Chapter 5

Fireproof

The panic room is sizeable, but Nicola, claustrophobe extraordinaire, is trying to calculate how much air there is in the room, and how long twenty-six people can be sustained by it. Ever the alarmist, Nicola has the figure at hours rather than days. She's started playing a 'what would Malcolm do?' game, and it has led her, inevitably, to plotting who would die first. She doesn't question whether they'll resort to cannibalism, the panic room is stocked with a pantry that rivals her own, but the chain of deaths interests her. Russia will outlive them all, obviously. POTUS would be second last alive. She thinks, were oxygen to become a genuine issue, the nice Secret Service team looking after POTUS would find a way to kill themselves in order to provide her with the most air. Nicola's Protection Command would not do the same, and she is mildly relieved at not having the pressure of other people's survival resting on her shoulders at this particular moment. Nicola is snapped back into the present moment by one of her SO1 officers squeezing her wrist in the course of her physical examination. Nicola flinches visibly. "Ma'am? Can you describe the pain?" Inspector Foster still has his fingers on her arm, while Sergeant Warren is scribbling notes in response to Foster's observations. Foster is a veritable man-mountain, and Nicola is usually set at ease by his presence, when he isn't inadvertently causing her intense physical pain.

"I'm reasonably sure it's broken, Fred." She says from between her teeth; her use of his first name makes both the SO1 officers' eyes snap to her analytically.

"There is a slight protrusion. Warren have you noted that?"

"Yes, sir." Replies Kate Warren studiously.

"Do you feel dizzy, Ma'am? Faint?"

Nicola has been working hard to keep her breathing regular. "Well, yes, a little, but I've been putting that down to the claustrophobia."

"Alright, Ma'am." Foster continues methodically probing and prodding her, testing for injury rather than asking. He takes Nicola for an unreliable witness - and he's probably right to do so.

"How many hours of oxygen do you think we have in here?" Nicola finally asks as she feels her breath becoming more shallow. She is trying to keep her voice at its normal pitch, but it has crept up by at least three semitones.

"I believe there's a filtration system, Prime Minister." Says Warren with more authority than her rank strictly allows.

"Right. Right, okay, good. Good to know." A look passes between the two Protection Command officers, the clear implication of which is that this is a guess at best, an outright lie at worst. While Nicola clocks it, she chooses to push it aside for the sake of her sanity.

"I think you're all clear, other than the wrist, Ma'am." Foster announces, before scanning the room for a first aid kit.

"Need help with that, sport?" Asks one of the Secret Service agents. Nicola is sure he means it good naturedly, but Foster shoots him a gaze of absolute death, and responds with an icy "I think we've had more than enough help from you boys today."

Foster is an absolute professional, one of the best in the business, but while he's putting a splint and compression bandage on her wrist with all the care in the world she hears him hiss under his breath "Artless bloody Americans..." The words make her smile ever so slightly.

Nicola uses her free hand to dig her phones from her pocket and lays them across her lap.

"My guys roughed you up a bit, I hear?" POTUS asks Nicola quietly after closing the short distance between the two of them.

"What's a broken wrist between allies?" Nicola quips at her, attempting to put a brave face on the situation, but losing ground somewhat when she winces once more in pain. She changes the subject to hide how big a disadvantage she feels at when faced with the POTUS, the most powerful woman in the free world.

"Can you believe there's no reception in here?"

"Really? My phone's fine." POTUS replies, tucking blonde hair neatly behind her ear.

"We're working on getting the Sat Phone up, Ma'am." Warren says.

"Working on?" Nicola queries, a new note of irritation in her voice.

"Should be up any minute, Ma'am." Foster smoothes. The look he shoots Warren tells her in no uncertain terms that she needs to get it done now.

"We've got her!" Ollie announces as a message flashes up on the phone at his side. The relief that crashes over Malcolm leaves him elated, nauseated, and weak all at once. "She's in the main safe room with two SO1 officers."

"Jesus, fuck..." Malcolm breathes, and a moment later his phone is buzzing with a private number.

"What?" He barks into the BlackBerry once he's answered it.

"Malcolm, it's me."

"Fuck me dead, Nic'la, I've never been so glad t'hear yer fucking voice."

"And I've definitely never been gladder to hear yours."

"Are you alrigh'?"

"I am, I'm okay."

"You'd fucking better be, darlin', or I'll do someone an inconceivable amount of damage."

"As much as I love hearing you threaten people's physical security on my behalf, darling, I'm not sure how much longer I'll be allowed to tie up POTUS' phone."

"You stole the President's phone to talk to me?"

"'Stole' is probably a little strong... But I… I wanted to tell you I love you. In case - in case anything happens."

"Things have already happened." Malcolm observes.

"Malcolm, I'm serious."

"Sorry, pet. Copin' mechanism. I love you. And I don't give a fuck who you have to throw in th'path of danger - come the fuck home to me."

"I will do anything and everything in my power to be back in your arms in the next twelve to twenty four hours." Nicola promises solemnly.

"That's my girl."

"I'm going to go and call the kids before I get kicked off POTUS' phone."

"I'll see you soon, pet."

"Yes you will."

Malcolm hadn't had the heart to tell her that the children are quite possibly on a plane right now, but hearing her voice is an absolute balm to him, and if there's a chance her offspring can feel this level of relief, he doesn't want to deny them that.

He calls Katie's phone in half an hour and finds her significantly lighter than she was a few hours ago. "Malc, we're just about to get on the plane. We spoke to Mum about fifteen minutes ago."

"Good, I'm glad yeh got to talk to her before flyin' over. How'd she sound?"

"She sounded okay. Bit shaky but no more than - well, no more shaky than if she has to, like, go on TV, or before PMQs."

Malcolm laughs softly at how accurately his step-daughter has characterised his wife.

"Yeah, that's about the long and short of it, isn't it, pet? What time are you lot getting in?"

"Um, in about ten hours. I'll text you the flight details."

"Thanks KitKat. Safe flight. Give my love to the others."

"Will do, Malc. See you soon."

He's put on his best show for Katie, but he's keenly aware that, while she may be in a safe room, someone still needs to get his wife out of Novo-Ogaryovo before she is actually safe and sound and back in Number 10. Malcolm doesn't much like this aspect of the equation. He'd feel more comfortable if this had happened in the States, where school shootings and hostage situations happen with such regularity they're almost passé. While Malcolm would like to believe that the relevant Russian authorities are as well versed and well trained in such misadventures, he has not spent hours watching rolling news coverage of such events, and it makes him selfishly restless. He sits watching the activity in the conference room quietly, trying to not get himself kicked out before he works out exactly what he wants to say, what he wants to find out. He listens in perfect silence as the Chief Inspector from SO1 relays the Russian Special Ops' plan to sweep the undamaged parts of Novo-Ogaryovo first, closing in on the room of the explosion, and then evacuate the relevant heads of state once they're sure the building is secured. It seems a reasonable plan to Malcolm, establish whether there's further risk and leave the pollies somewhere they're safe in case of subsequent attacks. The only question Malcolm has is one he would never have asked before somehow, idiotically, falling in love with Nicola fucking Murray. He asks it, at great risk of being ordered from the room again, because he knows she would want to know. "Is all of Nic'la's team accounted for?"

The Chief Inspector - Dale, Malcolm thinks his name is, but he's struggling to recall right now - turns to Malcolm levelly.

"It was a closed session. Staff were still in their quarters, they followed the evacuation route described to them at induction."

"I've spoken with Gilly." Ollie interjects. "They're being checked over by medics now." Malcolm nods numbly. Gilly, recently promoted to Nicola's Chief of Staff, is far and away her favourite member of staff. Nicola will be glad she's intact.

"The PM had two SO1 officers outside the room, one in with her. Two of them have checked in as being in the safe room with her. We haven't made contact with Patterson."

Malcolm utters an expletive and massages his eyes with the tips of his fingers. Nicola is not a person who will cope well with the idea that someone has died for her, and, unforgivably, this is Malcolm's biggest concern right at this moment in time.

"Do we know how long this will take?"

"Maximum of seventy minutes is what's currently predicted." Chief Inspector Dale - it is Dale, definitely Dale - confirms.

Malcolm decides to suppress the rant he's dying to go on, to save his energy lest something else happens that demands the force of his tongue more.

"Can we play this through a bit?" The Scot asks, rising from his seat and beginning to pace around the room. "So, she's potentially out in the next seventy to ninety minutes. I'm assuming she'll be examined there? So we've got hospital time potentially as well. Then she's got four hours in the air. Am I missin' anythin'?" Malcolm is containing his irritation better than Ollie had expected him to, but he knows unnecessary delays in delivering Nicola to the Scot will be received with swearing, and possible smashing of priceless artefacts.

"No, Sir." Chief Inspector Dale replies.

"So I'm looking at around seven hours before I get to see mah wife, assumin' there's not another little rodent scurrying about fucking Novo-Ogaryovo with a pack of explosives strapped to him?"

"Mister Tucker, our information from the Russians and the Americans is that that's highly unlikely. We have every reason to believe this is a lone wolf attack."

"And look, mate, usually I'd be willing to take expert advice on that, but there is a very and I mean - very - teeny tiny proportion of people I trust with my wife. The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland isn't on tha' list, so strangers with guns don't give me an enormous amount of comfort."

Chief Inspector Dale nods solemnly. "Duly noted, Sir."

Ollie wishes Malcolm would be at least a little veiled in his assessments of Nicola's competence when in rooms this full.