Page 11 of Enemy of My Enemy

Jack did his best to translate Puchkov’s Russian into the language translator on his laptop. He’d learned, over the course of their talks, to have the program open and running during their conversations. Sergey liked to keep him on his toes.

Za Lyubov.Russian toast, meaning “To Love.”

Even with their political relationship growing closer, Sergey had never openly expressed such warm sentiments to Jack before. His brand of affection was more of the harsh, teasing variety. Jack fought for words. “Sergey… Thank you.” He exhaled. “This hasn’t been easy—”

“Nothing truly worthwhile ever is.”

Was that exhaustion staining Sergey’s voice? Jack frowned. “Sounds like you know from experience.”

Sergey sighed. “I rose up through Russia under President Putin’s reign, Mr. President. One day, we will talk. I will tell you that story.”

Former Russian President Putin. A man who had almost driven the world to war and polarized Russia and the United States. He’d finally vacated the presidency under murky circumstances, and his first successor had died two months into his tenure. Sergey had been elected next, after the government had been dissolved, and so far, eighteen months into his six-year term, he’d survived. Russia was teetering, though. Their economy kept declining, and corruption kept skyrocketing. Discontent had grown within Sergey’s country.

It couldn’t be easy being president over there.

And yet, he had befriended Jack and was kind when he didn’t have to be. Jack smiled. “You’re the only head of state to offer personal congratulations so far.”

“I beat the British? And Europe?” A slapping sound, like Sergey had clapped his hand on his desktop. “Ha!”

There had been statements issued by the offices of the other leaders and received by the State Department. Europe, as progressive as they were, and the United Kingdom, with their special relationship with the United States, wouldn’t misstep so far as to remain silent on the matter. But Sergey was the only one to speak to Jack and personally offer his congratulations.

“I would have phoned you sooner, Mr. President,” Sergey said, sobering slightly. “Matters here stole my time today. And, I wanted to let you and your first gentleman relax before the storm descended upon you.”

“Descend it has.” Jack sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Snatches of his staff meeting, his daily briefing, tugged at him. “I have good news for you, though. Something good from this morning, anyway.” Sergey made a grunting noise on the phone, and over the speaker, leather creaked, like he was leaning back in his chair. “We got a positive ID on the remains our joint team found. It’s Al-Karim.”

“Zeabis,” Sergey breathed.

Jack typed away. His translator beeped back.Russian Slang. Zeabis: Fucking awesome.He grinned. “Yes, Sergey. ‘Zeabis’.”

“Ha! You speak Russian terribly, Mr. President. But, Al-Karim dead is a good thing. A very good thing. Your general cannot use him in the Caliphate anymore.”

“Parts of our intelligence community believe that Al-Karim was executed by members of the Caliphate. A retaliation against his collusion with Madigan.” Again, the fires within Jack roared, a thirst for vengeance and blood.

“Very possible. We can hope the ties between your general and the Caliphate have been severed.”

“He’s not my general, Sergey.” He balled one hand into a fist, and two of his knuckles cracked.

“Apologies. This terrorist, this madman. Madman Madigan.”

“Sounds fitting.” Jack smiled down at his desktop. “We should issue a joint statement. Pete, my press secretary, is swamped with damage control. Think you and I can bang something together?”

“Two intelligent men such as ourselves? I, of course, being the more intelligent.”Sergey laughed. “Yes, I think we can manage.” The sounds of Sergey sliding his laptop closer and pounding on his keyboard echoed over the line. “My day is winding down, so I can give you this time now. And, I can make a statement in two hours, Mr. President. At seven o’clock in Moscow.”

A quick glance at the dual clocks Jack kept on the sideboard behind his desk. One showed local time, the other, Moscow time. Two hours. Noon in DC. “Sounds good. Let’s get busy, Mr. President.”

* * *

Ethan watchedJack’s short press conference from his office, smiling as he listened to Jack describe the joint US-Russian Special Forces mission that had recovered Al-Karim’s remains. Jack praised the Russians for their assistance, and in an inset video, a translator repeated President Puchkov’s praise for the United States and for their joint mission against the Caliphate.

He left his door open after that, and in the afternoon Barbara poked her head in, smiling as she knocked in a cute pattern against the heavy wood.

“Come in, Barbara.” He stood, holding out his hand for her. She took it with a gentle, delicate grasp, and Ethan tried not to crush her palm in his. “How can I help you?”

Barbara had a bin in one arm, overflowing with folded papers and cards. “Mr. First Gentleman, I thought you might want to see these.” She took one card off the top of the stack and passed it over.

“Congratulations!” Screamed from the top in bright rainbow colors. Inside, the card was signed simply, “We believe in you. Sincerely, the Lombardi family.”

“Cards from supporters came in today, Mr. First Gentleman. I have eight more bins, just like this one.”