Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 17/22

Toby Ziegler would be the first to admit he was a master at getting to the truth. A less kind observer would say his tenacious persistence in getting to that elusive truth simply overwhelmed the object of his pursuit into surrender through the power of sheer nuisance. No less honest with himself than he was with his colleagues, he'd agree with that assessment on all counts. It always worked for him, so why change?

A pity he couldn't apply that same obstinacy and stubborn persistence to his own thoughts and motivations. Taking a deep drag off his cigar, he leaned against the front porch railing and stared across the lawn. Beyond the near dozen black Suburbans lining the drive, beyond the two-pair teams of heavily armed Secret Service Agents patrolling the grounds clear to the nearest tree-line a half-mile away, and beyond the much nearer wooden stock fence were...

Cows. Lots of cows. Too many cows. He could hear them, and he could smell them. The smell was really what he couldn't get past. It pervaded everything. He exhaled, observing the creatures narrowly and with profound disgust through the cloud of smoke. The aroma of the cigar he liked. It spoke of refinement and civilization.

Ziegler didn't like the cows. They represented everything depressingly rural. And really, it didn't help a person to think with their constant... mooing. He scowled. It really chafed that the malodorous beasts had forced him, a consummate writer and master of words, to even think the word mooing. That just added insult to injury. Why would anyone in their right mind want to live near bovines?

And what, he asked himself for the umpteenth time, was he doing here being irritated - more so than usual, he had to grudgingly admit - by the aforementioned bovines? Seeing how just about everything in existence irritated him in one way or another, his fixation on the cows worried him.

Chewing on the end of his cigar, Ziegler came right back to the same cud he'd been ruminating over since he had arrived at the Bartlet farm. He rolled his eyes. Damn it! The infernal beasts had invaded his store of precious verbs and nouns! This was getting out of hand, but it still didn't change or distract him from the only sour answer he'd managed to come up with all afternoon.

What was he doing here?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing. Ziegler knew he'd been tagged as superfluous escort for the simple reason that Leo McGarry didn't dare leave him behind at the White House to stew in his own juices. With the Communications Director being more bellicose than usual, the Chief of Staff couldn't risk having him tip off the press, the staffing bullpen, the interns, the messengers and the occasional senior rep that he wasn't happy.

Okay. Ziegler scowled and puffed cheerlessly on the cigar. Let's be honest. Less happy than usual. He had to admit that Leo, however misguided he thought the man to be, had a point. This wasn't a poker game; this wasn't a political argument with a recalcitrant congressman. This wasn't business as usual. Knowing what he did, there was no way Ziegler could hide that fact, cover up his displeasure, especially after C.J. dropped the bomb.

That bomb had hit with a resounding success. Ziegler couldn't deny the fact that C.J. Cregg knew her job, could play the press corps with consummate skill and panache. Even Will Sawyer hadn't been able to shake her, and he had clearly suspected something wasn't right. Steve and Sandy had been the same.

C.J. had played them all, maintaining her cool and mauling a few reporters in the process. He didn't begrudge her that, a part of him cheering her on as he had watched her leave the messy remains of their inanity in her considerable wake. Oh, yeah, she'd played their game. Played...

This wasn't a game. Why did it seem he was the only one to realize that? Ziegler couldn't believe they'd actually done it, and by they he included himself in the team count. He hadn't succeeded in stopping it, not when the President himself agreed with it. A small, optimistic part of his mind had hoped that they wouldn't go through with it, that his arguments to the contrary had got through somehow. He should have known better. No, this wasn't a poker game, but the stakes...

Another unhappy puff on his rapidly shrinking cigar. The stakes were horrifying. From somewhere, and it was a thought that truly terrified him, came the reluctant realization that they truly had no other choice. The new millennium had added a new, darker and evil player to the field of international politics, one who didn't play by the known rules.

They were making up the rules as they went along.

Totally unconcerned with these world-shaking considerations, a cow mooed.

Ziegler snorted through a cloud of aromatic smoke. Now there was a commentary worthy of serious consideration.

"This isn't the White House, Toby. You can smoke inside."

Rather proud of himself that he didn't bolt like a guilty thief from that familiar voice, another thick cloud of smoke was Ziegler's only response. Ridiculously, all he could focus on was the cows and their constant mooing. It had gone beyond irritating into almost contemptuous.

Or maybe he was just giving them way too much credit.

Abbey truly hadn't expected anything more, not from this man. Laughing softly, she followed his glum, scowling line of sight. She should have known. The poor urbanite... "Inside, there are no cows."

He laughed shortly in return. "Am I that obvious?"

"Among other things." Joining him at the rail, Abbey marveled again at his subtle wit. True, a darker variety than she was used to, but reliable in its own way. And somehow, at this moment, comforting. "I saw C.J.'s briefing."

Another scowl puckered Ziegler's brow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So?"

Abbey waited a beat, and then shook her head. The man was priceless. How could she be angry with him? Easy... "Want to tell me what's going on?"

"Is there something going on?" Ziegler was rapidly running out of cigar and excuses.

"Nice try, Toby. Let me put it this way, then you can try again." Abbey waved away the smoke, watching Toby carefully, looking for the cracks. Oh, he would try to evade, to dance around the issue with some cranky sophism. She wasn't about to let him. "You're not talking to Leo, Leo's not talking to you. Normally not something to cause undue concern. However, add in the fact that you are avoiding everyone, including your nominal employer..."

Ziegler's brows rose. "Nominal?"

Abbey smiled sweetly, though little humor lit her eyes. She wanted a target, something to lash out against. Still, was that a smile hidden beneath his beard? "Got you on that one, didn't I?"

A nervous shuffle. "Ma'am..."

"You've never been one to hide your displeasure or go out of your way to avoid voicing it."

A deeper, troubled scowl. "Ma'am..."

"And while Ron Butterfield has been standing formidable guard and been far... grimmer than usual, if that can possibly be believed, the threat of his denial or displeasure wouldn't stop you."

The cigar became his only refuge. Ziegler took a deep drag. By the time he was done inhaling, he was seeing stars. Maybe if he passed out...

Abbey bit back a curse. Of all the players in this drama, Toby seemed to be her only ally, however reluctant. It was getting him to talk that was a pain. She suppressed her growing fury at his apparent indifference. It was just a mask.

She was tired of masks. "What did they do to piss you off, Toby? And before you answer, be aware I include my husband in that lovely, ever entertaining and frustrating group."

He couldn't hold his breath or the lungful of smoke any longer. "Lovely..." he choked out, coughing. "Entertaining?"

"They do try." Once again and with a disapproving glare, she waved away the smoke. "That's a bad habit, Toby."

"I have lots of bad habits."

"Hiding from the truth isn't one of them. Your painfully direct honesty is one of your better qualities, and the one I admire the most. Don't hide it from me."

Ziegler blinked, not quite confused but damn close. He couldn't recall a more backhanded compliment, especially from her. How the hell was he supposed to respond? "Ma'am..." he paused, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar. The ember was a good metaphor for what might happen if he didn't answer.

But if he did? For the first time, he looked directly into the First Lady's searching gaze. A suggestion of annoyance hovered in those eyes, and something else. A protective fury fueled by suspicion. She already knew, he could see that, and was just waiting for him to confirm it. Ziegler visibly deflated, giving up. Fear, concern, anger had no place here.

Only the truth. "Ma'am... Abbey," - he owed her that, at least - "the respect and regard in which I hold the President... your husband," he saw her start at that, realizing with some surprise that she was grateful he had referred to the man and not the office, "is only slightly more than the same respect in which I hold you."

Abbey was too startled by his laurel to offer any question or objection. There wasn't a hint of mockery in his tone. "Is that a proper sentence?" she asked, caught off guard, and not for the first time, by this unpredictable man.

"Probably not," Ziegler admitted with a rueful smile, flicking a long ash over the railing. "I'm working under duress here."

"What's going on, Toby?" She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. It was so easy to find the anger again, to let her fury have free reign. "I want answers."

The glowing ember was very close to his fingers. Staring at it, Ziegler realized he might probably get burned and said softly. "You already know."

"The press conference." Abbey sighed heavily, the simple admission threatening to shatter her fragile control. She wanted to shout, to scream her denial to the world. There it was. She'd only needed him to confirm it. Nobody else would have. "That profile doesn't fit with what Jed told me."

"I figured he'd said something, when the NTSB report..."

"Let's not rehash old details," Abbey interrupted, cutting him off impatiently. Having her suspicions given grounds was one thing. That left only this. "What the hell are they doing?"

"I've been asking myself the same question for the last two days." Ziegler gave up on his sputtering cigar and snubbed it out, dropping the remains onto the lawn below. Leaning both arms against the rail, he said, "As much as I hate it, as much as the sheer obstinacy of the decision scares the hell out of me, I've really only been able to come up with one answer."

"They had no choice." Abbey stared over the porch rail. The ember of Ziegler's cigar was still glowing weakly. It hadn't quite given up the fight. Neither had she. "I imagine they loaded you down with excuses, though."

"Leo loaded me down." Ziegler snorted, not quite allowing himself the bitter laugh he really wanted. The indignation and anger still simmered below the surface. "Ron just added the kicker. I wasn't allowed to advise your husband on this."

"You might have talked him out of it." Her husband? She regarded her companion with somber curiosity. What was going on here? "They couldn't risk that."

Ziegler sighed, a poor imitation of his usual huffs. "And I'm not sure they weren't correct. I'm not sure of anything anymore. Even Ron..."

"Another one of my clues. The man's about ready to eat his own liver." Abbey stepped closer, her earlier condemnations and suspicions still there, but allayed by this man's troubled and sincere concern. "What do they expect to happen now? I'm no psychologist, but that... profile was a blatant insult. Poor C.J." - and she had no doubts that the Press Secretary was as unhappy as her colleague - "stopped just short of giving our suspect a royal bird."

"I'm surprised she didn't."

"Would you have?"

"I think I'd have been a bit more... colorful."

Abbey laughed, a sad, but still genuine sound of shared frustration and concern. Assailed by a terrible sense of bitterness, she felt a swell of pain that was beyond tears. But the loneliness, the despair of being left out was driven away by the soft chuckle of the man standing next to her. He did understand.

That chuckle surprised Ziegler, that he could find anything even grimly humorous in any of this. Still, it helped, a little. He stared across the manicured lawn and through the dividing fence at a cow.

The cow stared back, chewing its cud, and mooed.

Ignoring yet another commentary, Ziegler said softly, "What's gonna happen? Nothing, everything." He huffed with profound disgust, both at himself and the overly curious bovine. His voice began to rise, the fury beginning to boil over. "Legitimacy. That was the excuse. Criminals, politics, the line between the two being blurred - as if it wasn't blurred beyond all recognition already. Who cares about legitimacy? About lines? We should be telling the world, not hiding behind what ifs and maybes."

Touching his arm, Abbey tried to calm him down, to bring him back from the brink. Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this righteous outrage. That was supposed to have been hers alone. And while she agreed with him, she'd been a party enough to the game, if only on the outskirts, to recognize the twisted reasoning.

So did Toby, and he didn't like it one bit. His outrage went beyond loyalty into something else, a faith in her husband that stunned and touched her deeply. It cooled her own churning emotions.

"Toby, they're right," she was forced to concede, confronting her own fears. "I hate to admit it, to even consider the implications, but the sad truth is that they can't allow even a suggestion that any criminal could reach that high and become even a nominal player on the international scene."

Staring at the hand on his arm, Ziegler admitted softly, "I hadn't expected you to understand, or to condone."

"Oh, I don't condone, not by a long shot. And I only partially understand."

"They've staked him out, Abbey," Ziegler spat the words almost contemptuously. "Using him to draw out the tiger."

"A Judas Goat." Clenching her teeth, Abbey was now beyond furious. And he had agreed, explaining so much of what she'd seen and heard. Jed had known.

Each assessed the other's anger, finding an unexpected solace in the stark recognition.

"They've made this personal, Abbey. This isn't the Sicilian mob; they're not even European in their thinking. It's older, colder..." He winced at the inadvertent rhyme, then gathered himself. "Face is everything to this man. Money and profit has become secondary. Whatever reasons he may have started this with have been tossed out the proverbial window. We may not have had any choice, but now he doesn't either. It's become a matter of pride, not just profit."

Ziegler's eyes were bleak. " No more threats, no more hints. He has to succeed now. "

Abbey shivered, her thoughts racing. The price for that success? "My husband's life."

To be continued…