Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 21/22
Time fractured.
Butterfield was on his feet, turning towards the lone monitor hooked up to the phone lines coming directly into the house. No alerts. Nothing coming or going, and the President had a call. All lines came through the forward security shack. Anything else had to...
Adrenaline hit his system like a freight train, flooding his mind and body. Carlyle's earlier quotation followed on the heels of the rush.
Any mission, Any time, Any place; Spetsialnoye nazhacheniye...
Carlyle was the first to say it, surging to his feet and letting his gun drop into his hand, flipping the safety. "He's spliced the lines!"
"He's on the grounds!" Gun already in hand, heart racing, Butterfield bolted for the door, raising his palm transceiver and shouting across the open line, "Code Black! Code Black! Paulson! Pull him out of there!"
~ooOoo~
Bartlet's lips had drawn back over his teeth in mingled frustration and anger. No matter how much he probed, how many little stinging darts managed to penetrate his antagonist's egotistical armor, what was he achieving? He glanced at the study door. No reaction.
'Are you listening, fellas?'
He bit down on his lower lip, feeling the tiny tickle of fear as he realized that there was no reasoning with this man, no common ground, no humanity to which he could appeal. For all that surface facade of civilization, there was an inner core of amoral coldness to the Russian that he could barely comprehend, either intellectually or emotionally. But that coldness was heated by a barely glimpsed rage, a deep, implacable personal hatred that froze the breath in his lungs as its full force was directed at him.
"Tsk, tsk, Mr. President." The voice in his ear had regained its suavity, and there was more than a hint of self-satisfaction in the words. "You really should be more careful of all those minor injuries. Your mouth is bleeding."
Feeling the sharp sting and the hot wetness on his chin, Bartlet instinctively raised his left hand, the bandaging catching and soaking the tiny red trickle. Then he froze; hand pressed to his chin before slowly swiveling and rising from his chair, hand still at his mouth, to stare out through the large window into the graying dawn outside.
The damnable voice in his ear suddenly spoke briskly, coldly satisfied. "Thank you, Mr. President." A distinctly metallic click followed the mocking tones.
Almost simultaneously, Bartlet's head snapped round as he heard a commotion behind him. The study door was flung open with a crash and a blurred, dark-suited figure threw itself at him, shouting, "Sir!"
Then the window exploded.
~ooOoo~
"That was worth a little extra effort, wasn't it?"
Ziegler sipped cautiously at his mug and nodded grudgingly. "I admit the quality of the end product almost makes up for the labor involved." He couldn't help scowling at the single saucepan sitting innocently in the sink, though. "But I hate trying to wash out milk residue."
"And you have to do that a lot, do you?" Abbey was feeling in a very good mood right now. The cocoa was hot and deliciously frothy, and its preparation had been more diverting than usual.
There were few things more entertaining to your average female, however determinedly non-stereotypical, than the sight of a genuinely undomesticated man trying to cope with the simplest of household chores. Toby Ziegler was a shining example of a breed she had believed was almost extinct. Abbey might rag Jed about his culinary prowess, but he could manage to navigate a kitchen with a fair degree of ordinary competence. With three children and a busy, professional wife, he had had little choice at times.
Ziegler, on the other hand, had hovered over the small milk pan as if hypnotized, his reluctant concentration almost painful to observe.
Ziegler conceded the point with a wry little smile. "Not very often, no. I'm just not that interested in food. I mean, I can appreciate a well-prepared meal as well as the next person, but I'm not really interested enough to care about what it involves, or even what the ingredients may be. Food is fuel, that's all."
"Don't let Leo hear you say that." Abbey stirred her cocoa carefully, trying and failing to hide a smile. "If you thought Jed could be pedantic, then you should see Leo when he really gets going on the Epicurean art."
"Hmmm." The Communications Director chased a tiny marshmallow around his mug with his spoon. "Have you spoken to him yet?"
"To Leo?" Abbey didn't need to ask about what. Her good mood soured slightly. "Not yet."
"May I ask why?" Ziegler viewed his companion curiously. "I'd have thought for sure that my little revelation this afternoon would have sent you hot-foot after both him and Ron. Or did I just draw the short straw?"
"It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"Nowhere near as bad as I expected", Ziegler admitted frankly. Perhaps a bit too frankly. "Seriously, given the insanity that we have embarked upon, I think you took it amazingly well."
He found himself flinching at the burning fury in the eyes that the First Lady raised to meet his. Okay, he had called that slightly wrong. Her words and actions may have been a model of restraint so far, but there was a smoldering cauldron of emotion heaving underneath. Ziegler found himself devoutly hoping that he would not be anywhere in the vicinity when she finally blew.
"Trust me, Toby." Abbey spoke quietly, dangerously. "You have no idea how I feel about this insane plan. Leo and Ron are going to hear from me." She smiled almost wolfishly. "But not until I'm good and ready."
"Ahhh!" Realization was slowly dawning. Ziegler had noticed the jumpiness of both the Chief of Staff and the Secret Service Agent steadily increase throughout the day, and not entirely as a result of the salvo they had had C.J. fire either. They knew that Abbey was aware of the game they were playing with her husband's safety, and had been expecting a dressing-down - which was not materializing.
The Lady was making them dance. Somehow, Toby couldn't find any sympathy for them.
"Psychological warfare. You will drop the other shoe, but only when you're good and ready. Probably when they least expect it."
"Meantime, they can sweat a little." Abbey's tone was more than slightly vindictive. "They deserve to. When the time comes, I'll give them a fight to remember."
"Of that I have no doubt." Ziegler raised his mug in respectful salutation.
"Besides, they're not the only ones on my list."
Ziegler winced in silent sympathy for the man to whom he was sure she referred. "The President." It wasn't a question.
"My husband," Abbey confirmed. She glowered for an instant. "The jackass. Imagine agreeing to something like this."
"I don't think he should have agreed either." Ziegler's voice was soft. "But I do believe he acted from the best of motives."
"Oh, I know, Toby. Jed feels responsible for all that's happened. He doesn't want to lose anyone else. So, he's making this damned quixotic gesture in an attempt to ensure that he is the only one in danger. But he had no right to make that decision alone." Abbey's voice quavered slightly. "He may not want to lose anyone, but I don't want to lose him."
The President's senior consultant shifted uncomfortably. "We don't want to lose him either, Abbey."
"I know." Abbey regained her control. "Be sure that I'm going to mention that little aspect of this whole affair when we finally have words on this issue. But that won't be this weekend. Jed deserves a good reaming out, and he's going to get it. But not in the next couple of days. Much as I may want to get everything off my chest, he's not ready for that yet. This weekend, the real world isn't going to intrude any more than I can help it. This weekend he is going to rest. Heaven knows he needs to. And so far he has - far better than I expected. He's been sleeping since early last evening…"
Displaying an uncanny sense of timing, Agent Vaughn cautiously poked his head around the edge of the kitchen door. "Excuse me, ma'am, but Agent Paulson thought you might like to know that the President is awake."
"How does the agent know that? Did Jed call him in for some reason?"
"Uh… no, ma'am." Assailed by a feeling that he was about to drop his Commander in Chief right in it, Vaughn continued unhappily. "The President spoke to the duty agents on the way to his study."
"On his way where?" Abbey glanced incredulously at the kitchen clock. "Henry, please tell me he wasn't planning on working?"
Agent Vaughn glanced at Ziegler helplessly. "The President was dressed, ma'am."
"Damn it!" Abbey slammed her mug down on the counter top in exasperation, sloshing some of the dregs over the edges. "That man!" She rubbed her forehead and sighed. "All right. Thank you, Henry. How long ago?"
"A little over five minutes, ma'am." Vaughn thankfully excused himself.
Abbey turned to her remaining companion in heartfelt frustration. "Can you believe him?"
"Quite easily, actually. I'm only surprised it took this long."
"Yeah," Abbey reluctantly admitted. "I guess it was too good to last. He's slept more and longer these last few days than I can ever remember him doing. I guess I should be grateful he only woke up now. At least he managed to sleep the night through."
"To say nothing of part of yesterday afternoon and practically all the day before," Ziegler pointed out. He pushed a marshmallow under the surface with his spoon and watched it bob back up. "Abbey... is he all right?"
"Toby?" Abbey regarded him in confusion. The slightly oblique question really wasn't at all like Toby Ziegler. She gave him what she could, though. "Well, between the MS, the explosion damage and the exhaustion, far better than you'd expect, really. He's starting to come back. Slowly, but he's coming back. Catching up on his sleep this weekend is helping a lot."
"Yeah, the sleeping." Ziegler was still doing his best to drown the unfortunate marshmallow. "That kind of scared me," he suddenly admitted. "I mean, half yesterday and just about all the day before? Even on the helicopter? He just seemed to sleep and sleep - I've never known him be so… still for so long before."
"Oh, Toby." Abbey impulsively reached out to cover his hand with her own. "I wouldn't worry about it too much. That was just Nature's way of restoring the balance. Jed needed to make up for all the time he had lost, the resources he had used up. These last two days have helped with that so much." She squeezed his hand reassuringly. "And we've still got another day of peace and quiet to come."
Her hand tightened convulsively over his and she jumped as a dull boom echoed through the farmhouse, gently vibrating the crockery and pans on their shelves.
They froze, staring at each other wide eyed for an endless second, and then the unmistakable sound of gunfire began to resound through the building. One blast followed rapidly after another in a seemingly unending barrage. Ziegler twisted his hand in her grasp and closed on her wrist, pulling the First Lady down with him into the shelter offered by the kitchen island.
"Ma'am!" Agent Vaughn burst explosively into the kitchen, eyes darting frantically in search of his protectee. Code Black! Only seconds between Butterfield's warning and the attack.
His heart gave a convulsive hop, and then restarted as he saw the two heads appearing cautiously over the top of the counter, faces pale and frightened.
For an instant, all three were locked in place, staring mutely at each other. Then Vaughn whipped around and sprinted towards the stairs that led to the second floor, the source of the noise, and the President of the United States. His earpiece swamped with warning codes and chatter, he was only half-aware of the two pairs of footsteps that followed frantically behind.
~ooOoo~
He'd fallen asleep on the sofa.
Still only barely conscious, the many kinks and accompanying aches that protested vehemently as he stirred were testament to that foolish mistake. At his age, he should know better. Why was it that when presented with a perfectly serviceable bed, he always managed to end up with the least comfortable alternative?
Why the sofa? Leo McGarry groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position. A sheaf of papers slipped off his chest and fell to the floor with rustle. His glasses, which had been perched precariously on the end of his nose, slid down to his chin. A feeble fluttering of his eyes accompanied the sudden revelation. Work. He'd fallen asleep working. Like that should have surprised him.
He couldn't even sleep in his best friend's home with any semblance of civilized comfort. A small part of his waking mind recognized whose fault that was and promptly moved on to more important matters. Inanity, however, provided no sanctuary from guilty memory.
It was right about now, he knew, that Margaret would barge into the office. Just as he was waking up, she'd spy her employer sprawled on the sofa and proceed with the opening salvos of what would probably be a disapproving contest of wills that would last the entire day. McGarry's still groggy thoughts brightened at that. At least here he was ahead on that one. He wouldn't have to put up with her looks for an entire day.
Satisfied that he'd found a safe middle ground, for the moment anyway, McGarry decided the Bartlet sofa, lumps and all, wasn't so bad after all. Rolling over, he found a slightly more comfortable position, enjoying the sensation of sleep-induced haziness. He didn't know the time, and for once he didn't care overmuch.
The living room was still dark enough for him not to worry about having overslept. Besides, the President wasn't the only one around here who had some sleep to catch up on. His Chief of Staff had been getting by on only a few hours a night for what felt like weeks now. Or maybe it only seemed like weeks? The strain of the crisis they had all been living with recently had had the effect of warping time for the senior staff, each nerve-jangling minute and hour seeming to stretch out to infinity.
Oddly enough, despite the potentially explosive balloon he had directed C.J. to float at her briefing, McGarry still felt more relaxed this morning than he had for some time. They were finally doing something at last, not just being buffeted by events. And the President was resting well, seeming to recover that innate sparkle and vitality.
Oh, the First Lady was after his blood, of that McGarry was certain, and he was not looking forward to that interview. Toby and Ron were ticked with him as well, but he cared slightly less about that. Abbey, however, was a very different proposition - whether chewing him out as First Lady, or as the wife of his oldest friend.
Still, McGarry was hopeful that having acceded with comparative meekness to her original demand that he arrange to bring her husband home would save at least part of his hide when the inevitable verbal flaying was finally unleashed.
And Jed had looked so much better yesterday morning. Even half-dozing, thoughts sleepily careening from one topic to another, McGarry's lips quirked upwards at the memory. He really shouldn't have teased the man, but his sheer delight at the reassuring normalcy of the moment had carried him away. Guilt raised its ugly head and the smile faded again. A frown crinkled the skin around his closed eyes.
Abbey's anger was justified, but he wondered if she realized just how much he would fight and sacrifice to ensure that normalcy was restored to his friends. Maybe his plan had been foolishly headstrong, but he had been outraged, and desperate to do something to protect his President and oldest friend, to act.
Now McGarry could only hope that the consequences of that action would be something he could live with, that they could all live with.
A persistent lump was making itself known and the Chief of Staff rolled back onto his side with a low, frustrated sigh. The sofa wasn't helping him come to terms with his errant emotions and misgivings; it only seemed to reinforce them. He had sensed Ron Butterfield's disquiet last night and, while he didn't fully share it, he had to admit that the contents of that late night wire from Josh Lyman had more than an element of nightmare to it.
Marbury - he couldn't help snorting quietly, more like a snore, even though there was no one to hear - had compiled some very chilling facts indeed. Still, for McGarry, the threat implied by those facts had been offset by the other facts that the information had imparted. They had a name and a face now - there was power in that, and he had always had a deep faith in the power of information. The enemy was no longer an unknown quantity, a bogeyman they sought for blindly in the dark.
They had a target now, and a target could be encircled, contained - destroyed if necessary.
Later, when the President awoke, he and Butterfield would brief him on the identity and nature of his antagonist, and they would draw up a plan to hunt him down. Surely, with the loss of his anonymity, this assassin could no longer provide any effective threat? What could he possibly hope to achieve with the entire U.S. law enforcement community, intelligence and defense forces on the look out?
McGarry's eyelids flickered. No, the worst was surely over and later, when they briefed the President...
A crack of thunder found its way through the early morning fuzz that clouded his troubled, waking mind. A thunderstorm? At this time of year? Even without his thinking faculties operating at full strength, McGarry was capable of concluding that New Hampshire, like its famous native son, was contrary enough to do just that. Somewhere along that line of thought he decided that it was the President's fault as well, just to deny him a little extra sleep. He just wasn't quite awake enough yet to figure out how.
Thunder was followed by gunshots.
Gunshots! Soldier's instincts he'd long forgotten, or buried in hopes of never needing again, brought McGarry over the threshold into panicked consciousness. He had already rolled clean off the sofa, catching his elbow against the corner of the coffee table. Gritting his teeth through the sudden flash of pain, he flattened himself against the floor before his rattled brain had finished processing the sounds that had kicked almost forgotten combat instincts into life.
An explosion - and the echo hadn't even died before it was cut in two by the crack of gunfire. Momentarily stunned immobile, he listened as one shot followed after another in rapid succession.
Under the chaotic din, the sound of shouting, of frantic running. The hollow thud of footsteps on the stairs outside, then the landing above.
Looking up at the ceiling, McGarry didn't need a soldier's instincts at that point, nor did he need to think. Something had gone horribly wrong.
The President...
Aware of the sound of shouts and running feet echoing from all over the farmhouse, McGarry felt his friend's name catch in his throat. "Jed..."
Two agents, then more, bolted past the wide entranceway and vanished around the bend in the hall, headed for the stairs to the second floor. Without further thought, caring only that his friend was at the center of the violence, McGarry was up and running, flinging himself in the agents' wake.
Dear Lord, what had he started?
To be concluded…