Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 20/22

The sound of the door whispering closed had been almost at the edge of hearing, barely enough to stir the sleeper. In the end, it was the sense of absence that succeeded in rousing him past the early stages of awareness. Still more than half asleep, Bartlet stretched out his arm, searching automatically for his companion. His groping hand found only an empty space, still heated from her body. Abbey hadn't been gone long then.

Bartlet began to roll onto his right side; instinctively curling himself into the warm hollow his wife had left in their bed. 

"God damn it!" 

The incautious movement had dragged his bound left hand off the supporting pillow, dropping it down to impact against the point of his hip. Now wide awake, Bartlet continued to swear quietly through clenched teeth, waiting for the flare of agony to subside, as well as the lights dancing in front of his vision.

His hand felt almost unbearably hot and tender under the wrappings, but Abbey had assured him that the infection was contained. Some discomfort was inevitable while it ran its course, and her husband was damned if he was going to voice any complaints or mention feeling discomfort in her hearing. She would probably insist that the lengthy, tedious and honestly painful process of bandaging and cleansing be carried out several times a day if he did, and having to go through that every morning was bad enough.

Bartlet's glance strayed to the bottle of painkillers on the bed stand, the glass of water next to it. All ready for use. He clenched his jaw. Not today! He had better things to do this morning than sleep or descend into goofy.

Wriggling up into a half-sitting position on the pillows, Bartlet glanced towards the windows, outlined in the glow of the floodlights. Still dark, but the gray darkness that suggested dawn was close by. He squinted at the clock. Five a.m., not too far off the time when a reluctant, whimsical Charlie would normally be trying to prod his boss into action for a new day.

It had taken the body-man some time to realize that while his Chief Executive might only sleep for a relative short period each night, this did not mean that he was an enthusiastic and energetic early riser. The President knew his job all too often made it difficult for him to retire early and he could never seem to settle once he finally managed to reach his bed. He was as grumpy and tenacious a pillow hugger in the mornings as any teenager who had been convinced the previous evening that they could keep going on just a few hours' sleep. 

Bartlet sighed, and raised his right hand to rub at his eyes, then swore softly again. The cuts on his face were healing well, but he kept forgetting about his eyelids and the scratches there stung like blazes when scrubbed. Mindful now, he cautiously ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips and grimaced at the metallic taste. Still, those cuts would heal eventually as well. They weren't too sore either, except for the brief twinge when one would split open anew.

Suddenly restless, the President threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.  Abbey might kill him, but he'd been out of action for several days now. It was about time he began to catch up. Leo McGarry was sure to have brought a thick wad of briefing memos and files with him - he never moved without them. And he always used his old friend's study when staying at Manchester. 

Bartlet grinned. With a bit of luck, he could be safely ensconced and getting back up to speed before anyone with the power to send him back to bed caught up with him. 

Hauling off his pajama top, he slid into a shirt and cautiously inserted his mummified hand into the sleeve of the sweatshirt he had been wearing the previous day. The jeans he reluctantly passed over. Yesterday, he had had Abbey's amused and teasing assistance, but there was no way he could haul the denim on with just one hand, or not without spending more time in undignified wriggling than he felt was worth it. He managed to awkwardly fasten a pair of dress slacks instead and slipped his feet into loafers. Then, feeling the increased confidence that being fully dressed offers, especially when your main opponent is almost definitely still in her robe, the President opened his bedroom door.

"Morning, fellas." Bartlet reflexively tightened his grasp on the doorknob as the two agents swung around to face him a little too abruptly. They mustn't have heard him moving around inside. He guessed he should have turned on the light, but the floodlights had provided enough illumination, and he simply hadn't bothered.

"Mr. President." Agent Paulson had recovered his professional sang-froid. "Pardon us, sir. The First Lady said you were still asleep."

"I was when she left. Do you know where she is?"

"Mrs. Bartlet left about fifteen minutes ago, sir. She said she was going to the kitchen."

"Okay." Bartlet jerked his head towards the other side of the upper landing. "I'll be in the study when she comes back."

"Yes, sir."

The President nodded and moved across the hall, only to feel the two agents falling into step behind him. Mildly exasperated, he pivoted on his heel, almost bumping into his escort. "Fellas?  What are you doing?"

"Sir?" Seeing that this answer plainly wasn't going to cut it, Agent Stevens said helpfully "Agent Butterfield's instructions are that two agents never be more than twenty feet from you at any time."

Bartlet breathed out heavily through his nose and counted to ten, in Latin. It didn't help.  They did have their job to do, and he was truly grateful for their vigilance on his behalf, but still… "I appreciate that, Agent. But I'm only going across the landing. And, at a rough guess, my desk is only ten feet from the door. I'd say you're okay, where you are."

The two agents gazed at their Commander in Chief politely but implacably. Nobody blinked. Finally, the President heaved a heavy sigh. 

"Fine, suit yourselves." He felt the agents once again falling into step behind him as he reached the study door. Turning, he gave them a quick wink to show there were no hard feelings before firmly closing the door on them. Butterfield's paranoia hadn't yet reached the levels of demanding that he actually have the agents in the room with him at all times, and he wasn't going to accede that last measure of privacy until he was forced to.

Switching on the lamp just inside the door, Bartlet crossed the gently lit room to the big bay window looking out across the brilliantly lit lawns, with the shadowy figures of the Secret Service occasionally visible moving around the house. At this time of the morning, he would normally be able to see the sky starting to fade to a lighter shade of gray, and maybe a thin ribbon of red outlining the top of the tree line, some half a mile distant.

Now however, the security lights managed to turn the darkness beyond their perimeter even blacker, and the trees were merely a deeper band of black against the shadowed sky.  Bartlet felt a slight depression weighing on him at the sight, and determinedly shook it off, abruptly turning away.

His desk was set at right angles to the corner of the large window, and he slid into the seat, switching on the lamp and grinning slightly at the large stack of folders set to the side of the blotter. His Chief of Staff had run true to form. 

The President picked up the first and winced; a departmental memo from the Pentagon about defense spending. He could never remember what half the weaponry listed was supposed to do, or why. Only that somebody wanted him to find the money for it. Sighing, he rooted out the spectacles that he had for once remembered to stuff into his shirt pocket and opened the file.

He was only half way down the first listing of appropriations, and already beginning to feel cranky at the military jargon, when the phone rang. Only half wondering who could be ringing the study extension at this ungodly hour - the White House very swiftly had taught its present incumbent that there was no such thing as time off - Bartlet laid the file flat on the desk and scooped up the receiver in his hand. 

"Hello?" he said absently, continuing to run his eye down the page before him. Instead of Leo, who had a maddening tendency to lecture, maybe he could get Sam to translate for him. That was one option…

The voice at the other end didn't fully register at first - then the clipped, precise tones penetrated. Bartlet slowly straightened and removed his spectacles - as much in dawning tribute to the significance of the accent with its overtones of Eastern Europe as to the words spoken.

"Good morning, Mr. President." The voice was politely urbane, yet with an undoubtedly mocking undertone. "Tell me, how is your hand?"

~ooOoo~

The eyes are the windows to the soul.

Ron Butterfield had spent the last hour coming back to those eyes, the face staring out at him from the Russian military ID photo that accompanied the reams of information that had been wired and then couriered from the White House. The grainy, black and white picture told him little he hadn't already known. Ethnicity and origins aside, he'd hit the profile exactly on age, even perhaps the deeper motivations. The harsh, martial haircut only served to emphasize the sharp plains and angles of an uncompromising face, one that could easily adorn the features of millions of career soldiers around the world.

Except for those eyes...

The window to this soul was empty, frosted with a hard, calculated malevolence that left no room for anything remotely human. Butterfield wasn't given to flowery exaggerations, imagery, as he knew Sam Seaborn would have described it. A bad habit. But the glossy surface of the photo only seemed to emphasize the need for that, for something more to describe the difference. Those eyes were mercilessly black and fathomless. There was nothing recognizably human there.

Butterfield's lips tightened and he dropped the photo. The immortality of youth coupled with life lessons he couldn't even begin to comprehend. 'No', he forced himself to correct that thought. He knew what had molded this monster, he just couldn't empathize. There was no common ground.

"Dmitrii Zhidimirich Volkov." Saying the name, Butterfield turned the predator into prey.

"Sir?" Carlyle looked up from his report, surprised by the low mutter from his superior. Those three words were the most Butterfield had strung together since they'd received the info packet several hours before.

"We have a name, Dale."

Scowling, Carlyle flipped to another page. "I wouldn't be exaggerating if I said I didn't like what went with that name."

Butterfield's only response was a grunt that hovered somewhere between profound disgust at the understatement and the simple lack of anything better to say. The information Lord Marbury had provided - and unlike Leo McGarry, he didn't begrudge the source - opened a whole new world of problems. Predictability, as if they'd ever had it in the first place, had entered the realm of pure supposition.

His hand went to the transceiver in his ear as a report came through. "Eagle is moving." This time the grunt was accompanied by a slight smile. Looking up at Carlyle, who was listening to the same report, Butterfield said dryly, "He's up."

"And moving." Glancing at his watch, Carlyle couldn't help smiling as well. "Just shortly after five a.m. Almost back on schedule."

"I suppose we couldn't hope he'd keep to sleeping forever."

If he was surprised at the somewhat sarcastic aside, Carlyle didn't show it. He knew better. "Razvedka Spetsnaz," he read from the report, starting from the beginning. "First Lieutenant. He got high marks. Volkov started at sixteen, special ops training, weapons master, martial arts… you name it, he's got it. This guy is loaded."

Butterfield scowled and flipped a page. "Razvedka. Can you translate?"

"There is none."

"Try."

Another report buzzed in the Chief of Security's ear and he scowled. "Eagle is secure. Study." Great, the man was going to start working. That was going to please the First Lady no end. Automatically, he gave the computer monitor across the room a quick glance. No alerts on the outgoing lines. At least Eagle wasn't using the phones yet.

That wouldn't last. Glancing back over the top of the page in his hand, Butterfield prodded his junior, "Translation, Dale."

Carlyle let out a long breath, thinking. Then he shrugged. "English doesn't really have one. The closest you can come is reconnaissance, or maybe spying."

"Intelligence gathering. Spetsialnoye nazhacheniye, composite meaning 'special purpose'."

"Spets-naz, yeah. He can use every dirty trick in the book; electronic surveillance, long distance sniper, close quarters, bare and armed. They started his training and military indoctrination at sixteen." Disgusted, Carlyle closed the file, giving himself a short break. He eyed his boss curiously, and then asked, "You speak Russian?"

"Only what I need." Butterfield rubbed his eyes, as much of a break as he'd allow himself before turning his attention back to the information. "And what's the difference between sixteen and eighteen?"

He was teaching again. Carlyle was used to it, expected it. He thought about his answer. "Maturity. Those two years are critical for social interaction, emotional growth and stability."

"Most of the time." A grim smile twisted one corner of Butterfield's mouth. Two years in a stable society were one thing. But in the social chaos that covered most of the Russian rural and metropolitan milieu? "What did our boy get instead?"

"He learned how to kill."

"And he learned how to enjoy it." Butterfield's eyes hardened at that.

"'Any mission, Any time, Any place'," Carlyle recited the Spetsnaz motto. "How the hell did the Russian military let this guy slip? He's a loaded weapon with a hair trigger and absolutely no chain of command to rein him in."

"They didn't let him go," Butterfield pointed out tiredly. "They didn't pay him. He walked, simple as that. The GRU just didn't bother to look for him when he went AWOL. Why bother?" More than a little dry cynicism colored his voice. "One less name on an already bloated payroll."

"The Red Mafia was sure as hell quick enough to pick up the tab. He fits right in; a supremely well-trained tool, just point and shoot." Realizing he was letting some of his frustrated emotion force him across the protocol line, Carlyle stammered, "I'm sorry, sir. That was unprofessional."

Waving him off, aware of his own emotional balance, Butterfield said, "You're allowed some humanity, Agent Carlyle. Just don't..." he broke off, hand going to his ear. Paulson was calling in to the forward security exchange.

Carlyle leaned forward, setting aside his copy of the report.

The exchange was quick.

"Eagle has received a call..."

"Repeat, nothing has come through or out the switchboard, double check..."

~ooOoo~

As realization dawned, Bartlet felt the shock trickle slowly through his body like iced water, robbing him of breath. 

"You... " The word was soft, barely more than an exhalation.

The maddeningly self-possessed voice on the other end of the line laughed lightly, confidently. "Very good, Mr. President! It's good to know that recent events haven't affected your thinking. That would have disappointed me very much. I always knew that the position was deserving of my respect. It's nice to know that the man holding it may be a worthy challenge as well."

Oh, Lord. Did all villains really love the sound of their own voice, or had he simply had the misfortune to draw one who had very traditional ideas of what his role demanded? Bartlet took a deep breath and reminded himself not to underestimate this man. However ostentatious his verbal style might be, he had proved that his working methods were very efficient and direct indeed. And deadly. 

For now, the President would play the game as well. "I'm pleased to know that I haven't disappointed you."

As the initial shock subsided, he found himself wondering if he should summon help.  But how and for what? This wasn't the White House; there was no panic button under the desk, and - he knew Ron was going to kill him for this - he'd left the hand-held on the bed stand next to the bottle of painkillers. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, and certainly not a good way to start the morning. 

He supposed he could just yell for the agents outside the door, but he was reluctant to show his opponent that evidence of unease. Besides, all calls to the President, here or in the Oval, were automatically logged anyway, and he was sure that they were probably all over this one already. In fact, he was surprised that this call had even been put through to him without some kind of warning. Logic and reason aside, he was curious. 

Bartlet desperately wanted to know why, and the maddening speaker on the other end seemed intent on explaining just that. As deadly as he had already proven to be, he also apparently liked to talk. Youth, as Ron's original profile had indicated, or sheer egotistical bravado?

Either way, he couldn't stop it now, not after everything that had happened already.

"Oh, I always had high hopes for you. After all, an Economics professor, a Nobel Laureate and President of the United States?"  The voice sounded condescendingly amused. "I'm actually glad to have this opportunity to talk to you."

Bartlet felt his eyebrows arching upwards. 'Any moment now, he's going to refer to me as 'a foe man worthy of his steel'. Looks like the FBI profile was right; he has got an ego.'  "I've wanted to talk to you, too. But you have the advantage of me. I don't suppose you'd care to tell me your name?"

"Oh, dear. You mean to tell me that the mighty machine of U.S. intelligence still hasn't been able to find out that for you?" His opponent sounded positively gleeful. "Poor President Bartlet. All that power at your command, and it's not doing you one bit of good, is it? You're blind, groping around in the dark."

"Not for long." Bartlet snapped, his temper fraying. He sure as hell hoped Ron and his people were getting something while monitoring this call, because he wasn't. "My security is on the line. This call must be giving them plenty of information. You've tipped your hand, Mister. We know what you are. Pretty soon, we'll know who as well."

"Are they? Possibly." The other man sounded singularly unconcerned by the prospect. "Honestly, Mr. President, I don't think it matters that much. In fact, I rather think I wouldn't mind your knowing. I know you - very well indeed." His voice lost its bantering quality, became colder. "An old mentor of mine once said that in order to truly fear your enemy, you must first know him. I know you, Mr. President, and I do not fear you or the forces that you can command. I somehow doubt that you would be able to say the same for me."

"Why are you doing this?" Bartlet's voice was low, almost pleading in his desire to understand. There was more to this than simple orders and profit. "It was the press briefing, wasn't it? At least in part. But it precedes even that, doesn't it? The chess piece - that was different to Marine One. That was personal. Why do you give a damn about what I think of you?"

"The press briefing." The Russian's voice suddenly darkened with a barely suppressed rage, his accent growing thicker. "You shouldn't have done that, Mr. President, really you shouldn't. I have not yet done you the disservice of underestimating you or your people. You should have shown me the same courtesy. You have absolutely no idea what I am capable of. But I assure you; I deserve your respect - and your fear. And you will pay for that show of disrespect.  I promise you; you will pay."

To be continued…