The Bear

Day Eight The White House

“So, what do we do now?”

“I wish I had an idea, Martin.” Andrey sat back in the chair across from the American chief of staff’s desk. “You have a warm office. It is not like mine in the Kremlin.”

“I would have thought you had a beautiful office in one of the many buildings there. The Kremlin is, if nothing else, a place of historic cultural value to the world.”

“Ah, but the buildings are old and drafty,” Andrey weakly smiled. “It is bad for my arthritis. In my many years of serving in the military, those things did not bother me. But, I was younger and much more fit in those days.”

“Sitting around in an office is quite different from an active military career, Andrey,” Martin replied.

“Much of a general’s later career involves sitting behind a desk, sir.”

“That brings us back to the reason we’re here, Andrey. What do we do about this?”

“Since our dinner last night, I have worried much about this. I am at a loss.” The Russian straightened in his seat, placing his hands on his lap. Martin noticed not a single wrinkle in the Italian wool suit he wore.

“Where does your president think you are now?”

“Simply meeting with my American counterpart. Nothing more.”

“You are scheduled to return to Russia in three days, correct?”

“Da. I am surprised that President Novichkov did not want to cut the visit short. He was very uncomfortable during the state dinner. But, I suppose scheduled official functions take precedence.”

“That leaves us very little time to come up with a solution, Andrey.”

“More than that, a believable solution.”

“Is there simply a way to not get more involved?”

“Nyet. I am in too deep. I can not take a step back without the most severe of consequences, both to my country and to my family.” The former Russian general lowered his eyes, his stare focused on the carpet beneath his black shoes. “I have nowhere else to turn.”

“There is nothing else you can tell me that might help?”

“I have told you everything.”

“Let me get with my folks and we’ll see what we might be able to do.” Martin leaned back into his leather chair and laced his fingers across his stomach. “To tell you the truth, Andrey, I’m not sure there is much we can do. I just hope this doesn’t lead to a dramatic flare-up in global tensions. Things could go from bad to worse.”

The two men sat there, the weight of the situation becoming a wall between them. Andrey raised his head and stared at the big desk, his eyes vacant. He blinked at the knock on the door behind.

“Come.” The American chief of staff looked up as Mary poked her head through the door.

“Mr. Thorn to see you sir.”

Martin waved his hand and stood, the Russian standing as he turned toward the door. The Director of the CIA stepped quickly into Martin’s office, nodding as he looked at Andrey. He extended his hand cordially. Andrey accepted the gesture as he looked down, then back up to the tall American.

“I wish it could be under better circumstances, Mr. Thorn.”

“Maybe there is something we can do about that, Mr. Volkov.”

“You have an idea, Stephen?”

“With a little bit of help, yes.” Martin gestured toward the chair beside the Russian. “We do not have adequate resources within the CIA to perform any type of operation inside your country.”

“What once could have been done …”

“Is no longer in the cards, as it were,” Stephen replied. “Those days are gone, the money and the assets. It’s a brave new world.”

“Who does?”

“We need people trained in urban warfare.” Stephen sat back and let the words sink in. “We need an insurgency force from the military.”

“Military?” Andrey’s eyes went wide. “You mean like one of your Seal teams?”

“Something like that, Mr. Volkov. It would be tricky putting together such a team.”

“Don’t we already have forces that could do this?” Martin asked.

“Under ordinary situations, I would say yes. But this is a little different. We’re talking about interjecting a covert team into the middle of a large city where everyone speaks a foreign language. This isn’t choppering a group of Rangers into Syria under cover of night. That would be child’s play compared to this.”

“How would we even get them in there?” Martin leaned forward putting his elbows on the desk. He was becoming intrigued.

The Director placed his hands on his lap and took a deep breath. He looked toward the Russian chief of staff and stared, trying to gauge his intentions. All that was returned was a blank stare.

“Anything we speak of here Mr. Volkov, can go no further. And I mean you can’t so much as tell your mother what the hell I’m about to suggest.”

“Why would my mother be interested in this?”

Stephen Thorn burst out laughing.