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Tomorrow is the General Assembly. He’ll address the whole body of the UN, and the day after, he’s chairing a head-of-government-level session of the Security Council. In the history of the UN, such a high-level meeting has only happened a handful of times.
This is the defining moment of his presidency. This is what will determine how his administration is remembered. He is on the cusp of the two most important days of his life.
Stay away. You are bad for Brennan Walker, and for the world.
If he and I make a misstep and history sinks its teeth into him, his legacy will be tainted forever.
I’m not worth that. I’m not.
Henry takes the lead slot for the motorcade to the UN, and I ride with Nuñez in the chaser SUV.
There’s a rhythm to these gatherings. Every nation’s security service negotiates with each other to establish their leaders’ arrival time. Well, everyone except us. We dictate what we’re doing. You either play ball with the Secret Service or we’ll shove the baseball bat up your ass. We told the world when Brennan was going to arrive for the evening reception, and we are on time to the second.
So why the fuck is Russian president Nikita Kirilov climbing out of his presidential limo at the UN exactly when we were supposed to arrive?
The damn Russian security contingent has filled the entire UN plaza with its motorcade, leaving us dangling out on First Avenue, completely exposed.
And they seem to be in no hurry to move.
Within two seconds, six of our SUVs form a phalanx around Brennan’s vehicle, creating an immediate protective blockade, and I jump out of the chaser car and run toward the UN plaza. Sheridan and Nuñez appear on either side of me as the CAT team surrounds Brennan’s vehicle and those six flanking SUVs with their weapons drawn.
President Kirilov loiters at the entrance, and until he’s safely delivered inside the UN proper, everyone in his motorcade appears to be under orders to remain where they are. Never mind my agents losing their shit or the NYPD screaming at the Russian drivers to move their asses. They are as immovable as ice.
Russia’s version of the Secret Service is just better-armed FSB agents. As we near their motorcade, the rear guard, a team of five dressed in head-to-toe black and carrying MP5s, shift their fingers to their triggers.
“Get me Anatoly,” I bark at the nearest Russian. “Now!”
Anatoly Anisimov, the FSB chief in Washington and my Russian counterpart, saunters toward me down the flank of the motorcade. He’s a large, stocky man, and it’s easy to underestimate him as just another middle-aged Russian. Three years ago, in London, I watched him deck one of his own team, lay the bear of a man out cold with one punch. He stepped over the unconscious body, and, at a flick of his wrist, three of his agents dragged their former coworker away.
He’s dressed in a black-on-black suit and has grown a beard since I last saw him—close-cropped and shot with silver—but instead of looking older, he looks more sinister.
“Anatoly, what the fuck? Move your motorcade.”
“President Kirilov has not entered the UN yet.”
“Your president isn’t supposed to be here. You know President Walker is arriving.”
“President Kirilov insisted.” He shrugs as if to say everything is out of his control. It’s the Russian way: nothing is ever their own fault. “My president is interested in speaking with your president.”
Warnings go off like a five-alarm fire inside my skull. That sounds like a fucking disaster. “No. Absolutely not.”
“President Kirilov insists.”
“I don’t give a shit. Move your fucking motorcade now.”
“It’s a good day, no? President Kirilov might enjoy the sunshine for a while.” Anatoly turns away.
Putain de merde. I radio Henry on a private channel and relay Kirilov’s demand. “It’s up to Ranger. I can throw down out here, or he can come out and say hello. I’m up for option number one, but Ranger has to make the call.”
“Roger. Hold one.”I wait. Henry’s talking to Brennan in their SUV. Is Brennan as furious as I am? Is he furious with me for letting this happen?
“He’ll come out.”
“Merde. Roger that.” I call Anatoly back and give him the word.
“See how easy this is to resolve?”
“Tu me fais chier, Anatoly. We’re not fucking done here.”
