“Okay,” Mike said, sighing. “I don’t have a suit, though.”
“Just be yourself,” Pierson said, chuckling. “You’ve talked to the President in shorts before, a Russian ambassador is nothing.”
“The President expected shorts,” Mike pointed out. “And you know I’m not diplomatic.”
“Just be yourself,” Pierson repeated. “You’ll do fine.”
Chapter Eight
Mike had had to get up at o-dark-thirty to make the nine AM meeting in Tbilisi. He’d brought Vil, who said he could drive the Mercedes in case he had to have it move around. As he pulled up at the gates of the embassy, just short of nine, he shook his head.
“I don’t have a way to contact you,” he said.
“I wait here,” Vil replied. “If you leave, I follow.”
“Just make sure the protection guys know that,” Mike said, as they pulled up to the gates of the embassy.
The American Embassy to the Republic of Georgia looked like half the American embassies in the world. It was an old house, very large and rambling, that had been fortified with solid concrete barriers all around. Getting to the gates required driving through a serpentine series of turns and when they got there, they were surrounded by armed guards. One of the Marines, in dress greens, carrying a clipboard and wearing a side arm, stepped up to the door as Mike rolled down the window.
“Mike Jenkins,” he said, handing the Marine his passport. “I’ve got a meeting with Ambassador Wilson at nine. This is my driver, Vil, a Georgian citizen.”
“Yes, sir, you’re on the list,” the Marine lance corporal said. “If you don’t mind, could you pop the trunk for inspection?”
“Got it,” Mike said, hitting the latch.
In a few minutes the car was passed through. He carefully followed the Marine’s directions to a parking area and slid into a spot designated for Distinguished Visitors.
“You’re going to have to wait at the car,” Mike said as he got out. “It might be a long time. Don’t go wandering. I’ll try to get someone to come out and tell you where the can is and stuff.”
“I’ll be fine,” Vil said, sliding over to the driver’s seat and reclining it. “Very comfortable. Better than working the farm.”
Mike went to the front entrance where another Marine escorted him to a conference room. When he got there, there were two men in suits and one Army colonel in dress greens already present.
“Mr. Jenkins,” a short, pleasant faced man said, stepping over to shake Mike’s hand. “I’m Ambassador Wilson.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ambassador,” Mike said, nodding. “Sorry about how I’m dressed but I didn’t expect to be doing diplomatic work.” He’d dressed in jeans and a safari jacket for the meeting, just about the most formal clothes he had.
“Not a problem. Your reputation precedes you,” the ambassador said, cryptically. “Let me introduce Colonel Mandell and Mr. Steinberg. Colonel Osbruck is the senior military attaché to the embassy and Mr. Steinberg is our intelligence representative.”
“Gentlemen,” Mike said, shaking hands. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“I see the SEALs are on the case,” Colonel Mandell said, smiling. He was a tall, slim officer with cropped hair and a straight back.
“I’m just a common citizen,” Mike replied, shaking his head. “Don’t get all hoo-yah on me.”
“Yes, of course,” Mr. Steinberg said with a slight New York accent. He was a tad taller than the ambassador, with dark hair and eyes and a hooked nose. “As the ambassador said, your reputation precedes you.”
“I hope not,” Mike replied, his face hard. “If it does, I’m going to be very pissed at some people in Washington. Define reputation, if you will.”
“We were simply told that at times you’ve done significant service for the United States government,” the ambassador said, placatingly. “Specifics were not mentioned. What was mentioned was that quite often you tend to have an effect that is… how was it put? An effect that is far greater than could be anticipated. We hope that such will be the case here.”
“Mr. Ambassador,” a man said, sticking his head in the room. “The Russians are here and so is Colonel Kortotich and Mr. Svirska.”
“The colonel and I need to go greet them,” the ambassador said. “Mr. Jenkins, if you’ll take the assigned seat we’ll be right back.”
Mike took the seat indicated by Mr. Steinberg as the two left the room and shrugged.
“I think this is ritual dick-beating, am I right?”
“Maybe,” Steinberg said, grabbing his own chair. “But… your reputation precedes you with the Russians. I’m not sure what these Russians know, but Putin, at least, knows about the Paris operation and that you were the primary operator on it. And from what I’ve been told, he has at least told these guys that you’re not just some Joe-Schmoe. I don’t think the ambassador or the colonel knows that and I haven’t been told they have need-to-know. The call from the secretary of state was probably enough for both of them.”
“Interesting,” Mike said. “Especially since the secretary and I are not mutual admirers. He considers me a bit of a loose cannon.”
“You are a loose cannon,” Steinberg said. “But you’re remarkably targeted for a loose cannon. As long as you keep that up, people will think you’re golden. Screw up once, though, and you’ll find yourself out in the cold in a heartbeat.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Mike said dryly.
“I was told you were a no-bullshit kind of guy,” Steinberg replied. “I can blow smoke up your ass if you’d prefer.”
Mike just chuckled and stood up as the door opened.
There were four men with the ambassador, one in Georgian uniform, one in Russian uniform and two guys in suits who could have been twins. They didn’t look alike facially, but their expressions, build and suits were identical.
“Ambassador Krepkina, Deputy Secretary Svirska, Colonels Kortotich and Skachko, Mr. Steinberg, the embassy’s intelligence officer and Mr. Jenkins, an American citizen currently resident in Georgia,” Ambassador Wilson said.
“Am pleased to meet you,” the Russian ambassador said, shaking Mike’s hand. “President Putin has good things to say about you as does Colonel Chechnik of the president’s office.”
“How is he?” Mike asked.
“Very well,” the ambassador replied. “He sends his regards and hopes that you can in some way improve the situation.”
“That’s what we’re here to talk about,” Mike said, cautiously.
“Something must be done,” Colonel Kortotich said, darkly.
“Gentlemen, let’s take our seats before we begin arguing, shall we?” Ambassador Wilson said as the Georgian colonel darkened.
“I could do a long preamble,” Wilson said when everyone was seated. “But I won’t. What I’m going to do is let Mr. Steinberg explain why Mr. Jenkins’ plans may, and I stress may have a salient effect on the current situation. Mr. Steinberg?”
“Mike, you got any idea what a functional militia in your area will do to the Chechens?” Steinberg said, standing up and going to a map on the wall.
“No,” Mike admitted. “Let’s get something straight up front. Okay, apparently most of the people in the room know that I’ve got some enemies. Specifically among Islamic terrorists. I settled where I settled because I liked the area and I especially liked the little fort I bought. I’m going to form a militia because the people in the area need some relief from the Chechens, who are apparently running rampant. And because I could use some gun-bunnies around. But I hadn’t planned on crushing the Chechen forces in the area. The Red Army can’t do that in Chechnya and the Georgian army can’t do that in Georgia.”