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.
“Pathetic,” Whitmer muttered finally, turning away from me as though I were beneath notice.“Absolutely pathetic.”
Beside him, Nigel Thorne lifted his gaze to me at last.His eyes, normally shrewd and faintly amused, were cool and sharp now.He didn’t speak.He didn’t need to.The weight of his disapproval landed just as heavily as Whitmer’s tirade.
“You’re dismissed,” Whitmer said, flicking his hand as though swatting a fly.“Go polish your talking points, Ambassador.The adults will handle the rest.”
My face burned, though I kept my chin high.I gathered my things, turned, and walked out.
Thorne followed.His shoes clicked softly against the marble tiles as he escorted me down the corridor, neither of us speaking.The silence was worse than words.When we reached the black door that led out to Downing Street, he opened it for me, gesturing toward the waiting SUV idling at the curb.
“Mr.Thorne,” I murmured.
