Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 3/22

"Jed?" Alarmed, she kept the worry from her voice by sheer effort of will.

Bartlet looked slightly startled himself. "Man, for a second that hurt! Almost like my skin was on fire." Taking a deep, calming breath, he let it out in an unsteady laugh. "Guess that explosion jarred me around a bit more than I thought." Giving his wife an accusing glare, tempered with loving humor, he added, "Or my doctors did."

"Mmm." Abbey regarded him with narrowed eyes, puzzled by his reaction. It could be just after effects from the explosion - the impact must have been considerable, given how close he had been to the seat of the blast - but she felt strangely uneasy. She didn't bother to give his sly accusation the dignity of a second thought. Something, though, was scratching at the back of her mind...

The sudden thrill of the telephone effectively derailed her train of thought, and she scowled as Jed released her hand and with a tired sigh stretched out towards the receiver and picked it up.

"Hello? Yes."  He caught her eye and shrugged apologetically, mouthing, 'the NSA'. 

Only one among many. The phone hadn't stopped ringing all day. Resignedly, Abbey rose and began picking up clothes and generally restoring order to the room. No doubt the stewards would see to the cleaning later, but right now it gave her something to do. Domesticity was far too underrated. The staff should be here in a few moments anyway. After a while, her attention drifted back to the one-sided conversation going on in the background.

"I know, Nancy, but..." Bartlet paused for a moment and listened before trying again.  "Leo said..." He winced and held the receiver away from his ear as tinny and faint but unmistakably enraged tones issued loudly from the earpiece. Cautiously, he drew it back towards him.

"Yes, as strategies go, it's not the ideal one, but Nancy, at least it's a plan." The receiver squawked indignantly some more. Bartlet rolled his eyes. "I know, I know. But at least we'll be doing something. It's worth a try. Nancy... Nancy, don't make me remind you who I am... Listen, I appreciate your sentiments, but I really think this might be worth considering. Yes. Now let me talk to Leo for a second, will you?"

After a momentary pause, in tones of gentle amusement, he said, "Almost talked you out of it, did she? Save some of your energy, you've still got C.J. to deal with. She's next."

Bartlet pulled the phone away from his ear again. This time the agitated voice on the other end had the nerve to issue a few scathing comments not normally issued to or in the presence of the President.

He chuckled softly anyway, though the sound was tired.

Abbey's fascinated and unashamed attempts at eavesdropping were thwarted by a discreet knock on the door. Hurrying to answer, she admitted a visibly uneasy Sam Seaborn and Joshua Lyman to the room, followed closely and just as nervously by C.J. Cregg. 

Abbey shared a quick smile with the Press Secretary, reading the unspoken message of concern and affection. She nodded graciously to all three - it was their constant interruption to the rest her husband so badly needed, not their silent support and understanding that she resented. She took a brief moment to puzzle over the absence of Toby Ziegler and indicated that they should follow her towards the bed.

She was about to shut the door when a fourth presence made himself known. As silent as always, Ron Butterfield stood there, grimly waiting for her permission to enter. That troubled Abbey, that he would, even by implication, give her the yeah or nay on whether or not he would be included. Not that any denial on her part would exclude him should he be determined to join what she'd already decided was a waste of what little was left of her husband's time and energy.

Inclining her head politely, although the implied graciousness was forced, she waved him in. She didn't want him here, his presence was a reminder of failures and pain, but in truth she really had no choice. Why he was here, Abbey would leave for later.

Butterfield gave her a curt nod, and then stationed himself along the back wall. As usual, he faded, disappearing into the background. But not before the senior staff, each in turn, gave him a nervous, suspicious glance of inquiry.

He ignored them.

The President was still on the phone. "I know, Leo. But I trusted your judgment when you first brought this to me. I still do."  He paused, waving his gathering advisors closer. "We already know about the consequences... I know. Do it anyway. You going to be there much longer? Well, the staff is here now. As soon as you're finished with Nancy and..." - he gave a quick, shuttered glance at the group gathering at the foot of the bed- "... whatever, or she leaves anything worth salvaging of your carcass, get your ass over here. Okay?"

Dropping the receiver back on the rest and avoiding Abbey's accusing glare, he smiled and nodded at his senior advisors. "Hello, thanks for coming."

The senior staff gathered in a tight little huddle at the foot of the bed.  Bartlet studied them for a moment and almost smiled. They looked so worried and, while hardly what could be defined as professional, it was quite sweet and touching.

"How are you, Mr. President?" Seaborn's youthful features were furrowed with anxiety and his eyes continued to drift with reluctant fascination towards the hand resting atop the pillows. 

"Fine, thanks, Sam." Bartlet attempted to wriggle the exposed tips of his heavily abraded fingers in illustration and winced slightly. "Well, actually, I've been better. But I got off really lightly, all things considered."

"If you say so, sir." Lyman didn't sound nearly so convinced. He looked even more frazzled and rumpled than usual, the shock of brown hair standing almost straight up, as if he had been clutching it in both hands. "Pardon my saying so, but if those are light injuries then I'd hate to see what would have happened if you'd still been holding the thing."

"Yeah." Bartlet considered his hand for a moment. An involuntary shudder at the memory passed through his frame. "Thank God for Fitz."

"Yes, Mr. President." The Deputy Chief of Staff felt his distress rise at the strained weariness of his Chief Executive's tones. Darting a glance at C.J., he saw the Press Secretary studying the man lying before them, taking in the mutilation, the tight, strained planes of the familiar face and the unmistakable air of general, exhausted infirmity.

Her pale features mirrored his own dismay and also a certain brittle emotion just barely contained. He recognized it, had seen it take open possession of this woman he thought of as a sister in a time that was all too recent. Grief, and a sense of loss. 

The First Lady came around the foot of the bed, returning to her husband's side. As she brushed by C.J., she gently touched the younger woman on the arm. They exchanged a brief glance, comfort and sympathy communicated and shared.

C.J. blinked, and then gratefully nodded her appreciation to the other woman, who had so much to deal with herself right now, yet could still spare time and concern for a friend.

Abbey sank into the chair on her husband's right side and once again slipped her hand into his. He tensed, but then squeezed gently and she affectionately rested her other hand on his forearm, only to remove it with a frown as he grimaced slightly at the contact. She drew back, gently and carefully releasing his hand, a blooming anxiety creasing her forehead.

Catching her husband's eye, Abbey smiled softly to erase the signs of growing worry and silently withdrew across the room, settling into a chair near the silent and glowering Butterfield, who had taken up his station near the door. Allowing her husband this moment with his staff, his extended family. It was so like him to be concerned about them, and not himself. Maddening and familiar, but she couldn't find it in herself to fault him for the sentiment.

Lyman had observed the silent exchange between the two ladies, and now the subtle flinch the President had given at his wife's touch. He felt his anger flare. Their President had been hurt! Right before their eyes; and now even his wife had to second-guess every movement for fear of bringing further pain to someone she loved. The fury built and swelled, demanding a target. 

"Sir, what are we doing?"

At Bartlet's quizzical and slightly startled stare, Lyman flushed and got his voice back under control. "I'm sorry, Mr. President." He took a deep breath. "Sir, we've been dancing around what happened all day, trying to keep a lid on the rumors without actually saying anything. We need to give the press something concrete and soon. But, more than that, we need to know what…" 

He broke off, struggling to find the words to convey the outrage he felt. "Sir, you were attacked. Right here in your home. In front of us, and none of us could stop it. We want to, we need to…" he couldn't finish the sentence.

"To know what's been done to find those responsible," a quiet, troubled voice finished for him. Sam Seaborn's handsome face was flushed with a similar anger. "Mr. President, we want to help."

Bartlet glanced at Abbey, who smiled in reply, visibly touched at the show of support and affection from the three young people before them. He felt a slight twinge of guilt.  Surely he could just tell them? But… no. Now was not the time. Later perhaps...

Observing their eager, protective expressions and remembering what Leo had told him of his interview with a certain surly Communications Director, plus a presently even less sunny Security Chief glowering in the background, he felt himself cravenly grateful that Leo had insisted it was better to wait. 

His Chief of Staff had pointed out that they would not be kept in the dark for long. "And you'll forgive me," he had said dryly, "if after the day I've had, I don't want to be screamed at by all three of them simultaneously. Toby was bad enough, and I suspect C.J. will be even worse."

Given such an irresistible target, the President hadn't been able to resist poking gently at his Chief of Staff's equanimity. "You only suspect? C.J.?"

Leo's acid response hadn't disappointed him and he warmed at the memory. Then that memory chilled.

C.J. The guilt bloomed as he met the concerned gaze of his Press Secretary. She would be the next to be informed, when Leo primed her tomorrow morning. Primed. He felt his mouth twitch as his unfortunate sense of humor got the better of him. It was an apposite word. Leo would probably feel like he was trying to handle unstable gunpowder on the morrow. It was his own fault. His strategy insisted that C.J.'s role be a major one. She would be the beater, flushing out the prey. 

Still, executive authority or no, Bartlet was glad he wasn't going to have to handle that conversation. 

Not that the respect due to executive authority had saved him from getting bawled out by the NSA, and rather unfairly he thought. It had been Leo's idea, even if he had signed off on it, weary and feeling an almost fatalistic desire to push events to a head. He wondered how long it would be before Fitzwallace called in on his turn to question the Presidential sanity.

Best to get this over with before he did, or Abbey took over completely. From the look in her eye he knew her patience was rapidly running out.

"I called you all here to talk about what happened this morning."

"Aren't we going to wait for Toby, sir?" Seaborn seemed slightly embarrassed to be drawing attention to his supervisor's presumed tardiness.

The President stirred uncomfortably and an expression the staffers, although not his wife, would have hesitated to describe as shifty flitted over his features. "No... no," he cleared his throat. "Leo told me that he's already briefed Toby. He didn't see any need to drag him back up here; besides, he has work to do, on a number of fronts. I agreed." He had agreed.

'And the last thing we need here and now is an outraged Toby anyway,' he thought with no little sarcasm. The day of reckoning on that confrontation couldn't be postponed forever. 'My implied authority barely held him in check; I just don't have the energy to deal with the entire senior staff.  Much easier to present them with a fait accompli.'

Fait accompli. He'd said much the same thing to his uncharacteristically flustered Chief of Staff when he had called to inform him that Toby would most likely not be in on this briefing, for whatever reasons. Bartlet had a pretty good idea what those reasons were and somewhere, deep down, he agreed.

Everybody was right, and nobody was wrong.

The lengthy, Presidential silence was being noticed.

Ignoring their puzzled expressions and his own misgivings, he ploughed on.

"About what happened today; don't worry about it." Bartlet half-grinned at the trio of dropped jaws facing him, tilting his head to wink his amusement at his wife, who rolled her eyes in admonishment from her seat next to Ron. What he saw dance across his chief bodyguard's face he wasn't about to try and put a name to.

"Well, maybe I could have phrased that slightly better..." Maybe he could have. So far nobody seemed to be accepting the sentiment in the spirit it was given. Sighing, he tried again, "Look, I want you to know that we have it in hand. The Secret Service has spent the better part of the day crawling all over my office; the FBI analysts are putting the note that was found through just about every forensic test imaginable. The Security Council is investigating our intelligence on any and all possible suspects. We'll have a name, soon."

"Sir?" C.J.'s voice remained troubled. "The note worries me. I know we're not releasing that detail to the press, but the wording..."  She bit her lip. "Sir, the perceived motive for this attack, Leo gave it to us at the briefing yesterday - Russia, the nuclear inspections and their threat to the Red Mafia's black market. It made a kind of sense. The accident with Marine One, it was so subtle, so careful. But what happened this morning wasn't. What's changed? And the note, it was almost... forgive me, Mr. President, but terrorists rarely take a personal interest in their targets. The wording of that note, the private knowledge, it seemed more like a stalker."

Maybe not the best choice of words. A collective breath seemed to be held and C.J. found herself the unwanted center of attention.

Her own innate dryness asserted itself in an attempt to relieve the tension, and she added, "Speaking from personal experience, you understand?"

Bartlet regarded her with genuine admiration. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Butterfield straightening in his chair. The unflappable Security Chief was looking distinctly edgy, and no wonder. He'd lost one of his own to that stalker, if indirectly, and had nearly lost...

With an almost physical effort, the President shook away those thoughts. Best not to think of that right now.

Bartlet shrugged and spoke matter-of-factly, "Yeah.  Well, the FBI and the Secret Service would seem to agree with you there. Honestly, C.J. we don't fully know or understand what's changed. But I do know this." His gaze hardened. "We're not going to be able to hide this morning's events as easily as we did the NTSB report. So, if we can't hide, we're going to come out with guns blazing. We're going to reassure the country, and let the world know that the United States is not going to take this lying down.  In pursuit of this... individual, we will use every available means at our disposal."

He broke off as the bedroom door opened again to admit Leo McGarry. He raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry. McGarry nodded shortly and tilted his head towards C.J., his message clear.  Bartlet's mouth twisted slightly, then he curtly nodded in reply. Refusing to meet anyone else's questioning gaze, his old friend stood there for a moment, regarding him with a troubled expression. Then McGarry quietly slipped back out through the door, without a word or a backward glance to the unasked questions his immediate staff hadn't the courage to voice.

Gaining silent permission from his President and charge, Butterfield rose and followed him, closing the door with a soft click.

The spell broken, Bartlet took a deep breath and carefully avoided Abbey's quizzical expression, returning his attention to the three people before him. "As part of this pursuit, we will release a formal statement in the morning. C.J., Leo and Ron will brief you on the details and strategy for that. We're also going to continue to push forward in our demands for greater nuclear controls. To that end, Toby is going to be working with me on a statement for release in a few days' time." 

He reached down inside and somehow managed to summon the energy to smile encouragingly at the young people. "We're going to hit these people where it hurts, in their bank balance. And generally make life a little less comfortable for them."

"Yes, sir!" Lyman sounded genuinely enthused. The Deputy Chief of Staff always enjoyed a good scrap, even managed to win a few on occasion. "We'll show them what it means to take on this White House."

"Mmm." Bartlet could feel himself sinking deeper into weariness, unable to match his subordinate's energy. Maybe because he knew it wasn't that simple. The obfuscation never seemed to end. "Sam, I'm guessing Toby is going to want some input from you on the speech, in view of your preliminary work for Helsinki."

"On it, Mr. President." Seaborn's tones were filled with confidence, and he was jotting rapid notes on one of his ever-present notepads. 

"Of course." The President now glanced at his Press Secretary, seeing the same desire for action and a good fight beginning to bloom. "C.J., you will in effect be leading the charge in this campaign. I hope..."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. President." C.J.'s tones left no doubt of that.

"I appreciate that." Now came the hard part. She had to believe this. "C.J., I want you to know that the strategy Leo will outline to you has my full support and approval. I just want to make that clear. You need have no doubts on that score." Bartlet felt his tones verging perilously close to entreaty. 

Across the room, he saw his wife's head raise in confusion. C.J.'s forehead pinched in bewilderment. "I understand, sir," she said slowly, her tones declaring that she didn't, not fully.   

Bartlet rubbed his forehead, feeling the headache and the tension building. Too tired. He was coming dangerously close to making revelations he had no business disclosing just yet. And yet these people were more than colleagues. He felt himself giving in to the impulse to offer them something of himself. Before the opportunity might be lost forever.

"I just... I want to let you all know how very much I appreciate the hard work and support you've given me. You've given me more than that.  Not only loyalty, but your friendship as well.  I can't let this day pass without letting you know how much that has meant to me, how it has lightened the burdens of this office."

His companions regarded him with sober faces. They were warmed by the evident sincerity of the sentiments their President had expressed, but the vaguely elegiac nature of the speech was not lost on them. With a rising coldness, each reflected on what had almost been lost this day. Might still be lost, and the damage already sustained.

"Sir?" Lyman's voice was soft. "How do you feel? Will it be... will you be all right?"

Aware that he had cast a pall over the gathering, the President summoned his most reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Josh. I have excellent doctors."

"Yes." McGarry's deputy wrung his hands in anxiety, then realizing how ridiculous that looked, stuffed them into his pockets. "Sir, the relapse. How bad is it?"

Bartlet shifted awkwardly. "Well, it's a relapse, Josh. That's never good. In view of the year we've had, it's lousy from a whole range of viewpoints."

"Yes, sir." Lyman exhaled a nervous snort of laughter. It was a PR nightmare for sure.  The embodiment of their greatest dread since the initial revelation. But sometimes politics weren't everything. "But, you will be all right, won't you?"

To be continued…