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Chapter Nine

Henry pushed open the door to their temporary bedroom, ushering Elizabeth in front of him before leaving her for a moment in the middle of the room so he could dash over and pull the heavy curtains across the windows before switching on the light, hoping it would make it less obvious that they were there to anyone who might be looking in. Their room was two flights up and faced into a small courtyard that was overlooked only by other rooms in the chancery, but Henry didn't want to take any chances.

Outside, the Russian-made helicopter was still circling overhead, sending regular strobing lights across the bedroom ceiling and the white noise of the chopper blades starting to give Henry a headache. Finally with a moment to themselves, he turned to study Elizabeth.

There was a small reddened area on her forehead just above her left eye from where she had hit the ground in the ballroom. Henry raised his hand to brush his thumb gently over the damaged skin, watching the small wince on her face at his careful examining touch. "Sorry," he whispered, taking her face in his hands so that he could inspect the rest of her for damage.

"Henry, I'm fine," she said, although she made no move to stop him as he ran his hands over her face and neck, no doubt aware that he needed the touch to reassure himself.

He dipped his head to place a gentle kiss on her bruised forehead, lingering for a moment and just breathing her in. The past hour – was it really only an hour or so? – had left him feeling shaken. There had been a few moments when they were struggling to get out of the ballroom and when Kodalov had cornered them on the stairs that Henry had seriously worried if they were going to be able to get out at all. And then in the car when they were surrounded by protestors… and the tank… it was too much. He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth and pulled her in, holding her tightly and feeling her own arms slipping gratefully around him, clutching him to her as eagerly as he was her to him. He moved to kiss her, his mouth hot and insistent on hers, desperate for the affirmation of her touch. She pressed back up into him and the feel of her returning his kiss was enough to calm him slightly even as it set his nerve endings alight for other reasons.

It wasn't over yet, he knew that. They were still stuck and there was still danger but they were together. They had escaped the immediate threat and while they couldn't afford to be complacent, especially with Kodalov's revocation of Elizabeth's diplomatic status, Henry allowed himself just a minute to hold onto his wife and enjoy the relief that they had come this far.

There was a loud bang from somewhere outside on the street leading to the embassy. A firecracker, maybe, or a firework?

Or a small explosion.

The noise made both of them jump and break their embrace, reminding Henry that they didn't have time to linger. He let Elizabeth go and watched as she ran her hands through her hair and then reached for the zipper of her dress, pulling it down and then unceremoniously tugging the garment off over her head as she stepped out of her shoes. She moved to rummage around in the small wardrobe that stood in one corner of the room, pulling out slacks and a blouse.

The skin around both of her biceps was blotchy and red, no doubt from when Henry had hauled her back up off the floor, and from when Matt grabbed them both on the stairs out of the palace. It looked like it was probably going to bruise, as was the already-darkening mark on her left shoulder, which Henry guessed was also from her earlier fall.

He wanted to go to her and kiss each of those marks until she couldn't feel them anymore, but there was no time for that and so instead he told himself to be thankful; she was alive for the bruises to be able to heal.

Elizabeth pulled on her clothes and turned back to him as she was buttoning her blouse, eyeing up the formal suit that Henry still wore. "You gonna change?"

It prompted him into action. "Oh. Yeah." He took off his suit jacket and undid the cravat that he had purchased especially because it was such a close match to the colour of her dress, because he was sentimental like that and not ashamed to admit it. "You know, babe, I think this is one of those situations where it's OK to wear jeans." She still looked so formal and put-together in her workwear – not at all comfortable clothes for a crisis.

"I'm still the Secretary of State," she said as she pulled out a pair of shoes with a low heel and slipped them on.

Henry nodded. He understood. Just because there was a violent coup going on and a protest outside and their lives were in danger and she was injured and had been declared persona non grata, she still had a job to do. Technically, she was still at work.

Damn, that sucked.

On a personal level he hated it, but he couldn't deny that it made him feel slightly better to know she still had a handle on things. His wife was astonishingly competent and outstanding at her job. If anyone could figure a way out of their situation, she could.

Henry swapped his formal shoes and suit trousers for a pair of slightly more casual pants and some sneakers, but kept on his dress shirt and added a blazer on top. The professional clothes helped to keep his head in the game, too. As far as the press was concerned, he might have come on this trip to be Elizabeth's arm candy, and he was fine with that, but he was also a professional operative with experience of live missions and working in a war zone. He could contribute to getting them out.

There was another loud bang from outside, and this time it was followed by a wave of shouts from the protestors, who sounded as though they had grown in number. Somewhere above them, the Russian-made helicopter whirred.

There was a knock at the door and three seconds later Helena Garfield opened it and stuck her head in the room. She looked at Elizabeth. "We've got a line to Washington, Ma'am. The call is being transferred to the White House now."

The three of them ran down the stairs.

Outside, another loud explosion.


"The connection is a little patchy, Ma'am, but it should hold just fine." A Marine Security Guard whose name Elizabeth didn't know pulled off the headset he had been using and passed it over to her so that she could slide it on.

"Thank you." She settled herself in a hard-backed chair next to the desk in one of the embassy offices that held an array of communication equipment. "Could you do me a favour?" she asked the guard as he prepared to step out of the room, beckoning him back so she could speak to him quietly without being overhead by anyone but Henry who stood close to her side.

The young guard paused at the end of the desk. "Of course, Ma'am."

"Could you get me a list of everyone on staff at the embassy? Names and roles. And tonight's duty roster."

A brief look of confusion flickered over his face before it passed and he nodded. "Sure."

"Don't talk to anyone about it, OK? I just need to see the list." She wouldn't normally have given much of a thought to who was staffing the embassy at any given time, but with the coup and the current situation and Kodalov's deliberate targeting of her, she wanted to know exactly who was in the building and what they were supposed to be doing. More specifically, she was interested in who was employed directly by the US Government and who had been hired locally.

Just in case it was important.

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll get it right away."

"Thank you. You can give it directly to me. No one else needs to know about it." She fixed the kid with a look to tell him that she meant business and he gave her an eager nod before leaving the room. He was so young; no doubt Petria was his first overseas posting as a Marine Security Guard and he wouldn't want to disappoint the Secretary of State when she was putting her trust in him.

Across the room, Helena Garfield was engaged in conversation with the Regional Security Officer, a big robust guy called Andreou Flack, who was employed by the Diplomatic Security Service and was responsible for the security of the US mission in Petria. Not a good night for him. Elizabeth didn't know him well, but she had overheard her own agents describing him as a bit of a jobsworth. That was fine, as long as he was also efficient. She didn't need to be dealing with a security chief finding himself in over his head during a crisis. At least she was confident that the ambassador had her head screwed on straight; Helena Garfield could deal with the RSO.

Elizabeth turned her attention to the computer in front of her that displayed the status of her phone call, and clicked the button to take it off hold. At her side, Henry sat down next to her and picked up a spare headset, a question in his eyes as he looked at her. She nodded and he put the headset on. She didn't want to keep anything from him; he could hear the conversation – it was probably even beneficial to have him there with his defence background.

And there was no one she trusted more.

"This is Secretary McCord," she said, adjusting the little microphone on the headset. "Who's this?" She wasn't entirely sure who they'd actually managed to get through to.

The line crackled and hummed. Then the disembodied voice of a White House operator said, "Transferring your call to the Situation Room, Ma'am."

There was more crackling and then several clicks before a slightly alarming silence that made Elizabeth wonder if the connection had been lost. Then Russell Jackson's voice said, "Elizabeth, tell me it hasn't all gone to hell."

The sound of another explosion of some sort from outside echoed around the room.

"Scratch that," Russell amended. "Just tell me you can get out of hell."

"We're working on it," she replied, feeling relief at hearing the Chief of Staff's typical snark, and then thought that the situation must be pretty bad if talking to Russell Jackson actually counted as an improvement to her day.

The line hissed again. "Well, I hope you have better intelligence for me than the CIA, because they're getting all their news off the internet right now." From the level of targeted sarcasm in Russell's voice, Elizabeth guessed that he was sat across the table from someone high up in the CIA, and no doubt they were currently vehemently regretting their career choice.

Unfortunately the intelligence Elizabeth had was probably not of the sort that Russell was hoping for. "It's chaos, Russell," she said. "People are flooding the streets."

"But you're safe?"

Elizabeth hedged her answer. "We're at the embassy."

There was the sound of a door opening and closing on the other end of the line, followed by the scraping of chairs and murmuring from whoever was present with Russell in the Situation Room. Then Russell said, "The President's here."

Conrad was all brisk business when he spoke. "Bess, what's going on?"

She thought about answering diplomatically but quickly decided to just put it all out there. There was no time to be polite about things when the embassy was surrounded and there was an attack helicopter circling overhead for purposes unknown. "Artur Zembrovko is dead, sir. Foreign Minister Gleb Kodalov killed him and has declared himself president."

"Jesus," Russell muttered.

"I see," Conrad said in the tone he reserved for receiving bad news he wasn't yet quite sure what exactly he should do with.

Elizabeth glanced at Henry sitting attentively next to her. "We had a little chat with him on our way out of the palace," she went on. "He's invoking article nine of the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations."

"Which says..?" Conrad enquired.

"'The receiving State may at any time and without having to explain its decision, notify the sending State that the head of the mission or any member of the diplomatic staff of the mission is persona non grata or that any member of the staff of the mission is unacceptable.' The choice is for us to withdraw the staff concerned or else Petria can refuse to recognise them. In essence get out or face the consequences. I paraphrase, but…" The voice was Nadine's; Elizabeth hadn't been aware that her own chief of staff was on the call, but she was glad of it.

She could also imagine Conrad closing his eyes and praying for oblivion at the answer.

"Well, we'd love to get out," Elizabeth said, "but we're stuck in the embassy and there's some sort of attack helicopter flying above us."

"What kind of helicopter?" Another new voice – this time from Admiral Ellen Hill, the National Security Advisor.

Henry caught Elizabeth's gaze and waited for her nod before taking the question. "Henry McCord, Ma'am. I can't be one hundred percent certain but I'm pretty confident it's a Russian-made Mi-24."

"Do we know if there are any of those helicopters still in use by the Petrian army?" Elizabeth asked.

"I'll find out," Ellen Hill answered.

"Find out fast," Conrad added, no doubt all too aware of the possible problem if it turned out the helicopter wasn't actually the property of Petria – and the problem if it was. Then he said, "Bess, we're seeing reports online that there's a large anti-American protest in one of the main squares in Rusapol." He let the statement hang there for a moment.

"Given the situation outside the embassy, it wouldn't surprise me," she said. "There's been resistance building for a while, I think. This new energy plant we're backing seems to have escalated things somewhat."

That was an understatement. The protests had followed her around over the course of her visit, popping up everywhere she was planning to be and growing in size as the days wore on in what could only be a deliberate fashion.

Wait a minute. Something started to nag at Elizabeth in the back of her mind, a thought about the nature of the protests that had followed her around the country, but the President spoke again before she could fully rationalise it and the whisper of a thought drifted away for the time being.

"We're working on a plan to evacuate the embassy," Conrad said.

"Just as soon as we get some intelligence that's worth more than shit," Russell added quietly – but not quietly enough.

"We're reaching out to our allies in the area, Ma'am," said Nadine, and Elizabeth could well imagine her giving Russell some serious side-eye. "The British and the French have a joint naval base on the coast and a robust diplomatic presence in Rusapol. They may be able to help if required."

"Yeah, thanks. Let me know if I need to speak to anyone here, their ambassadors or military commanders." Elizabeth turned in her chair to look properly at Henry and reached out to take his hand. "Hey, Nadine?"

"Ma'am."

She swallowed around a lump that had appeared unbidden in her throat. "Our kids… could you let them know we're OK? Tell them that we're fine. You know, do the jazz hands thing to try and stop them from worrying?" Not that it would stop them from worrying. The McCord children were all far too smart and aware for their own good, and there was no way they wouldn't know what was going on or that their parents were in trouble.

Nadine answered in her most reassuring voice, the one that always made Elizabeth feel the tiniest bit better no matter the situation. "Already dealt with, Ma'am. Blake is on his way to your house to take care of things as we speak."

Good. It was good that Blake was going. He knew the kids and knew how to handle them, and he knew how to break bad news well. He would make sure they were OK until Elizabeth and Henry could be there themselves to make sure the children were OK. "Thank you," she said to Nadine, aware of how inadequate it was. Then she said, "Daisy and Jay are missing at the palace. The security guys are working on a plan to find them."

There was a moment's pause before Nadine answered, quiet and diplomatic. "I hope they come up with a good one."

"Me too." A small commotion on the other side of the room caught Elizabeth's attention and she looked up to see Helena Garfield heading over to where she sat with Henry, while Andreou Flack and the other embassy staff in the room were clustering around a television screen in the corner.

"I think you should see this, Madam Secretary," the ambassador said. "Gleb Kodalov is about to make an address."