Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 12/22
"Nice," Lyman growled, remembering his own run-ins with a rabid press intent on finding their damn stories, regardless of the harm it might cause. "Since when is the press ever nice?"
"Give me a minute," Seaborn responded dryly to the obviously rhetorical question. Press, reporters, pictures and stories weren't exactly high on his most wanted list. "I might be able to think of one or two rare moments."
"C.J.'s on a roll." In spite of himself, Lyman chuckled at the sight of the gaping reporters. Mouths opening and closing like so many stranded and drowning fish, they were staring at the Press Secretary in comically apparent shock. "One or two of those puppies are going to need therapy after this."
"Rendered mute, reduced to their basic emotional components, ripped asunder and left to wallow in their own personal inadequacies."
"Sam, what has Toby told you about getting carried away with the imagery?"
"If it works."
"She ripped 'em a collective new one, okay?"
"That, too." Seaborn grinned, never more proud of C.J. than he was at this moment. In future, more than a few of those sharks were going to approach the Press Secretary and her den with nervous caution. "There's no way Ritchie can come back on the MS issue now without looking stupid."
"Please," Lyman fervently pleaded to the myriad imps of political insanity. "Let him try."
"With a little help from his friends," Seaborn muttered darkly. He still stung from his so-called friend's backstabbing game with the promo tape. "C.J. won't put up with it, not in the mood she's in."
"C.J. rocks," Donna said quietly, clutching the chip bag in tight, nervous hands.
Something in her voice gave Seaborn pause. Glancing at her with concern, he asked, "You okay, Donna?"
Staring at the screen, she nodded.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
That single worded response only set off more alarm bells. Seaborn exchanged a look with Josh, not at all surprised to see that same concern reflected in his friend's eyes. Donna Moss was not given to monosyllabic responses and she was a terrible poker player. Something was bothering her. "Really, Donna..."
"I'm okay, all right." She cut him off, passing the bag to him with an agitated crackle. "It's just that..." She couldn't find the words.
"What?" Seaborn handed the bag to Josh, his munchie blues forgotten.
In her heart, Donna had been afraid to ask this question. She clenched her hands till the nails bit into her palms. Affection, regard, and fear for a man she held in the highest respect. She wanted the truth. Maybe that was the reason she had sought these two out in the first place. The anxious looks on their faces told her they knew.
"I'm okay," she repeated in a small voice. Swallowing with some difficulty, she found the courage to ask, "Is he going to be okay?"
Lyman opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? It wasn't nearly as clear-cut a picture as C.J. was painting. Remembering the inconclusive events of last evening, he couldn't really give her an answer. He just didn't know, not for certain.
Neither did the Deputy Communications Director.
Slipping his arm around her shoulders, Seaborn pulled her close. A brief moment of uncertainty when he realized this was more naturally Josh's place, but he quickly banished it. He was stuck in the middle and he needed the reassurance as much as she did.
Josh was just going to have to wait his turn.
He rubbed his hand comfortingly along her arm. Remembering what he had seen the night before, a sense of desolation sweeping over him, Seaborn gave her the only answer he could. "I don't know."
He felt her shudder as she drew in a shaky breath.
Lyman cast a helpless gaze towards the ceiling and swore, "Damn."
Subdued and unsure of what yet may come, they all turned grim eyes back to the TV. Whatever else might happen, they and their friends still had to deal with the real world, and the questions yet to be answered.
However much they might want to consign the questioners to perdition's flames.
~ooOoo~
Taking advantage of the momentary - and slightly stunned - lull, the Press Secretary flicked through her briefing notes, unable to entirely still a grimace of disgust. This press conference was already making her top ten of all time doozies. This next bit, thanks to Leo's machinations, was going to send it right to the top of the list, past the MS revelation and Rosslyn.
"Okay, people. Moving on. The forensics report is still pending, but the FBI and the Secret Service are now prepared to release a profile on our suspect and speculate as to his motive."
"C.J., is it the feeling of the investigators that this attack was politically motivated? And if so, what group might be behind it? Or could it conceivably be personal?"
"The Secret Service is confident that there was a strong personal element to this attack." And that's about as close I'm going to come to the truth for the rest of this briefing. C.J. felt her jaw tighten in distaste for her task. "It was far too haphazard and amateurish an attempt to be the work of professionals. The use of a chess piece, besides being a singularly inefficient vehicle for delivery of the explosive charge, seemed to be a facile attempt at cleverness, demonstrating what is, after all, general knowledge as to the President's personal interests."
C.J. couldn't help but wonder though if there was any significance to the choice of a piece with such ecclesiastical overtones. Surely not? The President's religious devotion was as well known as his love for chess, or his disdain of golf. But that he had once contemplated a very different career path to politics? Even she had not known that until his almost off-hand, yet engagingly confiding answer to her wearily relayed question during the now distant Portland trip. She had wondered at the time if that confidence was part apology for the amount of executive teasing she had put up with during that flight.
Remembering the mischievous smile he had given her, the way his expression had softened as he spoke of his wife, the Press Secretary suddenly felt her determination harden. This plan of Leo's might be, in her opinion, ill conceived and foolhardy, but it at least afforded her the satisfaction of striking back at their mysterious villain. She could repay, however slightly, some of the indignity he had inflicted.
Well, she could certainly get on side with that. Somehow, the fact that the 'singularly inefficient' chess piece had in all likelihood never been intended to kill, merely cause hurt, had only increased the staffers' sense of outrage. The sheer, overwhelming arrogance of this man! It would be a pleasure to prick him in return and make him sting.
Her determination strengthened, if not totally reassured, she pointed. "Yes, Sandy."
"C.J., forgive me, but it sounds as if the White House isn't taking what is an extremely serious breech of security very seriously. This is after all the first time a President has actually been injured inside the executive mansion."
"I assure you, the White House is taking this quite seriously." C.J. felt as if she might choke on the words, but managed to continue in a suitably grave but still almost casual manner. "We're also trying to keep this in proportion. The President is the target of cranks and fanatics every day. Just because one unbalanced individual got lucky..."
"Lucky?" Sawyer's dry tones sounded for the first time.
Glowering over her spectacles, C.J. replied tersely, "Yes, lucky. Lucky in that he managed to penetrate security at all. Lucky in that his pathetic little James Bond effort actually did any damage."
Sawyer gazed back levelly, before dropping his head to make a brief note on his pad, suspicion evident in every line of his body.
The Press Secretary moved hastily on before he could call her bluff. "Steve."
"C.J., does the Secret Service really believe that a lone individual managed to penetrate White House security in this manner? Are they sure it wasn't some disaffected organization, a conspiracy of some kind?"
"No." C.J. put all the force of her considerable authority behind this denial. But, oh how I wish it were true. "The actual mechanics of how the chess piece ended up in the Oval Office are still being investigated, but the Secret Service is confident that this is the work of a single person. It's possible he had help, some unwitting associate doing what they thought was an innocent favor for an acquaintance, but we'll find out soon enough."
And she could almost, almost, find it in her to sympathize with that accomplice when Ron Butterfield caught up with him. There had to have been someone on the inside, a truly terrifying thought. It was time to administer another few jabs to their opponent's ego.
"This plan wasn't particularly well conceived. The elaborate and melodramatic way in which the explosive was delivered - easily worthy of the best comic book traditions - was only equaled by its ineffectiveness. It could and did cause injury, but it was far too small to be likely to result in any fatalities."
"Any idea as to our incompetent assassin's motive?" Sandy might still be looking a little perplexed at the tone and direction of this briefing, but she had sensed where C.J. seemed to want to steer them and was playing along like a trooper.
C.J. made a mental note to give her and Steve a jump on the next news story as a reward for not pointing out the many holes she was sure they had picked up in this scenario. Will, on the other hand, was starting to look downright restive. Time to administer the coup de grace.
"Jealousy." The Press Secretary could not suppress a vindictive little smile. See how you like being played with, whoever you are.
"Jealousy?" Billy's tones sounded almost incredulous.
"Um, hum." C.J. nodded firmly. "Jealousy of the President, his position and influence, his accomplishments and intellect. Coupled with a childish desire to be the center of attention. Basically, he sees himself as the President's intellectual equal and is trying to draw President Bartlet's attention to his own cleverness with elaborate game playing. He probably never intended to actually kill the President; this was just his attempt to challenge someone whom he perceives as offering a threat to his view of his own position as a thinker and an intellectual."
Pausing for effect, C.J. shuffled through her notes. "The profile of our perpetrator paints him as being of unbalanced mind, a sick, inadequate personality with delusions of grandeur." She spoke spitefully, her hatred of their unseen opponent lending strength and vigor to her words. "He is unable to sustain any kind of relationship with the opposite sex and is emotionally underdeveloped. In short, he's more than likely a spoiled child, probably stuck in a mental loop of post-pubescent angst and sexual frustration, attempting to get back at Mommy or Daddy by throwing what amounts to a juvenile hissy fit. The President represents an authority figure for him, one he has to challenge. We really don't consider him to be much of a threat, and the Secret Service is confident of discovering his identity very soon."
~ooOoo~
The chip bag went flying, scattering its remaining contents across the office as Lyman surged to his feet. "Son of a bitch!"
Donna flinched.
Seaborn was on his feet, grabbing his friend by the arm. "Josh, don't..."
"Why weren't we told?" Shrugging off the restraining hand, Lyman advanced angrily on the TV. Whether his intent was to climb through the screen and throttle C.J. or pound the image into dust, he stopped himself short of both. "Are they insane!"
Waving his hand, trying desperately to get the Deputy Chief of Staff to lower his volume levels, Seaborn glanced nervously at the door. The constant, low murmuring of activity from the bullpen had become ominously quiet. "Stifle it, Josh! There are people out there, and in here..." he paused and looked at Donna sitting lost and frightened on the couch. "Damn!"
Lyman either didn't hear him, or chose to ignore him. "They were up to something. God damn it, they were up to something. When I get my hands on Toby..."
"You know Toby didn't have anything to do with this."
"That's why they packed him off..."
"Josh..." Another glance at Donna, who was getting more frightened by the minute. "Listen to me, will you?"
"I swear to God, Sam..."
"Josh - SHUT UP!!"
Lyman choked, blinking stupidly at Sam's uncharacteristically furious and loud outburst. For the first time, he noticed the lull in activity from the bullpen, then the bewildered, scared figure of his assistant trying desperately to shrink and crawl under one of the cushions.
"Aww, hell." His shoulders slumped. "This ain't good, Sam."
"And you're not making it any better." Having got Lyman's attention, if not his emotional balance back in check, Seaborn thought quickly and demanded harshly, "The file, Josh. Where's the copy of the original FBI report Leo gave us?"
Gathering his thoughts, Lyman stared at him for a moment, and then grimaced. "My desk." He bolted for the door.
"No!" Grabbing his arm, Seaborn hauled him back. The last thing they needed was the bullpen seeing Josh Lyman pelting hell bent for leather for his office, especially after that rather loud outburst. Not good.
Oddly enough, Seaborn seemed to be the only one thinking right now, a rather bizarre turn of events he could have done without. "We need to talk - now, not later." He glanced over at Donna and made a quick decision. "Donna, on Josh's desk there's a folder. It's got FBI, Secret Service and God knows what else stamped all over it..."
"It's probably underneath Bruno's latest excuse for using soft money," Josh muttered, running an agitated hand through his hair.
"Yeah, right." Seaborn didn't even bother to ask why that one was still on the plate. Between Toby and Bruno, the issue had become a well-beaten dead horse. Turning back to Donna, who had risen hastily from her seat, he said calmly, "Find it. Bury it."
"Try the Rose Garden," Lyman growled. "I'll get you a shovel."
Donna nodded, not bothering to ask why. That something had happened these two hadn't known about was clearly apparent. She knew them. They, especially Josh, only got this worked up over something big. That this same something had been a horrible surprise... well, she didn't need a road map.
She raised her eyes, found Sam watching her, a calculating intensity in his regard. Donna shivered involuntarily. She couldn't stop it. What had happened?
He held her gaze for a beat, softening his own and giving her reassurance if not a promise of future answers. The file was a lose end, one Leo - and Seaborn added a few silent curses along with that name - had clearly forgotten about while cooking up this scheme. For the first time, Sam Seaborn really, really would have liked to be wrong.
No such luck. "Find it, Donna, and lose it."
A deep breath and Donna left, blanking her expression and forcing a casual composure as she pulled the door shut behind her.
Staring at his friend's rigid back as he continued to glower at the image of C.J. on the TV screen, Seaborn asked quietly, "Josh?"
"We're gonna have to tell her."
He meant Donna. Nodding, Seaborn agreed. "She deserves it." He didn't bother to point out that their collective performance had made that a certainty.
"Damn right."
"Not that we know all that much."
Lyman snorted with profound disgust, a much quieter alternative to what he really wanted to do and say. Leo McGarry's name was on that list of utterances somewhere, right alongside more than a few choice words and phrases.
Flopping down on to the couch, Seaborn rubbed his eyes. At a loss for words, all he could say was, "Leo's not gonna like it."
Lyman turned away from the TV, giving the Deputy Communications Director the full force of his displeasure and frustration. Pointing out that Sam had been right all along would have been a waste of oxygen. There wouldn't have been any point.
He did give him this though. "Screw Leo."
Seaborn couldn't find it within himself to disagree. He picked up a chip off the cushion and stared at it gloomily. What the hell had been started here? He wasn't sure he really wanted to know, not any more.
"So, what do we do now?"
To be continued…