Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Bryce
I arrived at the embassy that morning expecting a quiet departure for Sheffield — ribbon cutting, Firestone tyres, handshakes and photographs. Nothing more dangerous than blisters from standing too long in dress shoes.
But the moment I pushed through the glass doors, I knew something was wrong.
The air buzzed with urgency. Staffers rushed down corridors clutching folders, voices clipped and hurried. Phones rang without pause. The usual veneer of calm professionalism was gone, replaced by a current of alarm that made the hair rise on my arms.
“Ambassador Lewis!”
Paula Brooks appeared from nowhere, her heels clicking like gunfire on the marble.
“There’s an emergency,” she said, already turning on her heel. I fell into step beside her, the unease in my stomach hardening into dread.
“What happened?”
“Russia,” she said grimly. “They’ve crossed into Albania. Full invasion. Tanks, airstrikes. No warning, no provocation — nothing. It blindsided everyone.”
I stopped in my tracks for half a second, the words catching in my chest. “Albania?”
“Yes. Albania. NATO member Albania.” Paula’s mouth was a hard line. “The implications are obvious.”
We hurried down the hallway together. My mind spun — Article 5, collective defence, the cornerstone of the entire alliance suddenly tested in the most brutal way possible. I thought of Ukraine, abandoned, and my stomach turned.
Outside my office, a man in a grey suit was waiting, posture taut as a bowstring. I recognised him immediately: Adrian Calloway from the Foreign Office, one of Nigel Thorne’s sharpest aides.
“Ambassador.” He dipped his head in greeting, though the gesture was brisk, distracted.
“Prime Minister Whitmer asked me to convey that RAF squadrons are already prepping sorties. France is mobilising troops. Poland, the Baltic states — they’re screaming for joint action.
NATO command is calling an emergency session in Brussels, but they’ll expect your government’s position within the hour. ”
“Thank you, Mr. Calloway,” I managed, though my throat felt raw.
Paula gestured toward my office door. “The Secretary of State is waiting for you on secure video. We’ve got the line open.”
I drew a steadying breath, adjusted my jacket, and stepped inside.
The chaos outside muted instantly when the door closed, replaced by the low hum of the secure connection initialising on my desk monitor.
My office felt smaller than usual, claustrophobic with the weight of what awaited.
I sank into my chair, spine stiff, heart hammering, and fixed my gaze on the screen.
The camera feed flickered once before settling on the grim, square-jawed face of Secretary Kirk.
He looked exactly as he always did on these secure video calls: hair slicked into place as though lacquered, steel-framed glasses reflecting the glow of whatever lamp he kept just off-screen, and the permanent downward tug of his mouth, like the weight of the republic itself pulled at his jowls.
Behind him, the seal of the State Department hung on a blue backdrop, antiseptic and theatrical, as if this were a press briefing instead of a crisis.
I kept my posture straight at my desk, shoulders squared. The embassy’s gilt-framed portrait of President Harding hung on the wall over my shoulder. That portrait always made me feel like I was under surveillance, even when the man himself wasn’t staring me down.
“Ambassador Lewis,” Kirk said by way of greeting, his voice flat, nasal, and unforgiving. “You’ve seen the situation reports. Russian troops rolled into Albania.”
My heart thudded against my ribs, though I kept my expression as neutral as any trained diplomat could.
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” I said. My throat felt tight, but my voice was even. “Our allies here are mobilising. Prime Minister Whitmer briefed Parliament this morning. The RAF is moving squadrons, and British ground forces are preparing joint operations under NATO command. They—”
Kirk cut me off with a sharp tilt of his head. “They’ll be mobilising without us.”
The chill that raced through me wasn’t from the draught that always leaked under my office windows. “Sir?”
“Let’s not waste time pretending this is up for debate,” he snapped.
“The president’s position is clear. Albania has never once met its financial obligations under Article 3.
Its so-called military is a joke, and their GDP is a fraction of what it should be.
We’re not risking American lives to defend a country that can’t defend itself. ”
I blinked at him, struggling to keep my composure. “But, Mr. Secretary, Article 5 is unequivocal. An attack on one is an attack on all. That principle has defined NATO since its founding. The UK government is already preparing to—”
He leaned closer to the camera, his glasses catching the light in a way that obscured his eyes but magnified the disdain in his expression. “Ambassador, your job is not to editorialise. Your job is to convey President Harding’s position to the British government. Nothing more. Nothing less.”
The rebuke burned. I bit the inside of my cheek, tasting copper. “Respectfully, sir, the optics of the United States stepping back while our allies—”
Kirk’s mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer.
“Optics are Europe’s problem. They’ve hidden under our umbrella long enough.
They are always quick to rattle their sabres, knowing big brother America will ride in to clean up their messes.
Not this time.” His voice dropped, venom threading through it.
“They can deal with their own backyard for once.”
For a moment, all I could hear was the rush of blood in my ears.
I thought of Albania’s mountains, the crumbling villages I’d once driven through as a junior attaché, the fragile pride of a country that had fought for NATO membership like it was oxygen.
I also thought of Ukraine—ravaged, betrayed, sacrificed on the altar of political convenience.
And now this.
“What would you like me to tell Prime Minister Whitmer when he asks why the United States is abandoning its obligations?” I asked. I kept my tone deliberate, almost clinical, though inside I felt like I was walking across cracking ice.
Kirk’s lips pulled tight. “You’ll tell him exactly what I’ve told you. President Harding does not consider Albania worth the blood of American sons and daughters. If the Brits want to play global policeman, let them. And Lewis?”
“Sir.”
“Don’t editorialize. Don’t sympathise. Don’t so much as blink in a way that suggests the United States is anything less than resolute. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” I said, though the word tasted like poison.
The screen went black.
I sat motionless in the silence, staring at my own ghosted reflection in the dead monitor. My hands lay flat on the desk, knuckles white, the wood cool beneath my palms.
The world was unravelling outside these walls, and all I wanted was the cocoon of his presence. With Arthur, I remembered what it meant to be alive, not just to serve.
I opened my eyes and reached for my phone.
My thumb hovered for a moment, the rational part of me whispering that I should compose myself, return to the work of the day.
Draft talking points. Schedule another call.
Prepare to lie through my teeth to the people who still believed in American promises.
Instead, I typed a message to Arthur.
I miss you terribly. The world is falling apart, and you’re the only thing making me feel sane.
* * *
The hallway outside the Cabinet Room at Downing Street was hushed when I arrived. A staffer with clipped vowels and a stiff back ushered me inside without preamble.
Prime Minister Whitmer was already at the head of the polished oak table, his hands braced on either side like he might push it over in fury. Nigel Thorne sat slightly back in his chair, one ankle crossed neatly over the other, a notepad balanced on his knee.
“Ambassador Lewis.” Whitmer’s voice cracked across the room like a whip. “Would you care to explain to me what in God’s name your government thinks it’s doing?”
“Prime Minister,” I began evenly, “I’ve been instructed to convey President Harding’s position. The United States will not—”
His fist slammed against the table, rattling the glassware.
“Yes, I’ve heard Harding’s position. The position is cowardice dressed as policy.
” His face was florid, his silver hair standing in wild disarray from where he’d dragged his fingers through it.
“Article 5 is sacrosanct. An attack on one is an attack on all. That is the promise on which NATO stands.”
“I understand, sir,” I blurted, my heart hammering. “But the President’s view is that Albania’s—”
“Don’t you dare,” Whitmer snapped, pointing a finger at me, “don’t you dare lecture me on Albania’s budget shortfalls as though that excuses Russia rolling tanks across their border.
Britain is mobilising. France is mobilising.
For God’s sake, even the Poles have pledged boots and steel.
And where is America, our so-called closest ally? ”
The heat of his fury left me rooted to the spot. My training told me to keep calm, keep neutral, keep repeating the lines Washington had scripted. But standing there beneath his withering glare, the words tasted like ash.
“I am here,” I said carefully, “to represent my country. The President’s decision is final.”
Whitmer laughed — a harsh, barking sound.
“Final? Do you have any idea what this means? Europe will fight, with or without you. And when the body bags come home draped in flags, when we are forced to bury our dead for Albania, what shall I tell the families? That America decided we weren’t worth the trouble? ”
The silence stretched. My throat constricted, but there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t betray either my orders or my conscience.