Falls the Shadow

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 13/14

With a muffled curse, McGarry thrust the top into Abbey's stunned hands and practically leapt away from the bed. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, he bolted for the bedroom door, blinded by memories that wouldn't be denied.  He couldn't stay here. Not now.

Nearly up-ended by the man's sudden action, Hackett made a grab for the medical tray before it could slide to the floor. Scowling, he turned to offer his unbridled opinion to the Chief of Staff, but paused when he saw the troubled look on Ziegler's face as he watched McGarry's uncharacteristically emotional and hasty retreat. He didn't need to have it spelled out. Embarrassed at being witness, he glanced away, concentrating his whole attention on unrolling a length of bandage.

Ziegler shuffled his feet, staring uneasily at the toes of his shoes.

Confused, Abbey watched McGarry bolt for the door. Clutching the shirt tightly in her hands, she called out worriedly, "Leo...?"

She jumped as the bedroom door slammed shut, then turned a questioning glance on her husband. Abbey almost broke down at the expression of raw grief on his face and she suddenly understood. Last night, she had so wanted to lay blame, not truly realizing the depths Leo McGarry had plumbed upbraiding himself.

The blame her husband was also claiming for his own.

A new helpless anguish seared her heart, and she reached out to her husband, brushing her fingers across his forehead. "Jed?" she asked, feeling him shudder as he drew a sharp breath.

"Damn!" Bartlet muttered, letting his head fell back against the pillow. He didn't need to ask, he knew. "Let him go, Abbey," he said softly. At her openly skeptical look, he managed a dry laugh. "He'll be okay. It's not like I can follow him, is it? Leo'll work it out. He always does."

Abbey wasn't so sure about that. Jed so wanted to follow but couldn't, she understood that as well. He didn't like feeling helpless or cornered. It didn't matter that circumstances - she was beginning to hate that word - were in control, not him. She watched him stare at the closed door, silent and defeated. In every respect, they were so much alike. The thought, although not new, still managed to frighten her, especially now.

The words she had spoken to Leo last night came to mind, and with loving sincerity, she gave them to her husband. "It's not your fault, Jed. Anymore than it's his."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Believe it." Despite the audience, she leaned forward and, mindful of the cuts, brushed her lips tenderly across his. Sure she had his attention, she cocked her head, smiled and told him, "Not everything requires blame, Jed. You'd think we'd all have learned that by now."

The President's dry chuckle held only a hint of bitter regret. "Yeah, you'd think."

Finishing what McGarry had begun, Abbey draped the pajama top across her husband's shoulders. "Since when do we bother to think around here?"

Bartlett didn't bother to dignify that with an answer.

Ziegler cleared his throat. "Sir?"

"No, Toby." Catching the man's wary glance towards the door, it wasn't hard to deduce his intent. "All things considered, you're the last person he needs in his corner right now. A train wreck comes to mind."

Ziegler had the presence of mind to look slightly affronted at that, but ruefully acknowledged the point with a nod and a scowl. God knows how many traffic barriers he'd manage to cross if he did go out there.

Seeing the man's understanding, however reluctant - Toby honestly did want to help - Bartlet nodded in return. "He just needs to find his bearings."

"In the meanwhile, Mr. President," Hackett interjected a touch impatiently, holding up a roll of fresh bandages. "We're not quite finished here."

The President's muttered comment violated several local - if a bit antiquated - obscenity laws and would have got him tossed out of the House on his ear. It did earn him a playful though gentle slap on the arm from his wife. Despite his growing fatigue, he brightened a bit at that.

Hell, maybe this whole day wasn't a total bust.

~ooOoo~

Feeling guilty and shamed that he hadn't been able to remain in the room and watch them put his friend back together, McGarry pulled one of the hallway chairs away from the wall and literally fell onto it with a grunt. With the initial adrenaline rush burned off by a brisk run through the mansion and what he had witnessed inside, emotionally and physically, he was made acutely aware that he wasn't exactly a kid anymore. With an exhausted sigh he hunched over, arms resting on his thighs and leaning his head forward between his knees. It seemed to help settle the nausea twisting his stomach.

"You look green."

"Agent Butterfield." Lifting his head, McGarry found the strength of mind to offer his tormentor a truly venomous glare. "Your sympathy is overwhelming."

Butterfield shrugged. Despite his flat words, it wasn't sympathy McGarry was looking for, and more than most the agent understood what the man was going through. Inclining his head towards the closed door, he asked, "Is he going to be okay?"

McGarry could only nod tiredly, bringing up his hands to hold a head that suddenly seemed far to heavy to support itself.

"You gonna be okay?" It was a blunt question, but needed to be asked.

"Do I have any choice?" McGarry shot the agent a dark look, his mouth twisting angrily. More than a hint of helpless rage entered his voice. "This shouldn't have happened, Ron."

"No, it shouldn't have."

McGarry blinked at the empty response, realizing then how the normally emotionless agent had interpreted his tone. He nearly cursed out loud at his carelessness. Ron was giving himself enough of a beating without the need for spectators, however emotionally involved, joining in the fun. Failure was not an option and Butterfield fully expected to be charged with it. The Chief of Staff knew as well that any denial of that false accusation on his part wouldn't be accepted.

But he could give him this, and mean it. "Any resignations placed on the President's desk, or mine, will be torn up and tossed into the waste bin where they belong. Is that understood?"

Butterfield's mouth tightened, but he nodded, for the moment accepting the absolution.

"He's alive, Ron." Dear God, those words were torn from the depths of his soul. Jed was alive. For now, it was the only thing keeping him sane.

"They didn't want him dead, Leo." Butterfield lifted a sheet of paper in his hand, staring at it. Another string of words, another useless report. Well, not quite useless. "Killing him at this point wasn't part of their game plan."

"They," McGarry's lip curled with disgust, "came awfully close."

This was not what Butterfield wanted to hear from McGarry. He needed to bring the man out of his slump, invigorate his mind and force him to see beyond his injured friend. And right now, he knew it wasn't just the life of the President that was tearing him apart, but Josiah Bartlet's.

"Think about it, Leo. There's no way they could have smuggled enough explosives into the White House to kill him outright. Somebody in security was asleep at the wheel, yes, I admit that." And he was going to find out exactly who had dropped the ball on this one. Heads were going to roll. "They want him out, Leo. Out of the White House, out of the security perimeter and out into the questionable playing field of the real world."

McGarry's short laugh contained very little humor. "The real world, Ron?" Thinking about it, he decided it wasn't so bad a choice of words. The last three years had gone by like a Burroughs-inspired nightmare. Still, some of the deeply simmering rage boiled off at that statement, and the last few accusations he wanted to level at the Security Chief.

Ron had ably hit on the answer to the next question he'd wanted to ask. So they wanted him out, did they? He wasn't quite ready to accept the implications. "That's why you kept him here, no ambulance or hospital?" At Ron's stiff nod, he scowled. "It doesn't wash. They have to know there's a fully-stocked operating theater in the basement that can handle..."

"Not if the explosion took his hand off," Ron broke in, interrupting him with a vehement shake of his head. "Even with the equipment downstairs, nobody, not even Admiral Hackett could have handled that."

"Or the First Lady," McGarry added in a harsh whisper, the dawning realization choking him. His heart gave a sickening lurch.

"Or Dr. Bartlet. At that point, removing the President to Bethesda or GW would have been our only choice. He's out, and they take him out in a spectacularly public manner. It's what they planned with Marine One, but we didn't give it to them."

"Luck," McGarry snarled, still not quite hearing him. "It was sheer, be-damned luck Fitz' paranoia got the better of him." Straightening in his chair, not quite able to banish the horrific images, the sound of the explosion from his mind and what might have happened, the Chief of Staff gave Butterfield a narrow eyed glare tinged with growing ice. "He dropped it, Ron. He dropped it! If he hadn't..."

McGarry swung his arm back angrily, slamming a clenched fist into the wall behind him. Sent askew by the impact, a painting crashed to the floor with the shattering of glass. Already jumpy, the agents stationed down the hall had their guns out, searching, then saw the source of the commotion and relaxed. But not by much.

The only one who didn't react was Butterfield. Stoically, he watched the Chief of Staff with a calculating air colored by grim satisfaction. He'd been expecting it, hoping for this reaction from Leo McGarry. Rage was better than fear. A mind fueled by righteous anger was sharper than one muddled by shock. Good! He was thinking again.

"Little moves, Leo." He held out the paper to McGarry, offering a bit more fuel for the rage. "Little moves in a very broad game."

"What's this?" McGarry accepted the sheet, pulling his reading glasses from his pocket and putting them on.

"A transcript of what was left of the letter that accompanied the... gift." Butterfield sneered on the last word. "It was pretty chewed up by the shrapnel, but I'm fairly certain that's the whole of it. The original is already on its way to the Quantico labs. The Oval's been roped off; my people are going through the debris." A thin, humorless smile tightened his lips. "The President won't be using his office for awhile."

"Like we needed one more excuse to keep him in bed."

"One would think the First Lady would have that problem safely in hand."

McGarry snorted. The First Lady, Charlie, himself, Toby, the rest of the senior staff and - if their stubborn Commander-in-Chief managed to get by that stalwart crew - Ron Butterfield. Jed didn't stand a chance.

McGarry blinked at that thought, surprised and strangely pleased. Pissed, too. He'd done it again, even if it was in the privacy of his own thoughts. Jed. He didn't like the implications one bit. Even entertaining the thought that Toby was right burned like a rapidly spreading rash. But he was quickly coming to the reluctant conclusion that the belligerent yet scathingly observant Communications Director had a point.

He did have a protocol bug up his ass. The problem was that removing it could have waited for somewhat less dire circumstances.

Sighing, he turned back to the paper in his hand and began to read. It didn't take him long; the note was brief and succinct. Short on words but full of a frighteningly subtle familiarity with the subject at hand and coldly malicious intent.

With barely bridled anger in his voice, McGarry read aloud, "Castle takes Bishop." He looked up at Butterfield. "A chess metaphor? The President is not going to like this."

Butterfield grunted his agreement, then said, "We've been flanked. On all sides. They know us, and they know him. Mind games, Leo. And we're losing."

Not what McGarry wanted to hear. "Was the original handwritten?"

"No. Typed and copied."

"You're not going to get much of a profile from that." He handed the transcript back to Butterfield, thankful to have it out of his hands. "Other than an arrogant boast, we still have nothing."

"We have enough." Butterfield accepted the sheet from McGarry, resisting the urge to crumple it in his hand. The unknown author had tried to hide behind the brevity of the message, but he'd slipped. It was the first step in bringing him down. "That arrogance gives him away. He isn't a kid; late twenties, maybe early thirties. Old enough to have learned patience, young enough to still have the invulnerability of youth. He likes games, and that patience allows him to calculate and to play them. Given what we know about the Red Mafia and how they operate, he's most likely a sociopath, not inhibited by moral or societal restrictions."

"And this is different from our own home-grown Mafia how?"

"Leo, the Red Mafia makes the old Sicilian mob look like a kindergarten bully with a sugar rush. Think modern Cossack and you'll come close. These people think in terms of conquest as well as profit. Loyalty is earned by the blood of your victims, the more the better. And our man has moved up its ranks at a relatively young age. I imagine he's taken out his... competition and made a name for himself. He hasn't lost, not yet. Arrogance fueled by success, pure and simple."

"Games," McGarry muttered, impatiently pulling his drifting thoughts together. Games he could understand. It was the playing field that left him guessing. Still, it was a beginning. "He's arrogant enough to take on the President of the United States."

"Exactly. For the Russians, it's a win-win scenario. Our man fails, they try something else. He may be an up and comer, but his loss won't cripple them. Payment in blood if he wins, blood if he loses. Soldiers are expendable. There's always more."

"More blood," McGarry whispered, closing his eyes against the intruding memory. Jed's blood. Opening his eyes, pushing the thoughts deep down where he could deal with them later, he speculated, "He wins, and the Cossacks get what they want. The ultimate protection racket, only on a global scale. Will the behavioral science back you up on this?" An inspiration, a long shot at best, had occurred to him and he needed to be sure. Arrogant youth may have had its advantages, but age and guile had its own slow points to balance the disadvantage.

The Cossack was about to learn the true meaning of the word nasty.

"Yes." Head to one side, Butterfield regarded the Chief of Staff curiously, expectantly. The man had lost the air of desperation and confusion that had been consuming him. He was on to something. "You've got an idea?"

"I may," McGarry replied, a grim smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. No longer trapped by his emotions, galvanized by the challenge, he took it one step further. "He's got an ego, and he's young enough to still squirm when it's bruised. Let's play with that. Dent his sensibilities and he may start making mistakes."

"Time to go on the offensive?"

"Oh, I plan to be very offensive. C.J.'s going to enjoy this."

Seeing the gleam in McGarry's eyes, an equally predatory one entered Butterfield's. Baring his teeth in an anticipatory grin, the senior agent had no doubts that he was going to enjoy this as well. C.J. Cregg wasn't the only one who loved a good, down and dirty fight.

At long last, the next move belonged to them.

To be concluded…