Page 74 of Enemy of My Enemy
“Good luck.”
Jack cut the line as his limo approached the massive red walls of the Kremlin. Guards manning the gates saluted as Jack’s motorcade drove through. Ivan the Great’s massive Bell Tower, sparkling with brilliant ivory and gold-gilt onion domes, reflected the sunlight. Beyond the Bell Tower, the tips of St. Basil’s Cathedral edged over the Kremlin Walls, the array of dazzlingly colorful minarets like a rainbow bonfire straining for the sky.
Jack watched the glittering spires until his gaze was drawn to his left, to the massive Grand Kremlin Palace. Columns marched in line with ornately sculpted windows, a seemingly never-ending façade of strength and power wrapped in white marble and gold.
The motorcade pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, and a team of Russian military and FSB stood posted at intervals, watching the motorcade warily. As much as Jack and Sergey were becoming friends, the security services still had a ways to go toward trusting each other. Jack heard Scott mutter under his breath before climbing out of the car and opening Jack’s door.
He smiled at the assembled guards and thanked Scott as he buttoned his suit coat. Squinting, he tried to find Sergey, but his lanky friend wasn’t on the steps.
Instead, Sasha walked forward, holding his hand out. “Mr. President. We are honored that you are here with us.”
“The honor is mine.”
“Please, let me escort you inside.”
Scott shadowed Jack’s every footstep as he fell into step with Sasha and entered the Grand Palace. Few American presidents had ever been inside, and he resisted the urge to spin around and take in the ornate marble covering the walls, the golden sculptures, the mosaics covering the ceiling, the chandeliers twinkling above. Amber light permeated the palace, and a plush red carpet directed everyone down the main hall.
Sasha took him up a wide, curving staircase to another equally ornate hall, twice as tall as the ground floor. What had seemed like three stories was actually two, and a double layer of windows let spears of sunshine through heavy velvet drapes. Prisms exploded from the thousands of crystals hanging in the chandeliers. An arched ceiling inlaid with marble reliefs stared down at Jack and Scott as they walked, their footfalls cushioned almost to silence. More statues, and more gold-gilt reliefs stared at Jack as he followed Sasha to a double paneled door.
“President Puchkov would be honored if you would wait a moment for him in his residence. He has been delayed.”
To enter the home of the Russian president. Another first. Jack smiled and dipped his head. “Of course.”
Sergey’s home, the official Russian president’s residence within the Grand Palace of the Kremlin, was just as ornate as the rest of the building. Sasha led him through the foyer to the sitting room, and Jack found himself seated on a velvet and silk sofa next to a marble table boasting a golden bust of an unknown Russian.
“Aleksandr Pokryshkin,” Sasha said. “Three-time hero of Soviet Union. He may be responsible for winning World War II. He is father of modern Soviet Air Force.”
Jack whistled. “I didn’t know Sergey was a military history buff.”
“He had it brought here recently. It was just sitting in dark warehouse.”
A slow smile spread out over Jack’s face as he watched Sasha. “That was very kind of him,” he said, dipping his head to the young Russian.
Sasha looked away.
“The others? They’re here, right?” Jack wasn’t the only world leader attending the funeral. Britain’s prime minister and Germany’s chancellor had arrived, as had the ambassador to Russia from Saudi Arabia. Prince Abdul, governor of the Riyadh region in Saudi Arabia, had issued a statement from the Kingdom condemning the murder and the desecration of Islam by the murderer. He was the first, but not the last Islamic country to speak out against the terrorist.
“They are here. They are in Georgievsky Hall, with refreshments.”
So he was in the VIP lounge. Jack shared a quick look with Scott.
Scott looked like the world’s tensest wind-up doll, just two turns away from blowing out his springs. He was woefully out of place in the midst of Sergey’s sitting room, a black suit in a sea of red curtains, diamond chandeliers, and gold-framed oil paintings.
The door opened and Sergey’s booming voice bounced over the marble walls. “Jack! I am sorry I was held up. There are a thousand and one complications and only one of me.” He stopped at the sitting room door and clapped his hands together, smiling at Sasha and Jack talking to one another. “Let us share a drink before we go down, Mr. President.”
Sasha moved, standing shoulder to shoulder with Scott. Scott glared sidelong and shuffled away a half step.
Sergey brought over two tumblers of vodka and sat beside Jack. “I spoke with the family. They are certain that they want you to do this.”
Jack swirled the vodka in his glass, staring at the eddies. “Sergey—”
“He was a blogger, and he wrote articles about how much he admired you. How he wished Russia had such a visionary president.” Sergey shrugged. “He would be honored. His memory will be honored.”
His eyes slid closed. Could he do this? He wasn’t quite sure. Even after everything, every single thing that had happened to him from the moment he’d kissed Ethan back, he still wasn’t totally certain about his sexuality. What did he call himself? He’d shied away from labels, other than “Ethan’s lover and partner.” He’d been happy to live in that nether region, the vagueness sheltered by his refusal to speak of his personal life and his dictatorial rule to Pete regarding the media. Now, with the funeral and with Sergey’s ask, the world was thrusting him into a role he wasn’t certain he deserved. He wasn’t a figurehead or a symbol. He didn’t deserve that.
He was just a man.
But this wasn’t about him.
