Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 18/22

Ziegler looked directly into her eyes, placing his hand over the one still on his arm, her tense fingers digging into his flesh through the coat sleeve. "A man I consider a friend. You want to know something?"

Abbey didn't dare answer. She could only take his hand into hers and hold it tightly in silence.

"I could care less about the office, about the assumption of responsibility for legitimate concerns and fears. Moral or amoral, I don't care, not anymore. They are afraid of him, of what he represents and the power of his office to destroy them. Fine, if you want legitimacy, that's at least a cruel sort of honesty."

"Toby..."

He didn't hear her, didn't want to stop. He needed to say this, to have the one person who mattered listen. "Abbey, I don't care about the President anymore, just the man, and that scares me. I once told him that in a battle between a President's demons and his better angels, for the first time in a long while we had a fair fight." He laughed bitterly. "A fair fight. The Russian mafia consists of ex Special Forces, Spetsnaz, KGB, you name it. For what? Money. That's all they care about. Bottom line, they want to be paid. How do you fight that? There's nothing fair about this. The demons, the monsters, have come out from underneath the bed, and I don't know how to fight them, can't see how they can be fought…" he took a deep breath, finishing on the exhale, "… to protect him."

Ziegler swallowed hard, fighting to stifle the anger, the fear of ultimate failure. "Where are the angels, Abbey?" he asked, his words like gall on his tongue. "I haven't seen them yet."

"Right here, Toby." Abbey had nothing more to give him. She'd already run so much of what he'd said through her own mind and come up with no answers. But to know that someone else thought the same thing? It was worth more than Toby would give himself credit for.

She said the only thing she could, an attitude she'd lived with for so long it was almost habit. She was all too familiar with monsters and their ilk, when they could be fought and when they couldn't. "We work with what we've got, Toby, the cards we're dealt."

"We've got a lousy hand."

"Then we draw another one."

"Aces and eights, Abbey." Ziegler sighed sadly. "How long before we draw a dead man's hand?"

For a moment, shocked silence was the only response to his ill-advised question. He couldn't believe he'd actually voiced it aloud, to this woman. It went beyond cruel into the very territory Toby Ziegler detested. The unthinking, emotionless automaton so many accused him of being. He was far from it; he wanted her to know that.

Abbey already did, smiling gently to indicate her understanding. His honesty deserved that.

"I trust that Ron and his people can keep that from happening." That had been hard to say, but she knew it was yet another truth. Whatever might happen, could still happen, she had to trust in that stalwart's grim determination.

Slipping her arm into Toby's, Abbey drew him away from the rail, leading him back towards the house. She'd got what she'd wanted, and so much more. The fury was still there, but at the moment, she couldn't be entirely sure if ignorance wasn't exactly bliss. At least now she had something to focus on, a target. Several in fact. That Jed was now included in that group didn't surprise her in the least.

It was better than nothing. To protect others, he would allow the tiger to stalk and hunt its sole target and disregard any others. No innocent bystanders were going to get hurt, not if he could help it. She couldn't blame him for that, not really. That kind of stubborn nobility, she could not fight.

She just didn't like it.

Suspiciously, morbidly expecting something more, Zeigler tried to hang back from her insistent pull. "Is that it?" he asked warily.

"What else can we do, Toby? Rant? Rave against cruel, unfeeling fate?" She patted his arm comfortingly. A nervous Toby, while not unusual, was still irresistible to a mother's instincts, especially now. "I can think of a better thing to do."

Ziegler opened his mouth to ask, and then closed it. He knew the answer, and smiled sadly. "Pray."

"He, at least, always listens."

"Yeah."

A cow mooed.

Ziegler scowled, glancing back with disgust over his shoulder at the snide commentary. "Do they have to do that?"

"What?"

"Moo!"

"They're cows, Toby. It's what they do."

"Couldn't you like, train them not to?"

Abbey shook her head. "You poor city boy."

"Damn right." Following her lead, feeling strangely purged and renewed, he let her direct him back into the house. A thought occurred to him. "I'm hungry."

"When was the last time you had something other than nicotine and smoke?"

He thought about it, did a few quick calculations. "Thursday."

"Food, Toby. For the mind and the body." One of the ever-present agents stepped aside as they entered the foyer. Abbey didn't give him a second thought. She was getting used to them. Toby on the other hand... "I think a late lunch would do us both some good."

Ziegler's dour expression brightened and yet another thought struck him. "Got any steak?"

Abbey laughed, cheered by the dour, often-antagonistic man beside her. While validation of her suspicions had been her original goal, she'd come away with much more. Considering the source, the realization surprised her.

She had an ally in the game. Against whom? Any and all comers.

~ooOoo~

The West Wing, Saturday evening…

The door to the Deputy Chief of Staff's office flew open with a familiar, overly dramatic flair. The accompanying bellow of enthusiastic greeting wasn't really necessary as an identifier, nor did it provide sufficient warning to its victim.

"Joshua!"

Joshua Lyman jumped, jamming his knee painfully against the underside of his desk. Not exactly the first time that had ever happened. Wincing, he glared accusingly at the flamboyant British Ambassador, then leaned to one side and spied Donna waving cheekily at him from around the tall man's shoulder.

"Thanks for the heads up, Donna," he drawled with no little sarcasm, rubbing his knee. Another beauty of a bruise was in the making. Considering her regular performance rating, wearing padding was becoming a serious consideration. "A little warning, next time, maybe? Just once?"

"He's a force of nature, Josh. What can I do?" She grinned at Marbury. "Besides, how could I improve on that entrance?"

"Indeed." Marbury bowed gracefully and deliberately towards the Deputy Chief of Staff's assistant, giving her an equally cheeky wink. His smile was warm. "Performance and presentation are everything, young lady."

That smile... Donna melted, just a little.

Lyman groaned and banged his head against the desk, knocking a stack of papers off balance with his elbow and scattering them. He couldn't win for losing. Now he was trapped. He pretty much blamed Leo for the whole thing.

Giving Donna one last devastating smile, Marbury shut the door. Privacy insured, he turned back towards Lyman. His expression stilled and grew serious. The young man looked driven and flustered, nearly buried under a weight that was not entirely represented by the scattered files, memos and folders attempting to escape the sanctuary of his overloaded desk.

Marbury understood the underlying empathic burden. Becoming emotionally involved was a danger they all shared. However, age and a cynicism born from years of cold, hard reality allowed him to shoulder and distance that weight with a practiced ease he often found monumentally depressing. The ability only grew with experience. The world was a harsh teacher, never one to allow for human sentiment.

Josh Lyman was not yet quite so skilled a practitioner. One day, he would be. Lord John Marbury found that the most depressing thought of all.

Noting the sudden silence, Lyman lifted his head and observed the tall, eccentric man warily. Again, he blamed Leo. 'What did he know?' Or rather, 'What had Leo told him?' And last but not least, 'What can he be told?'

Some of his thoughts must have been clearly evident on his face. One corner of Marbury's mouth twisted upwards as he set his briefcase on the harried Deputy Chief of Staff's desk, shoving aside a few additional folders. Opening it, he relieved some of Lyman's anxiety and said, "Leo has deigned to include me, against his better judgment, no doubt..."

"No doubt," Lyman muttered, catching a sheaf of papers before they could hit the floor. Leo's desk never looked like this, so why did his? He blamed Donna.

"... and made use of my meager skills."

"Meager?" Lyman forced back a surge of resentment. The target was Leo McGarry. Why hadn't he been told?

Another flashing smile. "A uniquely humble turn of phrase when applied to myself." He eyed the paperwork attempting to escape the young man's grasp askance. "The President has indeed vacated the premises for a well-earned rest?"

"Yeah."

"Taking his ever-present and remarkably skilled Chief of Staff with him?"

"Yeah." Where was this going? Lyman opened a drawer and shoved the armful of papers inside. He'd get to them later. Besides, Donna would have told him if they were important, right?

"Leaving you in charge of the White House?" Elegantly composed, Marbury pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. For fear of prying eyes and listening ears, this had to be done quickly. "And possibly the fate of the free world?"

Well, when you put it that way... "That bothers you?"

"Terrifies me, actually."

Lyman blinked slowly for a moment, then grinned. "Good." His tone wasn't the least bit apologetic.

Regarding him with open amusement, Marbury laughed softly, jovially. The art of diplomacy had many a strange turn, and he knew them all. Using them was second nature. Already the young man looked slightly less flustered and more relaxed.

A pity he had to spoil it. Declining Lyman's waved offer of a seat, all too aware of the time factor, he asked, "The President?" A wealth of inquiry was included in that one word.

"Better," Lyman admitted freely, for the first time curiously noticing the folder the British Ambassador had removed from his briefcase. The British Ambassador playing courier? "Leo called this afternoon. The President woke up this morning after nearly two full days of sleep. We're stunned."

"And the world didn't come crashing down around our ears?"

"Weird, huh? He probably half expected it to." That phone call had been the highlight of a truly dismal day. Good news these days was rare. Lyman smiled warmly at the memory. "He's remarkably better." His grin became sly. "The word frisky was used, in a context I tried very hard not to let my imagination get too carried away with."

Marbury's own grin broadened.

"A problem you don't seem to be having."

"When Gerald uses the word frisky in the same sentence as Josiah Bartlet, one has no choice but to let lurid and suggestive imagination have free reign." Humor aside, Marbury's relief was genuine. All would be well. "That is indeed good news. Thank you."

A wry but indulgent glint was in the Ambassador's eyes as he observed the embarrassed shifting of Gerald's deputy.

Lyman shrugged, growing ever more uncomfortable under the Ambassador's searching gaze. He nodded towards the file. "You have something for us?"

"A great many things." Marbury handed him the folder. "Courtesy of Nadia Koslowski."

Accepting it with a frown, Lyman stared at the blank, manila cover, emotions in turmoil. "Leo... " He couldn't finish the question, but the thought refused to be stilled. Trust wasn't exactly at a premium right now.

"Requested my aid in this matter. A... message was delivered. Nothing more. That... " He indicated the folder, "... was an unexpected bonus, a lead as I believe your law enforcement officials refer to it."

"Leo requested you?" There was resentment in his voice and Lyman made no attempt to hide it. Why hadn't he been told? Or asked? The questions continued to burn, to demand an answer.

"This was handled quickly, Joshua, perhaps far too quickly," Marbury explained, sensing some of the young man's bitterness and anger. Youth confronted with the cynicism of age and dire expediency. Leo McGarry had not handled this well. "Diplomacy is a cloak that can hide so very much. I don't raise flags. You would have."

Lyman couldn't argue with that. Still, it hurt and he wasn't sure why. "I was left out of the loop."

"Only temporarily."

"You saw the press briefing?" Changing the subject seemed to help, if only a little.

"Miss Cregg was magnificent, a truly exceptional performance. A pity the reasons may never see the light of questionable day."

"What are they trying to do?"

"They are trying to bait a very dangerous predator." The British Ambassador's mercurial eyes sharpened, watching Lyman keenly. "You understand why, don't you?"

"Yeah." Lyman slumped in his chair, still holding on to the file. He wondered briefly if he was going to have to find a place to bury this one as well. "Government shouldn't work like this. It's... sick." Somewhere, he heard the echo of Toby Ziegler, casting his own protests into the lap of cruel fate.

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Joshua. It's the price you pay for conviction."

"For President Bartlet's conviction."

"And yours. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Or you?"

Marbury's chuckle was harsh, leaden with hidden meaning. "My own convictions have little or no bearing on the matter. Wasn't it your own second president who once said there are two kinds of people in this sad world? Those with conviction, and those who acquire the convictions of others?"

"John Adams," Lyman muttered, running his thumb along the edge of the folder. He didn't want to open it.

"A brilliant man, given very little credit by history for his achievements." Marbury looked at his watch, and then picked up his briefcase, preparing to leave. "We have, both of us, Joshua, acquired certain convictions that require the sacrifice of the known for the unknown."

"Not like this." Lyman's mouth dipped into an even deeper frown, his expression taut and derisive. "You can argue the criminality of politics all you want, but this is a nightmare. What, we're supposed to allow thugs at the bargaining table now? Let them dictate policy and our futures? Is that the argument?"

"You can also argue the criminality of diplomacy, for the same reasons," Marbury added, smiling benignly as if dealing with a temperamental child. In a sense he was. The wider, darker under-world had landed in this young man's lap with a frighteningly cold certainty. "However, it can have its uses, especially when coupled with a reluctant conscience. Not everything is lost to the pragmatism of the moment."

"Ambassador Koslowski's?" Lyman looked again at the folder, given a sudden hope by that one word; conscience. It was about time somebody over there, given what the President had offered them and the price he had already paid, had shown evidence of one. "What did she give us?"

"A name, through her own considerable sources. Please," Marbury held up his hand, forestalling the inevitable questions. "Don't ask how, where or why. Just accept it. As you can well imagine, she would prefer that any acknowledgement of this... gift, be kept to yourselves. Honesty, coupled with conscience, has a price she is not willing to pay."

"She did good, then."

Marbury nodded solemnly, giving Nadia Koslowski that much acknowledgment; however late to the party she may have come. "The rest is from my own not inconsiderable sources. A face and a history to go with the name."

Turning to leave, Marbury was reaching for the door handle when he paused, reluctant to end it there. Something more needed to be said. Over his shoulder, he offered almost casually, "I leave it to you to see that the information is given to those who can use it to best effect. Quickly, Joshua," he added, no trace of frivolity or humor to hide the darker meaning behind his urging.

Lyman's heart jumped, his relief short-lived. "It can get worse?" All things considered, a silly question, but one his fevered imagination had to ask.

"Much worse." There was a faint tremor in Marbury's voice, emotion finding its way through his hardened diplomatic barriers.

Lyman had no trouble labeling it as fear. He remained silent, staring at the Ambassador's back and waiting. There was more, there had to be.

"I hesitate to use this word, Joshua. I think you can understand why. Too often it is a mask for the banal, a catchall term for those who have not the courage or the certitude to confront their own failings, to find the true meaning behind a human motive. To do anything else would point an accusing finger at their own complicity, their own moral deficiency and mortality. Take it outside the known, give it something bigger and beyond, and the responsibility is no longer yours."

His hand tightened on the door handle, knuckles white with the strain. "Do you know the word?"

Lyman knew the word, could no longer deny it. One word, but with it a wealth of meaning that went far beyond logic and reason. Still, he didn't say it. He couldn't. His throat had locked and wouldn't allow him to utter it.

Marbury didn't need to see the young man's face to sense his understanding and reluctance. Yet another pin of his worldview had been knocked out from under him. Here, Marbury would take out another. "Leo and his cohorts may have miscalculated, badly. They baited a human predator and may well have found something else, a child of the cold war and the new century, driven by demons of our own making, our own indifference. Victory was not enough. Mercy and succor towards our former adversaries might have seen this demon still-born."

A deep breath, and Marbury finished in a voice nearly a hushed whisper. "Or it might not have. Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov is evil, Joshua. Please, for all our sakes, make sure the President understands this."

Having said the word, given a name to the hunter, Lord John Marbury quietly left.

Staring at the folder, Lyman felt an extraordinary void where once there had been fear. Evil. There was power in that word, barely controlled and coiled like a serpent around the future. Whatever stakes had been laid on the table had been cleared, swallowed by a voracious abyss that knew no humanity, no soul.

He opened the folder and read.

"Aww, shit." What else was there to do? "DONNA!" he bellowed.

It was a start.

To be continued…