Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 14/22
"Have you all gone totally crazy?"
"How did you get back here so fast?" C.J. craned around Sawyer's lanky frame to see Carol in the doorway, hands half-raised in a gesture of helplessness and slightly breathless to boot. Clearly Sawyer's long legs had outdistanced her assistant in her attempt to head him off.
"It's amazing how being lied to can lend wings to one's feet." Sawyer was not in a good mood. Of course, he was never anything other than blunt. "Seriously, C.J. What the hell were you trying to sell in there? 'Cause whatever it was, I ain't buying. And more to the point, why?"
His voice was rising steadily. C.J. winced and quietly signaled the apologetic Carol to close the door before the bullpen received any more fuel for the speculation that must even now be running rampant. The assistant discreetly withdrew and C.J knew that no one, not even Sam or Josh, would get anywhere near her door until the Press Secretary had sounded the all clear.
Gathering her roiling thoughts and emotions, she turned back to her current problem. "Sit down, Will. And calm down. Just where the hell do you get off coming back here and accusing me of lying?"
Sawyer dropped into a chair with a scowl. "I don't know what your motives may be, C.J., but we both know that scenario you spun out there isn't logical. Sure, presidential illnesses and injuries have been downplayed in the past for a variety of reasons. But an actual attack? On the person of the President? Even if it were only a crazy loner holed up in an attic with his cats, the Secret Service would be all over him. They'd treat him seriously, too, even if he'd only written a few notes or lunged at the President in a crowd."
Sawyer hunched forward in his chair and studied his companion intently. He wasn't at all surprised when C.J. refused to look him in the eye. "So, what's with the casual attitude and the air of his just being an annoying pest?"
"Because that's what he is," C.J. snapped, her nerves beginning to fray. It had been difficult enough to deliver the story with enough pace and firmness to prevent any interrogation of it's weaknesses in the Press Room. But here in close quarters with her intense and suspicious inquisitor, she felt she was in danger of forgetting the lines a mean fate and the Chief of Staff had assigned her in this melodrama. "Will, the President receives numerous death threats on almost a daily basis. It's a fact of life for him. He's not going to get all worked up over every one. Most of them are just a cry for attention or a vain attempt to seek the spotlight."
"Granted." Sawyer was unruffled by her anger. "But then, most of them are pretty pathetic individuals, incapable of designing anything like that device. It may have been small, but it was effective within its limits. It reached it's intended target and caused injury. That sounds like a pretty effective operation to me. Plus, such people usually want to deliver the blow in person and declare their motivation to a listening world. It's all part of that fame-seeking desire you just mentioned. But this..."
Sawyer leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He had her on this one. "It's cold, C.J. It's clinical. Professional. It smacks of intimidation as much as anything. I've seen attacks like this made on public officials in places like Chechnya" - C.J. somehow managed not to flinch at that - "and other parts of the world where law and order are under siege. This doesn't seem like the work of an unbalanced loner with a grudge. It's more like a conspiracy."
The Press Secretary forced a laugh. Damn, but Sawyer was good. Too good. Damn, damn, damn... "A conspiracy? Oh, that's good, Will. You think some kind of secret organization has conspired to assassinate the President of the United States? And you say my story is far-fetched? No, listen to me..." as Sawyer tried to interrupt. "In its entire history, do you know how many White House security breaches could be described as the result of a conspiracy rather than a lone individual? Well, I'll tell you. One. Just one. When two Puerto Rican Nationals attempted to shoot their way into Blair House in 1950. They never reached the front door, and Truman wasn't even there at the time."
"So," she said angrily, attempting to bury her own dread, "I suggest you keep your material for that thriller all you journalists seem to write at some point."
Sawyer looked at her sulkily. Damn, but C.J. was good. Too good. Damn, damn, damn... "Even if it wasn't a conspiracy," he said in his best I'm still not buying this tones, "that doesn't explain why you guys aren't showing more concern over this."
Oh, Will. If you only knew. C.J. swallowed and glanced down, unable for a moment to meet his gaze. "We are taking this seriously. The President was injured, after all. But we're not going to pander to the assailant's ego either. Just because this guy got lucky, we're not going to give him the satisfaction..."
"Satisfaction." Sawyer pounced instantly. "Now there's an interesting choice of words. What does satisfaction have to do with this? And why does anyone even care?"
"Will..."
"No, C.J. Why? Why are the feelings of this incompetent assassin so important? Why isn't the White House out there breathing fire, slaughter and declaring war on the person who dared assault its Chief Executive? Why, the day after the attempt, is the President's Press Secretary going on air to deliver a highly questionable profile of their alleged suspect?" Sawyer snatched at a book that had been lying on C.J.'s desk and brandished it at her. The title, 'Anatomy of a Motive', danced accusingly in front of C.J.'s eyes. "I've covered more crimes and criminals than you can imagine, worked with law enforcers and criminal psychologists. Hell, I don't need to revise my John Douglas, I've met the man!"
He dropped the book back onto the desk with evident satisfaction and continued quietly, "C.J., I'm not an expert in criminal psychology, but I understand just enough to know that the profile you called out in there doesn't fit the person who carried out this attack. It's just too premeditated, too efficient, too daring. I also know that what you did in there was practically an act of provocation, a challenge to this person. A slap-down of the worst kind to his ego. And this isn't the kind of person you can safely play games with. So, what's going on?"
A game. C.J. nearly said the words aloud. A dreadful, terrible game with her as the helpless referee, the one who would have to announce the final results to the world, whatever they might be. Mutely, she raised her head to meet Sawyer's steady scrutiny, completely torn. She couldn't lie to him, not now. He had guessed too much of the lie and she had no heart to continue to perpetrate it to him. But she couldn't tell him the truth, could hardly bear to articulate it to herself.
Some of her inner desperation must have leaked into her features because Sawyer's gaze suddenly sharpened in evident surprise at the intensity of the emotions he detected. She caught and held his eyes, putting all her fears and anguish into her stare. The plea was there, "Please don't ask me this, not here. I can't do this now."
Something must have gotten through because Sawyer's expression softened slightly and his gaze fell. "Okay, okay..." The words sighed out so softly she barely heard them. He glanced back up and gave her a crooked smile. She returned it, blinking back the tears she knew were shining in her eyes.
"I'm not sure I'll ever learn to be a good little White House journalist..." - C.J. gave a short bark of laughter at the idea - "... but I'll play it your way for now." Sawyer leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing his ankles. "I guess we'll find out the real game soon enough."
He hesitated as his companion's features suddenly darkened again. Something he'd said? Fiddling with his watchband, he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So... how is he?"
"The President?" Lost in thought, C.J replied automatically, "Not at all badly, considering. The explosion was fairly small..."
"C.J." The interruption was swift and firm.
Startled, she looked up to meet Sawyer's wry expression.
"I'm not asking as a reporter right now," he told her gently. "I just wondered how he really was."
Disconcerted, the Press Secretary stammered, "Well, he..."
"Yeah." Sawyer looked down and began to speak quietly. "I guess you're wondering why I'm home again?"
C.J nodded, confused by this apparent non sequitur.
"I'm actually home on leave for health reasons. Oh, I wasn't hurt, " - as his companion made a gesture of concern - "just shaken. The paper thought it would do me good to get out of the field for a while." Sawyer looked up, noting his listener's rapt attention. "I was in our Kabul office when one of my colleagues received a letter. He opened it."
The reporter paused and swallowed, closing his eyes against the memory. "The resulting explosion took off three of his fingers and rendered him unconscious."
C.J. squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing against the bile rising in her throat. The images were there, the sound and fury of the explosion. Her own voice gasping in horror along with the others.
Sawyer continued softly, "I was twelve feet away from him, C.J., and I felt the impact of the explosion like a punch to my whole body. I saw the injuries he sustained, read the medical reports." He waited until her eyes opened and her haunted gaze met his own, both drowning in their own sets of memories. "I know what he means to you. I just want to know - how is he?"
"He..." C.J. shook her head, barely able to articulate around the lump in her throat. "Will, I wish I could tell you something, but I really don't know..."
"Yeah."
Both sat quietly for a few minutes, then Sawyer stirred, uncrossing his legs and standing up. "Well, I guess I'd better get going." He brandished his briefing notes and grimaced wryly. "After all, I've got a story to write."
C.J. nodded. "Thank you," she said softly.
Sawyer paused. "You know," he said seriously, "if anytime over the next few days you feel you need a friend, not a reporter but a friend... just call?"
The Press Secretary felt the first genuine smile in what seemed like days slowly spreading across her face. "I'll bear that in mind," she said quietly. "And Will?"
Sawyer stopped in the doorway.
"For me, really, thank you."
"Take care, won't you?" He regarded her with searching gravity. A look of tired sadness passed across his features and he added sincerely, "Give him... my best wishes, okay?"
Emotions that had only received a shallow burial suddenly rose again to the surface and C.J. could only nod. Will Sawyer left, one of the few reporters she'd ever known to truly hold honor above a story. She continued to stare at the empty doorway until Carol cautiously poked her head around the frame.
"C.J?"
"Yeah?" The Press Secretary made an effort to shake off her foreboding and present her usual brisk, professional front.
"Donna just called. Josh wants you to meet with him and Sam, ASAP in his office." Carol shrugged to hide her confusion. She wasn't too sure about this last bit. "She also said something about you bringing a shovel?"
"I'll bet he does," C.J. muttered to the first half. She didn't bother to comment about the second half of the message, or even ask about the shovel. Given her luck, she might actually get an answer. A Josh answer. Not what she needed right now. She sighed heavily. "All right, Carol. Tell him I'll be right there."
The Russian Consulate
"Okay, people. That's all for now. I'm calling a full lid..."
Growling a curse she'd learned from her grandmother, she turned the television off with an angry flick of the wrist. Resisting the urge to fling the remote across her office, she stared at the blank screen, the image of C.J. Cregg still ghosting across her retinas and mind.
Nadia Koslowski, Ambassador for the Commonwealth of Independent States - annoyingly still referred to in the Western and European press as Russia - to the United States of America was not having a good day. Turning her attention back to the ever-growing pile of visa applications, transfer requests and over-all nonsense reports from any number of useless, bureaucratic dead-end departments with nothing better to do than waste paper, she briefly considered turning in her resignation and happily returning to the cold embrace of Mother Russia.
She rubbed her eyes, profoundly irritated at her own mental slip. What was it the American's were so fond of saying? Ah, yes. Screw the Commonwealth of Independent States. It was Russia, pure and simple, ancient and unforgiving with the enduring soul of a peasant. Nothing changed. Call it what you will, give it whatever social or economic designation the current government desired, but that stubborn soul remained the same.
Stubborn. She almost smiled. The list of alternatives was endless; English was good for that sort of thing. Choose obstinate, inflexible, headstrong, pig-headed... contumacious. She was rather fond of that last one, just enough syllables for the mouth and mind to chew on with choleric gratification. Still, they were just words, a silly game.
A pity her superiors, the powers that be in the Kremlin, could not have chosen better words to use before this insanity had come so far. Nadia looked back up at the blank screen. There had been too many lies of omission. A simple admission of possibility would have been enough. More words would have helped, might perhaps have prevented the horrors that had already happened and what might yet still come to pass.
And now this. A key phrase from the White House Press Secretary's statement stuck in her mind.
"... 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..."
It was wrong. Overworked and fatigued, she pressed both hands against her aching eyes. What were Bartlet and his people playing at? This... person, whoever he might be - and she knew full well what he was - was in no way a spoiled child.
"Madame Ambassador?"
Nadia looked up, scowling at her secretary's interruption. Another time, another place and she wouldn't have dared to do even that. Aides used to be the common euphemism for a KGB spy. The old guard had liked to keep its collective eye on officials abroad; you never knew who was real and who wasn't. These days it was different. Poorly trained and underpaid reality was all you got.
Nadia sighed with long-suffering resignation. At least the KGB spies had known how to do the job. Efficiency in all things. This one, real or not, needed some serious help. How many different ways could 'I do not want to be disturbed' be interpreted?
"What is it?" Nadia asked shortly. It wouldn't be an appointment; she'd covered those for the day.
"Lord John Marbury is here to see you."
Nadia's day had just gone from bad to worse. She sat back in her chair, momentarily torn between two unpleasant choices. Let him in, or send him away? The former would have been the simple solution. The later? She knew perfectly well the annoying man would wait in the outer office till the crack of doom. He knew full well she had to leave sometime and there was only one exit to her office.
The cold winters of Mother Russia never looked better.
Resigned to the inevitable, she waved her hand. "Send him in." Considering her last meeting with this man, and what she'd just seen on the television, this one wasn't going to be any better.
No less apprehensive, she stood as the British Ambassador entered her office. Offering him as sincere a smile as she could manage, she greeted him with equally strained veracity, "Lord John. As always, it is a pleasure to see you."
A single, arched eyebrow indicated Marbury's skepticism. "Ever the diplomat, Nadia?"
"One tries."
"And fails." His flat, accusing gaze prolonged the moment, daring her to try and contradict him.
Nadia didn't try. Sighing, she sat back down and indicted a chair. "Please sit, John."
"Not today. As much as I treasure your company," slyly, he put the disparaging emphasis on the word treasure, "I've come only to deliver a message. Several in fact. How you choose to interpret them, or whether you even choose to pass them on, is entirely up to you. Far be it for me to even speculate as to what your job might truly be."
Nadia eyed him suspiciously. The eccentric, tipsy and ever giddy Ambassador had given way to something she'd never seen before, didn't believe could possibly exist given his normally frivolous appearance. No smiles, no jokes or silly asides. This man was lethal.
Cautiously, aware of the trap he'd set for her at their last meeting, Nadia replied, "I do my job to the best of my ability, John. I can only do what I am told."
There! Let him argue with that.
Marbury's eyes narrowed and the utter stillness that settled across the office forced Nadia to rethink her position. Something else was happening here and for the first time she found herself damning her orders and contemplating the unthinkable.
But only for the moment. "Very well. The message?" She had no doubt as to whom the communication was from, and braced herself for the worst.
"Messages, plural, my dear," Marbury smiled, although the humor failed to reach his eyes. "You really must improve your English skills. So many... omissions could have been avoided, changed so much."
Nadia winced. "John..."
Ignoring her obvious discomfort, and quite frankly not at all moved by it, Marbury cut her off and continued evenly, "Simply this: Nothing has changed. The gentleman in question fully intends to continue along the path both have chosen. President Chagarin need have no fears on that account. On Monday, the gentleman will make a formal statement to that effect."
True concern flashed in Nadia's eyes and she asked, "He is well?"
"As well as can be expected."
"Monday?"
Marbury nodded. "There will be a press briefing."
Nadia leaned back in her chair, making no effort to hide her relief. The lies could have changed that, broken a fragile agreement before it had a chance to set into certainty. She couldn't suppress the thought that, considering the blood that had been spilled, none of them deserved the offered laurel. Even now, they were playing the same game, spreading the word through back channels and intermediaries.
Why was the price for peace and stability so high?
Marbury's next words snapped across the room like a gunshot.
"He does not, however, forgive. People died. That is what he holds in highest regard, the unacceptable price for your silence on this matter. No, the gentleman does not forgive." The British Ambassador's voice lowered, hardened mercilessly and he added coldly, "Neither do I."
"He is your friend." That much Nadia was aware of.
"He is... hope. The first I've seen in many a long year."
"Then you understand our position." Please God, she wanted them all to understand.
Inclining his head, Marbury acknowledged her unspoken plea. "Understanding does not condone. You might have trusted to his judgment, and not your cultural paranoia."
"A long cold winter, John." Nadia rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired of words and their often-empty meaning. She didn't believe that phrase now any more than she had when she'd first given it to the American President who had dared to call her country's bluff.
"The winter is over, Nadia." Marbury told her softly, for the first time feeling actual sympathy for the woman and her country's position. "The world will breathe easier when you finally come to realize that."
Waving that off, unwilling to contemplate the slim hope that had so nearly slipped through their fingers, Nadia asked, "You implied a plural message."
"Indeed I did."
When he offered no further elaboration, she prompted him impatiently, "And?"
"Whatever happens, you may rest assured that the events set in motion will continue. With or without the gentleman in question to direct them." It was the first time Marbury had acknowledged that possibility, and he nearly faltered. "However, you will not interfere with what is about to take place. In this instance, you've forfeited any right to offer help or to receive sympathy in return. One way or another, it will end."
"Do nothing, or risk losing it all." With that, Marbury turned sharply on his heel, hand already reaching for the door.
Nadia was too startled by this ultimatum to offer up any objection. Thinking about it, she couldn't help but admit that he was right. What could they offer but more lies?
She could give them this though. Swallowing her pride and her orders, Nadia called out, "Lord Marbury?"
He paused and turned.
"I have a name. Do not ask me how, do not ask me from where. Simply take it and go." She paused. This had come through her own inquiries, not through normal channels. Nobody but she would know. "Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov."
Marbury's brow rose in surprise, and a hint of the fool returned to his manner. "Goodness me, but that is quite a mouthful."
"He is here, in this country."
The fool disappeared. "The gentleman in question is already aware of that."
Glancing at the silent television, remembering what had been said and the blatant, insulting challenge that had just been issued, Nadia mused aloud, "I had thought as much. You do know what Volkov means in Russian, do you not?"
Hand on the office door Marbury remained silent and waiting.
"Son of the wolf."
Head to one side, Marbury considered that for a moment, and then commented dryly, "How very droll."
Then he left, pulling the door shut behind him with painfully precise civility.
Nadia stared at the closed door for a moment, then sighed and picked up her phone.
To be continued…