Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 13/22
C.J. paused for breath, feeling both the satisfaction that comes with a good, wounding ranting and also a slight tremor of dread. What had she started? She closed her eyes for a second, praying that McGarry and Butterfield had read this situation right. Please God; just don't let it be my words, here and now, that end up harming him. I couldn't bear that.
The reporters were scribbling so frantically that it was a wonder some were not experiencing writer's cramp. C.J. could see a growing unease in several expressions, though, that mirrored her own. She glanced apprehensively at Sawyer and nearly gasped aloud.
Alone of his colleagues, he had abandoned any attempt to take notes and was sitting there, staring at her with a face in which astonishment and shock were equally blended. Oh, Lord. C.J. swallowed hard. Of all the reporters present, some more or less than the others, he definitely wasn't buying this. Time to wind this up before the whole elaborate scenario got blown out of the water.
"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid. The President should be only away for three days before returning to the White House." She bared her teeth in a forbidding smile. "I'm sure that none of you, nor Governor Ritchie, would begrudge the President a few days of uninterrupted rest with the First Lady. He'll be back the day after tomorrow, and will resume his normal duties. Next briefing at 2 pm. See you then."
Ignoring the clamor and appeals, the Press Secretary gathered her notes and swept from the room, passing Carol and Bonnie without a glance. Half expecting to find Lyman and Seaborn lying in wait after that last portion of the press conference, C.J. was relieved to find she had a clear run to her office. Maybe she'd get lucky and have at least a few minutes peace before she was pounced upon.
Either her remaining spin-boys had been too stunned to move fast enough, or they didn't want to risk creating a scene where they could be observed. It wouldn't last. She knew both men had seen the original profile and the fiction she'd just spun for the press and the country hadn't fooled them. The resulting venting on their part was going to be... colorful.
The bullpen was relatively silent for once, staffers standing around in front of the TV screens in perplexed silence. One look at the forbidding visage of the Press Secretary and many hurriedly scurried back to their desks. Not one dared to waylay her in her current mood, and C.J. managed to gain the sanctuary of her office unmolested.
Dropping into her chair, she released a heavy sigh and willed tense muscles to unlock. Knowing this respite would be only temporary; she removed her spectacles and allowed her head to drop forward into her folded hands.
"Are you insane?!"
C.J. snapped her head back up with a startled shriek as the door to her office flung open and a tall, disheveled figure barged in. "Will!" she squeaked.
He had the effrontery to glare at her.
C.J. grimaced. This was not going to be good.
~ooOoo~
"Donna?" Bonnie tried to get her attention.
Donna forced a smile and waved, maintaining her momentum through the milling humanity of the bullpen. If she stopped, even for one innocent word, she'd be caught. She could feel them watching her, the un-asked questions hovering in their eyes. Just her luck that the one time Josh couldn't keep his voice down she had to deal with the repercussions.
Not that she really knew anything, but one look in her eyes and they'd know something was up.
Damn! Now she was doing it along with Sam. It was getting worse by the minute.
"Donna?" This time Cathy gave it her best shot.
Ducking that one, Donna made the sanctuary of Josh's office and grabbed for the door. Pulling it open with just a bit more force than necessary, she practically jumped over the threshold and closed it behind her.
Letting out a relieved gust of breath, her gaze quickly found the semi-organized chaos that was Josh Lyman's desk. Only an effort of will kept her eyes from crossing. "Oh, my."
This might not be as easy as Sam had thought. Where was it?
Oh, yeah. "It's probably underneath Bruno's latest excuse for using soft money." Like that was going to help. Further training in the keeping of current affairs and daily memos was clearly in order. If Josh was lucky, she wouldn't have to use aversion therapy and the shock collar.
Starting from the top, Donna began to pull off files, memos, scribbles and doodles. Her brows rose on that last one, a caricature clearly showing Bruno Gianelli being pummeled by an angry mob. It was really quite good. Shaking her head, she slipped it into her pocket, saving it for later. She agreed with the sentiment if not the means, but the teasing ammunition it gave her couldn't be ignored. A girl had to plan ahead for these things.
Then she saw it. A manila folder, really no different from any of the others scattered across the desk. It was what was stamped on it that gave her pause, made her heart jump. Standing out amidst the usual department headers, names and origin codes in bold letters was FBI. Countersigned underneath that was Ron Butterfield's name, followed by his title, Chief of White House Security.
Like she needed to be reminded of that. Not that anyone was really afraid of him, but lately the tall, intimidating Secret Service Agent had crossed over the line into dangerous. Nobody, least of all her, wanted to attract his attention. Direct eye contact with the man, never a sport to be played lightly, had become a matter of simple survival. Guilt would do that to a person.
She reached out her hand to pick it up, then snatched it back, ridiculously afraid of getting burned.
Guilt.
"It's possible he had help, some unwitting associate doing what they thought was an innocent favor for an acquaintance..."
How unwitting could it have been? None of the staffers or assistants was that stupid, not when it came to the safety of the man who occupied the Oval Office. Unwitting didn't even begin to cover it. She couldn't stop herself. The conclusion was obvious. Sam and Josh had known.
Now she did as well.
C.J. had lied.
Biting her lip, she forced herself to pick up the folder. It didn't burn her fingers.
Grabbing an innocuous look-alike folder from the pile, she started to slip the offending official report inside, then paused. Discretion, loyalty, the rules warred within her. Discretion lost out to panicked curiosity, fueled by a primitive need to protect. Loyalty to the administration easily lost out to personal regard and warmth of feeling for a gentle, kind man who deserved so much better.
The rules?
Well, they just got tossed out the window with the rest of the baggage.
She opened the folder and began to read.
Expertly and quickly skimming over the beginnings - a skill Josh's chaotic ramblings on paper had only reinforced over the years - she searched for a keyword, a phrase or statement that might make the lies at the press conference make more sense. She paused frequently, shocked as her fevered searching found one, then another.
Russian Mafia.
Weapons and nuclear controls.
Political viability in the Kremlin and control.
Black market military dealings.
Profit.
Donna's hands began to shake. C.J. had said nothing about this, not one word. She bit back a frightened sob, steadying her hands and forcing herself to read further. Having come this far, she might as well finish it. She'd deal with the repercussions later.
Like she'd deal with Josh later.
Then she found it, the key to what had set Josh and Sam off and made some sort of twisted sense of what Leo McGarry had made C.J. tell the press and the world. Horror fought with outrage at what had been done. Donna didn't remember a whole lot from her psyche-101 classes, who did? But she remembered enough to understand the marked difference in profile and motive, the slap in the face that had just been delivered to a dangerous ego.
Individual Threat Assessment: Summary.
The name on this section indicated that Ron Butterfield had authored it. Who better? She took a deep breath and read, plunging into the nightmare.
Threat Assessment: High.
Emotional triggers and/or psychological aberrations do not motivate this individual. He is calculating, military in his precision and regards any and all actions to be taken as a job to be concluded, with only success to be regarded as the final outcome. Emotionally cold to action, there is no personal connection behind his attempts or his motivations. Only challenge and profit. The President represents both.
However, given the projected age of the individual - late twenties or early thirties - ego may play some small part in that self-same motivation. This is balanced by experience and patience. Challenge equates with success and reward.
Profit and reward? Donna swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure. This was wrong. The empty rhetoric of politics was bad enough. Power motivated politicians. Prestige for most, the chance to make a difference for some. But this?
She continued to read. Ron's summary wasn't finished yet.
Probability of Success: High.
"Oh, God." The prayer was out before she could stop it.
With no motivation other than ego and success, this individual will not stop until ordered to do so by his superiors or until his goal is reached. Unless stopped or countered, the eventual success of any attempt is almost certain.
Donna closed her eyes and stopped there. She couldn't read any further. She didn't need to. The horror couldn't have possibly got any worse, but it had. If it had been stated by anyone other than Ron Butterfield, she would have had some sense of doubt. Not now, though. Not after this.
"Donna?"
She jumped, a choked gasp escaping as she turned with a guilty start. Josh was there. She hadn't heard him enter, hadn't even sensed his presence.
Head to one side, he was regarding her with a strange, sad half-smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. Shutting the door, he said, "You just won me my bet with Sam."
"I'm sorry..."
"Donna, don't." Trusting her, he left it at that. He reached out and took the folder from her, staring at it like it was a diseased thing, contaminated by the words within. He shook his head. "I can't believe Leo forgot about this."
Donna didn't have an answer for him. "What do we do?" she asked.
He simply looked at her. For her, he didn't need to spell it out.
Looking back, Donna nodded and solemnly handed him the empty folder she'd originally chosen.
Slipping the report inside, ridiculously relieved that it was at least now partially hidden if not forgotten, Lyman could feel the tension between them increase with an intensity that frightened him. The world didn't know, but somehow he found comfort in the fact that she did.
And she'd won him an easy twenty from Sam. "You did good, Donna," he told her, meaning every word.
Donna blinked warily, and then relaxed just a little. "I did?"
"Yeah."
"I've warned you about freaking me out, Josh."
"Guy's got to get his entertainment where he can." Lyman's soft chuckle contained just enough humor to take some of the sting out.
Despite her fears, Donna felt an awful joy at those words.
Folder in hand, Lyman gallantly held out his arm to his assistant. "Miss Moss," he inquired in his best gentlemanly tones, "Care to accompany me to the Rose Garden? I feel the need to do a little gardening. I think I know where I can find a shovel."
"Of course, Mr. Lyman." Donna took his arm. "However, as much as playing in the dirt appeals to your engaging yet juvenile nature, might I suggest the dead files closet?"
"Yeah, you're really good at losing things in there, aren't you?"
Donna pinched him.
He yelped, more so for effect than actual protest.
Either one suited Donna just fine.
They hadn't lost yet, not by a long shot. The unconventional had long been a hallmark of this White House and their unknown, faceless adversary had absolutely no idea what he was up against. Maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
To be continued…