all this. When she is pulled from the floor by her arms she winces in pain, and she must make a noise indicating it, too, because one of them barks, "Ma'am, where are you hurt?"

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" She replies hurriedly, voice barely carrying among the fray despite the force of her words. Although her protestations would indicate otherwise, there is pain shooting down her right wrist. At this moment Nicola hears the unmistakable sound of explosives being detonated. The ground and walls shake around her. Before she can process this fact, one of her PC officers is shouting "In! Get her in!" and she is once again being thrust into a bomb-proof panic room. The door closes heavily behind them, but Nicola does not feel safe. Nicola only wants to know if the rest of her protective detail is.