Falls the Shadow

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 8/14

Bartlet led the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs towards the Oval Office at a brisk pace. "I don't care whether it's feasible or not, Fitz," he snapped over his shoulder. "The Intelligence budget has to be good for something.  I want detailed information on any possible suspects in the Marine One investigation, as well as the likely players in the field of black market weapons and nuclear armament sales.  And I want it yesterday."

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace found himself struggling to keep up with the shorter man. Not for the first time, he wondered how a President who had never served a day in uniform could still march at a pace that left professional combatants in despair. At least when he'd been obliged to carry a cane for a few days after the accident… "Sir, I agree with you. We need the information. But our Russian advisors would like to remind you that the troublesome state of that country's governmental, military and law enforcement bureaucracies…"

"I don't care, Fitz. I've heard it all before." Bartlet blew through reception, raising more than a few curious eyebrows, and opened the door to the Oval Office. 

Charlie Young rose hastily from behind his desk and followed them inside. He still didn't understand why, but the President wanted him in on this meeting, maybe for moral support. He wasn't quite comfortable with that. Still, it wasn't his place to question an executive order.

"I refuse to believe that the Russian Mafia, or lone criminal masterminds for that matter, are capable of better intelligence gathering than the US military, sit down everybody," he growled irritably to his already assembled senior staff. "I'll start our meeting in a minute, wherein I have no doubt the Russian situation will arise."

McGarry moved to join Fitzwallace in the center of the office, while the staff resumed their seats on the sofas to each side. "Is this about the latest intelligence reports on our most likely suspects?" He directed the question towards the President, who had halted his own progress behind his desk. 

Dropping a folder onto his blotter, Bartlet remarked acidly, "You could say that. But to me, an intelligence report implies the actual imparting of information. Not taking three pages of verbiage to say 'Sorry, we don't know where this guy is, who he is or what he may be up to.'" He snorted. "In fact, they still can't conclusively link him, if there is a him, or anyone else to the Marine One incident."

McGarry spared a brief glance for his unusually silent and tense colleagues. The incident had been consuming a generous proportion of their attention ever since that nightmare had first been revealed, to say nothing of the truly horrific future possibilities he had spelled out for them only last night. He turned back to the President's military advisor.  "You mean to say there's still nothing?"

Fitzwallace shrugged, uncomfortably aware that he was being put on the spot and in direct line of fire of the President's ire. It couldn't be helped. "I wouldn't go quite that far, Leo. It's true that we have no concrete information on who our suspect may be, but we do have reason to believe that he is in this country, and that he is running active lines of communication with the Russian Mafia both here and back home. To what purpose, we can make an educated guess. And we don't like the answers, especially in view of the President's ultimatum to the Russian government about the inspection teams and their lousy safeguards on nuclear sites and disposal facilities."

"Nobody likes having their profits cut into," McGarry growled. "How certain are we that this is being handled locally?"

Fitzwallace sighed heavily. "Not very. The only thing we are sure of is that whatever money has been spent hasn't come from the standard overseas accounts. There has been no unusual activity on any of the accounts, and taking out the President of the United States would cost. Someone's being paid, but for whatever it's worth..."

"Which ain't much."

"... the paymaster is here," Fitzwallace finished, ignoring McGarry's snide commentary. He was getting used to it.

This particular revelation did very little to improve the President's already foul mood.

"Apparently it's official. The Russian Mafia have now added me to that long list of people they would like to see permanently retired from public life," Bartlet commented dryly, settling wearily into the chair behind his desk. Rubbing his eyes, which for some reason even a partial night's sleep hadn't induced to cooperate, he glanced up at the blurred faces staring at him expectantly.

Expecting what? He didn't have the answers any more than his advisor's did, and wasn't any happier with the gaping holes left over. Blinking, he noted curiously that Toby and Leo, usually presenting a united, centered front at meetings like this, had placed themselves on opposite sides of his desk. Any other time and Bartlet would have thought it a flanking maneuver, but with both men studiously avoiding direct eye contact with each other - and failing miserably at the attempt to not look like they were doing so - the conclusion was obvious.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one to have noticed either. Everyone was uncharacteristically silent. Sam looked like he wanted to find a hole to crawl into. Josh had stationed himself as far away from the two men as possible - probably for a quick escape if needed - and C.J. had that expression on her face like she wanted to bang heads together.

The President was tempted to let her. As if he didn't already have enough problems. What the hell was going on there?

Bartlet sighed, settling back in his chair. Young stepped discreetly closer, not crowding him, but within easy range should the man require anything.

The Chief of Staff had stiffened at the President's last statement. He swung back to Fitzwallace.  "What does he mean? Did some new information emerge at the briefing?"

"No more than you already know, Leo." The Admiral glowered, starting to feel just a little picked on. "The intelligence reports turned up very little. But they did pass on persistent rumors that the organized crime groups we have focused our attention on within Russia are extremely unhappy about the pressure the President has brought to bear about the lax controls in the arms and nuclear sectors. And that they may have conveyed this unhappiness to our suspect's organization, with the suggestion that certain steps be considered."

McGarry froze in shock. It wasn't any different from what he and Nancy had told the President last night. Or what he'd already passed on to the senior staff. But somehow, having Fitz confirm it gave the nightmare a harsher reality. He winced when he heard Toby Ziegler's voice rise in angry disbelief, finally giving into the fury that had been deflected by other issues, however debatable, brought up last night.

"Are you trying to tell us that a criminal organization has decided to place a contract on the President of the United States?" The Communications Director's voice was almost trembling with barely suppressed outrage. Of all the staffers, Ziegler knew he had what might have politely been termed the stormiest professional relationship with Josiah Bartlet, but for all that he was fiercely protective of the office of the President, and equally loyal to the man who held it. 

Those same emotions were reflected in the faces of the rest of the senior staff.

Fitzwallace shook his head curtly. "We have no proof of any such communication, but our agents and sources say that there is considerable agitation in the Russian underworld, and a strong rumor to that effect persists.  Something has gone down. I don't think we can afford to ignore…"

"Ignore?!" Ziegler's volume rose to a dangerously high level.

McGarry winced again. "Calm down, Toby", he advised, for the first time that morning making eye contact with the Communications Director.

The exchange did not go unnoticed by the President, who was beginning to wonder if he was actually going to have to play referee on top of everything else. The tension between the two men was thick and heavy.

"I am calm!" Ziegler stopped, casting his eyes down and forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "Leo, this is beyond serious. We're talking about the office of President of the United States. That these... people could even consider a course of action like this… the ramifications are horrific. Democracy and government just doesn't operate like this.  Can't operate like this."

"Sometimes it does." The President's voice was so low as to be almost inaudible, but it froze everyone in place. He looked up to meet their uncomfortable gaze and couldn't help a twisted smile when they looked away. The unspoken subject, the non-secret that no one dared raise although everyone knew what had really happened with Shareef. He trusted them all - but how did they regard him now, knowing what they did? 

"Do you believe in karma, Toby?" he asked quietly, not really knowing what he expected in response.

McGarry glanced away quickly.

Ziegler cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on his shoes. "Mr. President…"

"Never mind." Bartlet waved him away, feeling a little guilty. It had been an unfair question, but the weariness that still weighed on him, despite the respite of last night, seemed to turn his thoughts down such dark paths with greater and greater ease these days. He sighed gently; wishing he could banish the near constant fatigue that seemed to bleed away all energy and leave him feeling burdened down in both body and spirit.

Making an effort to shake the malaise, he pulled his chair closer to his desk and held out his hand. On cue, as always, Charlie handed him the day's schedule and stepped back again, granting him some personal space. Putting on his glasses, Bartlet flipped the folder open. Then he paused, his attention caught by an item on his desk. Puzzled, he leaned closer.

It was a chess piece, more specifically, a bishop, resting neatly on a white envelope that had been placed slightly off-center on his blotter.

Bartlet felt his mood lighten somewhat and he essayed a slight chuckle. "Looking for a rematch, Toby?" he asked, a smile indicating his approval of the gesture and its timing.

Ziegler blinked. "Sir?"

"Another chess match?" Bartlet pointed to the piece in front of him. "Aren't you tired of getting beaten?"

"Not guilty, sir." Ziegler's mind was plainly on other things, and he forced himself to concentrate on this new topic. "I didn't leave it there. And you don't beat me that often," he added with an indignant huff.

"You keep that thought, Toby." He turned to the other likely suspect. "Sam?"

"Not guilty either, Mr. President. Unlike Toby, I do get tired of being beaten. Especially when it's not so much a defeat as an outright massacre."

Bartlet couldn't help a short laugh at that. He had been showing off to the young man just a little. But it had been a good evening. One of the few good ones he could remember in recent times. "Charlie? Do you know who left this?"

"No, Mr. President." Young stepped forward again, exchanging a puzzled glance with McGarry. The preparations for the morning had been hectic, and without a senior secretary in the outer office to help with the chaos, more than a few things were being missed. He didn't like it. "It wasn't here when I left last night, and this is the first Oval meeting of the day."

"Hmmm." Distractedly, Bartlet turned his attention back to the piece. It really was a lovely thing, incredibly detailed and intricately molded. He reached out and picked it up, raising it to examine the fine detail on the surface. His fingers recognized the smooth warmth of ivory and the yellowed patina of the obviously hand-carved material indicated a great age. This was no store bought gift.

"Is anybody going to 'fess up?" he asked, taking his glasses off and rolling the piece speculatively between his fingers.

He laughed heartily at the guilty looks they exchanged. Only this group of people would feel at fault for leaving an anonymous gift. Where was the protocol for that? The gesture touched him deeply, and the symbolism, while curious, indicated a familiarity he found comforting. Sometimes, it was the little things that made a difference.

McGarry, dismissing the incident and the mystery, turned back towards the assembled staffers. He wasn't in the mood for games. Getting back to the business at hand, he said curtly, "Okay, you all know why we're here… " He broke off abruptly, staggering a bit as Fitzwallace suddenly pushed past him. 

"Mr. President, put it down!"

"What?" Startled at the uncharacteristically commanding outburst, Bartlet looked up from his examination. Instinctively, he began to release his hold on the chess piece, dropping it from suddenly stiff fingers. "Fitz? Why on earth… "

To be continued…