Over the course of the next forty-eight hours, the American president took three separate calls from the leader of the Ukrainian opposition, who was clearly terrified that Luganov was poised to drive all the way to Kiev. She pleaded for U.S. military assistance—arms, ammunition, communications equipment, and targeting information, as well as medical supplies and tactical air support. She expressed more distress with each successive conversation, yet no one at Camp David or in the White House thought it wise to intervene to help the Ukrainians, lest it put Washington in a worst-case-scenario showdown.
“We have to be honest, Mr. President. Ukraine is squarely in the Russian sphere,” the secretary of state insisted.
“They’re not a member of NATO,” noted the national security advisor.
“They wanted to be,” the SecDef said.
“But they’re not,” SecState pushed back. “Look, I’m as sympathetic to their plight as anyone, but, Mr. President, we can’t get into a shooting war with the Russians over Ukraine—we just can’t.”
She didn’t need to finish the thought. Everyone knew what she meant, and everyone in the room agreed. A war with Russia, a nuclear power, could quickly get out of hand. The U.S. had already fought two major wars in Afghanistan and Iraq over the previous decade and a half, neither of which had been fully resolved, and both of which had drained trillions of dollars from the federal treasury and soured the American people on any further foreign interventions. The last thing the average American could imagine was sending soldiers or Marines to fight and die in another country to which the U.S. had no treaty obligations.
In the end, the president decided to meet with Luganov face-to-face. Most of his advisors were dead set against the idea and said so. But the president refused to be dissuaded. He ordered preparations to be made for an emergency summit, then called the chancellor of Germany and asked if she would host it. She immediately agreed.
Three days later, Marcus touched down in Berlin just after 6 a.m. local time.
The advance team’s first stop was the U.S. Embassy. They briefed the ambassador and the deputy chief of mission on the president’s itinerary, secured assistance from all the relevant department heads, and met privately with the CIA station chief and legal attaché, a special agent on loan from the FBI. Next they headed to the Hotel Adlon Kempinski, located within sight of Berlin’s Brandenburg Gate, where they checked in and began working through a detailed checklist of preparations. They did a walk-through with the hotel manager and head of security, reviewing the presidential suite and every room on three full floors that would be needed for the entire U.S. delegation. They walked through the kitchen and explained that they’d be bringing their own food, their own beverages, and their own chefs. They examined arrival points and the garage, where dozens of U.S. government vehicles would need to be parked and secured. They went up to the roof to see where the White House Communications Agency equipment would be set up and where sharpshooters and spotters would be positioned.
The following day they met with German intelligence officials and senior representatives of the local police force to gather everything they could on current security threats and an updated list of persons of interest. They drove dozens of possible routes from the airport to the hotel, from the hotel to the U.S. Embassy, and from the hotel to the German Chancellery, where the summit would be held. They also drove routes from the hotel to three different local hospitals and made sure each hospital was stocked with plenty of the president’s blood type. Then they used a U.S. Army helicopter to examine the motorcade routes by air, identifying possible choke points or other areas of vulnerability and discussing ways to counter such threats.
On the morning of the third day, the White House deputy chief of staff, the deputy secretary of state, and the rest of the political advance team landed in Berlin. They were greeted at the airport by the U.S. ambassador and the DCM. Marcus and his colleagues drove them to the German Chancellery, where they met with their political and diplomatic counterparts in the German government. Finally, after a working lunch to discuss additional logistical issues, it was time for a high-stakes meeting with their counterparts from Moscow.
It was precisely 5 p.m. local time when they all entered the grand conference room where the summit would be held—if it was held. The Germans and Americans entered from the left. The Russian delegation entered from the right. They convened around an enormous circular conference table.
The CIA had prepared dossiers on the Russian participants, and Marcus had reviewed each one carefully prior to their departure from Washington. He knew, therefore, that the Russian advance team was headed by Oleg Kraskin, President Luganov’s most trusted political advisor. Oleg would be negotiating the summit’s itinerary, agenda, guest list, seating chart, and every other detail on behalf of the Kremlin and would even be in charge of trying to hammer out a public statement that could be agreed upon in advance by the three world leaders and released when the summit had concluded.
In this context, there was no reason for the Russian negotiator to notice, much less speak to, any member of the American security detail. But about twenty minutes into the rather heated meeting, Oleg suddenly stopped himself midsentence and stared at Marcus so intently that everyone turned to see why.
Marcus instinctively tensed. He was not used to being the center of attention. He actually had no specific protective duties in this room and certainly no diplomatic responsibilities. He was simply there to listen to everything that was discussed and process it from the perspective of securing the American principals when they arrived. He had no idea what to make of the fact that the head of the Russian delegation was fixated on him.
“Mr. Kraskin, is there something I can help you with?” the American ambassador finally asked as the awkwardness of the moment threatened to derail their business.
“You,” Oleg said to Marcus, ignoring the ambassador. “You’re…”
Oleg’s voice trailed off. Then Oleg stood, startling everyone, and began walking toward Marcus, who stood as well as the man drew closer.
Marcus tried to evaluate the possible reasons for the Russian’s unexpected behavior. He had no idea how he was supposed to respond. What were the rules? What was the protocol? It was unheard of for such a high-ranking Russian political official to address a member of the Secret Service, much less approach him, in a meeting like this or at any other time. Was he about to strike him? Marcus had every right to defend himself if attacked. But he knew that any physical altercation between the two men would pour gasoline on a geopolitical fire already raging and threatening to burn out of control.
Oleg Kraskin stopped dead in his tracks, mere inches away from Marcus’s face. For a moment he said nothing. He just stood there, staring. There was an odd, almost quizzical look on his face.
Marcus steadied his breathing, fully prepared to react but determined not to overreact to whatever was coming. In his peripheral vision, he could see that several other officials were also now rising to their feet. The U.S. ambassador was about to speak when Oleg Kraskin beat him to it.
“You’re Marcus Ryker, are you not?” Oleg said, pointing at Marcus’s chest.
“Yes, sir, I am,” Marcus said as politely and diplomatically as he could.
“You’re the agent who saved your president’s life. I saw you on television. You’re a hero.”
Marcus said nothing, completely baffled at this point.
“That’s you; am I right?” Oleg pressed. “You’re the one the president honored in the White House?”
“Yes, sir, I guess so,” Marcus replied, not sure what else to add.