Chapter Sixteen

It wasn't often that President Conrad Dalton was left waiting for someone to come to the phone – usually it was they who were desperate to speak to him – and it could have been a little awkward, had he not chosen to use the couple of minutes waiting for Gleb Kodalov to come to the receiver in a productive manner.

By productive, he of course meant letting his anger fester and grow as he turned the situation over in his head.

He sat behind his desk in the Oval Office, aware of Russell Jackson sitting on the couch pretending to be re-reading the briefing report that explained in great detail the height of the shit mountain that was currently coalescing in Petria.

Maybe coalescing was the wrong word. Exploding, perhaps.

"Hold for the President," said a voice on the other end of the phone line, in broken English that was heavily coloured by a Petrian-Russian twang.

Finally. There were a couple of moments of static and the sound of shuffling as the phone in Petria was passed along. Conrad was pretty sure the call had been patched through to someone's ancient, dodgy cell phone, and wouldn't be surprised if the signal dropped out at any moment.

"President Dalton," Kodalov said as he finally appeared on the other end of the line.

Conrad decided it wasn't the time for niceties, or even formalities. "Here's what's going to happen, Gleb."


When Elizabeth strode into the room that held Andreou Flack, there was no way he would detect even the smallest hint of discomfort on her face – or any other emotion. She was practiced at keeping her cool when she had to, and this time she most definitely had to, even as inwardly the stress of the entire situation threatened to get the better of her and her ribs were protesting loudly with every sure, confident step she took.

All that mattered was what Flack read on her face, which would be exactly what she let him read and nothing more.

The room was small and slightly frayed around the edges like many of the chancery's operational areas, but it was adequate for its purpose. The plain walls held no character, and the furniture was drab, the table bolted to the floor. There was even a one-way mirror that let Henry and the others watch from the next room. Like most of the rest of the building, the interrogation suite hadn't been updated since communism was still the main ideology of the land, and most likely hadn't been used since that time, either. Still. It did what it needed to.

Which was to temporarily incarcerate and unsettle a suspect. Or, in the current case, a thoroughly guilty bastard.

Flack's eyes fixed on Elizabeth as soon as she entered the room. She very deliberately didn't look at him, instead focusing on taking her seat and glancing inside the slim cardboard folder she had brought in with her, and exchanging a glance with Matt, who stood against the back wall with his eyes trained on the back of Andreou Flack's head, staring at the traitor with a death glare.

Maybe she shouldn't bother interrogating the man. Maybe she should just turn his chair around and let her DS agent stare him down until he cracked.

Then again, that probably wouldn't be sporting.

She waited as long as she possibly could, right until the very last moment, when Flack had opened his mouth to break the silence – to say something flattering and charming about her, no doubt – before she said anything. Elizabeth flicked her gaze up to see that the Regional Security Officer was suffering from a breakout of sweat at his hairline and his face was drained of colour. He was hunched in on himself, sitting awkwardly. No doubt that was partly down to the handcuffs binding his hands behind his chair, but also partly due to the fact her knee had not so long ago smashed hard into his testicles. Oops.

"I only have one question," she said, the split second before Flack tried himself to speak.

His tongue had already started to form whatever words he was intending to say, and it took him a couple of moments to backtrack enough to take in what she had said. His head tilted to the side in mimicry of Kodalov's own enquiring expression that drove Elizabeth nuts. "And what might that be?" Flack asked, sounding nonchalant and deliberately condescending.

Like he thought that would bother her. Like she hadn't worked in the CIA for years before she became the Secretary of State. Like she'd never questioned anybody before, or hell, like she'd never dealt with a drunk, sexist moron in a bar. He had to know it would have no effect on her.

Finally, she looked up at Flack properly and held his gaze. She spoke clearly. "What do you want?"

The question was apparently unexpected enough that it threw him and he wasn't able to conceal a small frown that creased his brow for several seconds before he caught himself and smoothed out his expression. He tilted his head again but refrained from answering.

That was OK. If she was in his position, she wouldn't answer either. Not a question as broad and encompassing as that. Only an idiot would volunteer an answer to it so early on. Still. She was certain that by the time she was done with him, Flack would have given her the answer even if he didn't mean to.

She just hoped that he gave up his answers fast, because her security guys were getting increasingly twitchy about the situation in the street outside the embassy, and she was aware that they didn't have long left before they really needed to move.

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair – carefully, mindful of her ribs, but also mindful to keep a calm, collected expression on her face. She bit at the inside of her lip when her body protested at being forced to relax in the uncomfortable plastic chair. "I'll tell you what I want," she said to Flack. "I want a few things, actually. Worldwide gender equality, for instance, and a decent cup of coffee. I also want Gleb Kodalov brought to justice for what he's done, and I want to know who's behind this coup. I want the people of Petria to have a peaceful, stable, democratic nation to call home. And, selfishly, Andreou, I want to go home. I'm supposed to be on a plane right now somewhere over the Atlantic, but instead, I'm here, talking to you while the street outside is filled with people who hate me. So tell me what it is that you want so that I can go home. And don't mess me around, because as you've already discovered, it won't end well for you if you do."

No response.

She hadn't expected one. "You fucked up, Andreou."

There was no verbal answer but the involuntary twitch of his eyebrow gave away the man's annoyance.

"Stoking those protests might have helped rally Kodalov's supporters to his cause, but they also made it possible to figure out that there was a traitor in the embassy. You screwed yourself over."

She gave him a minute to mull that one over, privately quite glad of the time. She was becoming increasingly aware of the fatigue and aches and pains that threatened to overtake her, and the time Flack spent not answering anything she said was time she was able to use to compose herself.

Elizabeth gave him a gotcha smile. "And I don't think you're naïve enough to think that your masters are coming to save you now, otherwise you wouldn't have bothered to confront me over what I knew. You were testing how thoroughly you're in trouble. Which is very, in case you hadn't worked it out. You're acting alone now you've done what they want, and quite frankly you're not very good at it. Think about that, won't you, when you're answering my question. I'll repeat it for you in case you've forgotten. What do you want?"

"The protests were noble, Madam Secretary, and they were necessary."

It wasn't an answer to her question, at least not a direct one, but it was a start. She quirked an eyebrow and gave the man the floor to speak.

"You ask me what I want? I want this country to be free."

"You think this is free?" She gestured around her, encompassing the whole sorry situation they found themselves in. "You're confusing lawless violence with freedom. Trust me, Andreou, it's not the same thing."

"Nor does free trade necessarily equal freedom, but you seem to forget that yourself. You and your president."

She was about to retort that she wasn't about to get into an ideological argument with him, but then she thought it through a little more, thought about the locations of the protests that had plagued her visit to Petria, and thought about how free trade was a relatively young idea in this country. How foreign investment except in the guise of Soviet rule was an unusual thing here. "This is about the power plant."

The look on Flack's face suggested she'd guessed correctly. "Partly. A US company swooping in to make millions might be free something, but it certainly wasn't the choice of the people of Petria."

"You think the people of Petria preferred the devastating, deadly fire from the coal-powered plant that was there before the US-owned plant was built?"

Flack scoffed as though he was disgusted with her. He craned forward in his chair, straining against the cuffs that restrained him. "See, that right there is why I'm here. It's about what I told you before. That arrogance. You always know best."

"So it's an ideological thing."

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug as if to confirm her statement.

She shook her head. "No, I don't think that's it. Not entirely. Not with you. If it was completely ideological you wouldn't be panicking now you've been caught. You'd accept it as a sacrifice to your cause. But I think you're scared. I think you're scared you've been hung out to dry."

Flack swallowed, giving himself away.

Maybe it was partly ideology. Maybe that was how he had sold his actions to himself, validated them in his own mind. Maybe being in Petria for so long had turned his allegiance. But that wasn't the complete picture. Elizabeth took a guess – partly educated, partly wild calculation. "How much are the old Russian generals paying you?" She grinned. "Not enough, I'll bet. Not enough now that it's all over for you. Not enough to make it worth the risk."

Flack looked down and away, a sure sign that she had guessed right. The Regional Security Officer, like so many before him, was in it at least partly for the cash. Maybe he was naïve after all.

"No one else can help you, Andreou," she said softly. "Just me. I'm all you've got, which I can imagine is awkward for you, considering you just beat up me and my husband and so I'm not feeling all that gracious towards you right now. But I'll admit. I'm feeling desperate. Tell me how we get out of here, and I won't leave you here to explain to your masters how you blew your own cover."

Flack said nothing.

She had been so sure that would work, that the threat of being left behind to explain himself to whomever he was working for would make him cough up. After all, at least in the custody of the US government, he knew he'd get a fair trial. Elizabeth doubted he'd get the same from Gleb Kodalov and his puppetmasters. As soon as they needed a scapegoat, which would be very soon indeed, they'd hang him out to dry. He'd be lucky to get a bullet to the head.

Flack had to know that. But still… nothing.

Elizabeth breathed out slowly in lieu of the frustrated sigh she really wanted to give. She thought for a moment, and the seed of an idea had just started to take hold when the door to the room opened, prompting her to turn around to see Henry step through.

She frowned at the sight of him; they had agreed – rather, she had told him – that he would stay in the viewing room on the other side of the one-way mirror.

Andreou Flack's eyes lit up as Henry came in. No doubt he thought he'd be able to use Elizabeth's main weakness against her – again.

Henry stopped beside her chair and leaned down, his fists against the table as he fixed Flack in his sights. "Answer her question, Mr Flack."

What the hell was he doing? As much as she appreciated the support, having her husband come in and interrupt her interrogation completely destroyed her credibility, made her look weak. Elizabeth felt annoyance flare within her; it died down as soon as it had started. Henry had to know what it looked like. He had to know what it would make Flack think. He had to have decided it was worth it. She thought she got it… he must have seen the flash of an idea on her face and was giving her time to think. She bit her tongue and regarded Flack coolly, letting Henry have the floor for a moment while she started to turn her new idea over in her head.

"What's this, the cavalry?" Flack said, a spark of glee entering his tone. No doubt he thought it was his lucky day. The poor woman can't hack the interrogation so her husband comes to bail her out.

Beside her, Henry tensed. "Answer the question," he demanded. "How do we get out of this building?"

"There's a perfectly good door that leads out onto the street."

"You know that's not what I mean." Henry straightened up and strolled a couple of steps closer to Flack, stopping just outside of headbutting range. "You knew what was going to happen tonight. You wouldn't have gone along with it without having an escape route in place. So tell me. What is it?"

No answer but a smile.

"Damn it, Flack, there has to be a route out of this building. Tell me what it is."

Enough. Elizabeth had every faith in Henry's interrogation skills, although what she did next might suggest otherwise. The man obviously wasn't going to crack any time soon – unless, perhaps, they forced him to. She made her decision.

She turned to face the one-way mirror. "Helena?" she said, feeling certain that the ambassador would be watching. She tipped her head, beckoning Helena Garfield into the room.

The ambassador appeared in the doorway a moment later, the little interrogation room starting to become quite full. "Ma'am?" she said.

"I need you to do something for me." Elizabeth kept her eyes on Flack as she spoke, watching his reactions closely.

"Anything."

"Contact Mark Strong, the boss of our new power plant. Keep calling him until you get through."

Helena Garfield raised her eyebrows at the request but didn't protest. "What's the message, Ma'am?" she asked neutrally.

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a moment. "Tell him to shut the plant down."


President Conrad Dalton dropped the phone receiver back into its cradle and then stood quietly next to his desk, needing just a moment to compose himself after the combative call with the self-declared President of Petria.

"Do you feel dirty now?" Russell asked from his position on the couch, not bothering to look up from the briefing memo that still rested on his lap, the one he had been pretending to read while pretending not to listen to Conrad's side of the phone call.

Conrad looked down at the old-fashioned tape recorder that sat on his desk. He pressed the button to rewind the tape it held, watching the little machine work and using it as an excuse not to answer the question from his chief of staff. Then he ejected the tape and slid it into a plastic case. He thought about the phone call.

"Unless you want this conversation made public, Gleb, I suggest you follow my instructions."

He looked up to find Russell had crossed the room silently to stand on the opposite side of the desk. He didn't meet the man's eye. Russell might be the king of backroom deals and doing what was necessary to win, but Conrad wasn't comfortable with what they had just done: made a recording of the call to hold to ransom, and also made a tacit agreement with Gleb Kodalov that he could keep his presidency.

For now. With conditions.

Russell was still waiting for an answer to his question.

Conrad didn't have one that he was prepared to articulate. "Hopefully it's bought Elizabeth some time," he said instead. He looked away.

Russell had his answer.