Still drifting on the tides of sleep, Abbey blinked at the glowing face of the clock sitting on the bed stand. She watched as one digital number clicked over to another, not quite comprehending the significance of the odd numeric order. Was that actually a seven? Followed by what? A thirteen? Another number appeared. Then the surprised realization hit her and she came fully awake, finally appreciating the remarkable significance.
It was now seven fourteen in the morning, she was in the White House - which was odd enough, she supposed - but there was something else very odd going on here. There was a presence next to her. Gently rolling over, careful not to disturb the other occupant of the bed, Abbey regarded her husband's still slumbering form with no little surprise.
It was seven fourteen... no, now seven fifteen in the AM and Jed was still in bed, still deeply asleep, and not in the Oval trying to fix the world. His slow, even breathing told her he wasn't anywhere near the threshold of waking.
She looked at the clock again. The alarm hadn't gone off either. Amazing…
Will wonders never cease? A grateful smile lit her face. She knew who was responsible for this minor miracle, and it wasn't her stubborn, workaholic husband.
'Bless you Charlie. Bless you Leo.' The thought came easily. And bless the grim cohort of Secret Service Agents standing right outside the bedroom door, weapons probably drawn and at the ready, holding off whoever or whatever might dare to disturb their charges.
Would anyone in his or her right mind try to break through that formidable barricade? Abbey didn't think so. Not unless they were seriously suicidal.
She delighted in this rare chance to watch him sleep, the lines of care and worry erased by the oblivion of true rest. The last few years had seen so little of that. He was always up and away, apologizing if he woke her or brushing a quick kiss of good-bye across her lips if he did. Either way, she'd been left alone, never more the one to wake up first. She missed that, watching him wake to the morning and return to her.
Perhaps aware of the audience, or slowly waking to the realization that a morning routine had been broken, her husband stirred. Tossing restlessly beneath the covers, he threw out his bandaged left hand. It landed with a muffled sound on his wife's side.
Abbey tensed, waiting for the cry of disturbed pain. She relaxed when it never came. Another miracle, perhaps a good omen for the day. Gently, she moved the hand and laid it across his side and hip, resting her fingers lightly on the bandages.
She loved to watch him sleep, never more amazed at the difference it brought to his features. The little boy always emerged when his defenses were down. The sharp angles and harsh lines of tension erased by the soft, vulnerable innocence of the youth he'd once been, would always be in spirit if not in body. Now, at this moment, there were no shadows hiding that boy from her view.
Her husband muttered something sleepily, eyelids flickering as he rolled on to his back and tossed off the remaining covers.
Abbey smiled. He was close to waking, but not quite yet. How often in the last years had he been allowed to laze away a morning? Wake on his own, not by a call from his aide or the clamoring of an insistent alarm clock? How often had his subconscious allowed him to forget the burden? How often?
Hardly ever.
Abbey's smile broadened, a calculating light dancing in her eyes. There were... other ways to be awakened in the morning. Now was the time to try a few, see if he remembered. To see if she remembered.
Her hand moved across his skin, fingers playing with the hair on his chest. She felt the goose bumps rise on his skin, the crackle of static, and Abbey knew it wasn't simply the cooler air of the room as the cause. He didn't. Half asleep, Jed tried to brush the perceived irritation away, mumbling something incoherent, then slipped back into slumber.
This was more of a challenge than she'd originally thought, but Abbey wasn't about to give up so easily. She was beginning to remember the rules to this game. He was almost there...
Fingers trailing lightly down his chest, she paused at his stomach. With a single nail, Abbey traced the outlines of that soft indentation… and felt him shiver. More goose bumps. One leg moved restlessly, pulling the bedcovers lower. He muttered a protest, and she paused for a moment, watching him slowly abandon the last vestiges of oblivion.
Just as slowly, he blinked, opening his eyes. The bleary, early morning confusion was quickly replaced with that very passionate spark Abbey had been waiting for. He'd always been a quick study. His gentle, enticing smile only confirmed it, promising more.
"Hey," Abbey whispered, sliding closer and curving her body into his. "Good morning."
"It is? Morning?"
Shivering at the teasing rumble in his voice, Abbey snuggled closer. That they fit so well never ceased to amaze her. She felt him wrap his arm around her, hand and fingers dancing lightly along her side and stirring her senses as she had done his. In this, turnabout was fair play and she wasn't about to complain. There were worse ways to wake up in the morning.
Apparently Jed thought so as well. She relaxed contentedly as he, with a single, practiced movement, turned her in his arms, rolling both their bodies over. Taking her hands, encouraging them and her to explore, he looked down on her. The smile on his face promised so much more. Abbey was definitely not complaining.
Lowering his head, the kiss he gave her was surprisingly gentle, almost tentative.
Not exactly what Abbey had been looking for, not this time and after far too long. She almost desperately wanted more from him than that. This wasn't a game any longer.
Hand to the back of his head, she deepened that tentative kiss, abandoning the gentle beginnings and telling him in no uncertain terms where she wanted this to go. He didn't disappoint, nor did he waste any time. Abbey let him take care of the rest of the logistics. Sweatpants and her nightclothes went the way of the tossed aside covers.
Abbey couldn't help grinning. A new record.
Now he was really awake.
His hands skillfully guided her hips and a low moan escaped her. How long had it been? Too long, for both of them. Heat danced across her skin as desire that hadn't been truly fulfilled in weeks, months, crested and overrode everything else. His hands, his touch, the heat of his body down the length of hers.
Arching her back, Abbey pressed against him, harder, demanding more. Age, a lifetime of familiarity and something far deeper allowed their bodies to move as one, a harmony of the spiritual as well as the physical. The tempo was instinctive, increasing the hungry pace until, finally, it shattered and took both of them with it.
Spent, they collapsed into each other's arms.
Well, he collapsed.
On top of her.
Abbey had always hated this part.
She tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Jed?"
All he did was grunt.
"You weigh a ton."
"I do not." His voice, though muffled by the pillow, was highly affronted.
Abbey rolled her eyes and laughed. Men and their egos. "Wanna bet?"
"I'd lose, wouldn't I?" His laugh as he rolled over, allowing her to slide out from beneath him, was colored with satisfied exhaustion. "Abbey?"
"Hmmm?" Abbey responded, savoring the deep feeling of contentment he had left her with.
"Growing old sucks."
Now that had been unexpected. What brought that on? "Speak for yourself, buster."
Her husband had the audacity to grin, though it was tinged with a sadness she found troubling.
"Still holding steady at twenty-nine, are you?" he asked teasingly.
"You bet your ass."
"If those are the stakes..." Turning his face to hers, Bartlet absently picked up a lock of her hair, playing it through his fingers and savoring its silky texture. "Seriously, there was a time..." He didn't finish, he didn't have to.
Abbey stifled a knowing grin. It wouldn't have done his precious ego any good. Even after that remarkable performance. "Feeling mortal, are we?"
Head falling dejectedly back on to the pillow; he closed his eyes and muttered, "Depressingly so."
"Poor baby."
"You're not helping."
"I live to torment you."
He neither laughed at that nor gave one of his teasing grunts. The huff he gave off sounded suspiciously to Abbey's ears like the beginnings of a snore. Lifting her head, she looked at him closer, confirming her suspicions and his regret. There had been a time... Still, performing the ultimate male cliché - and one she knew he would protest vehemently given half a chance, especially considering what they'd just accomplished - Jed was about to fall back asleep.
Abbey shook her head fondly. Men! She poked him with her finger. "Jed?"
He grunted... again. He wanted to sleep.
Unfortunately, she couldn't let him. Reality called. "Wake up."
"Why?"
That had been clear enough. Abbey prodded him again. "You have a job."
"I do?"
"Yep."
"Doing what?"
Abbey laughed with delight. The little boy hadn't quite abandoned his hold on the most powerful man in the free world. There had been a definite plaintive quality to that last question. "Running the country," she answered, wickedly whipping off the last of the rumpled bed covers.
Her husband yelped as the cooler air hit skin still shining from the sweat of their exertions. Grabbing his sweats, he sullenly growled the question, "What country?"
"This one." Abbey snuggled deeper under her covers. He may have to get up, but she didn't. Quite frankly, she was surprised the phone hadn't already started ringing.
Considering Jed's current state of disheveled undress, she was also grateful nobody had knocked at the door. Knowing him, in his present mood, he'd have no compunction about answering it. Watching him awkwardly struggle into his sweat bottoms, all things considered, she wouldn't have blamed him.
He was looking longingly at the bed. So much for growing old. From the passionate spark in his eye – which had never truly fled - she knew for certain it wasn't sleep he was thinking about, not this time. He'd found his second wind.
Abbey sighed, more than a little disappointed herself. "Office, Jed. I'm pretty sure you have a meeting this morning."
"Just one? Couldn't they have it without me?"
"Nope."
"Damn."
With that, he stalked off into the bathroom. A few moments later and Abbey heard the sound of running water in the shower. She made a silent bet with herself that it was going to be very, very cold. It was a bet she was sure of winning. Jed's protesting yelp soon after confirmed it. Her knowing smile deepened and she burst out laughing.
Hearing her, his bellowed, indignant response was hardly that of a gentleman.
Abbey didn't begrudge him that. He'd earned the right. Drawing the covers up to her chin, she relaxed back on to her pillow. She wasn't about to get up just yet. He may have had to run the country, or the world for that matter, but she didn't.
Still, it had definitely been one hell of a way to wake up to the morning.
ooOoo
Secret Service Interview Room: Saturday, 7:34 AMCarlyle silently slid another photograph across the table.
Thompson glanced at it - and suddenly slumped back in his chair, burying his face in his hands.
"Now, Mr. Thompson." The agent's voice was cold as winter. "Perhaps you'd like to reconsider your answer? Do you know this man?"
"How did you get that?" Thompson's voice was muffled, his hands still raised to his face.
"CCTV camera from in front of your building."
Thompson finally lowed his hands to regard the other man in disbelief. "But that was almost three weeks ago!"
"Fortunately for us, the security firm keeps tapes for at least a month before wiping them."
"You mean, your people went through a month of security footage just in case…" Thompson was clearly struggling to wrap his mind around the amount of time and sheer, mind-numbing effort that task must have involved.
Carlyle gave a twisted smile. "The United States Secret Service is very thorough. Particularly when we're investigating an attack on the person of the President."
"Why me, though?" Perversely, Thompson seemed more than a little insulted that he should have been considered a viable subject for such in-depth scrutiny.
"We investigated everybody, Mr. Thompson, from the senior staff down. Anybody with access." Carlyle leaned forward, causing the other man to flinch back nervously. "I wasn't kidding before. You have no idea how seriously we take an attack of this nature. Now, the man in the photo?"
His lips thinned as the other man stayed stubbornly silent. Picking up the photograph, he slowly tapped its edge against the tabletop. "Mr. Thompson, is it possible that you don't realize the importance of what I'm asking you?"
"Oh, I think I have a fair idea," the younger man snapped back. "You want a nice, tidy little confession, so you can sweep this whole mess back under the carpet, and President Bartlet suffers as little public awkwardness as possible."
Carlyle found himself slightly taken aback by the bitterness of Thompson's words.
"Greg." Donna's soft voice broke in.
Both men unconsciously turned to face her, jarred out of their silent stand off.
Donna's eyes were wide and wounded, her expression dismayed and uncomprehending. Fixing the full power of that gaze on her colleague, she asked simply, "Why?"
Thompson stared at her for an instant, then his expression crumpled slightly. "I never meant for anything to happen." Suddenly he sounded very young.
Good cop, indeed. Carlyle breathed a silent sigh of relief. It was amazing what could slip through the most stubborn defenses. He sat quietly, anxious not to snap the tenuous link that had just been formed.
Donna Moss was a people person. Her nature was such that she forged connections with others quickly and easily. Even if she were not one of the most senior assistants in the White House, Carlyle was sure she would still have known the names of almost every employee, and probably the names of their children, significant others and pets as well. Donna was interested in everybody; genuinely interested.
Carlyle suspected that having that interest focused on him could be almost irresistible for a man like Thompson. He was brash and belligerent, but also in many ways still just a boy, eager to impress, anxious to be liked.
Donna hesitated nervously when Carlyle quietly slid the second photograph across the table towards her. But curiosity is a powerful force, and one that Donna possessed in more than abundant supply. Toby Ziegler had once called her Elephant's Child, in a fit of more than usually exasperated bemusement. Fortunately, despite a few nascent attempts on Josh Lyman's part, the name hadn't stuck. Personal assistants know all their boss's weaknesses, and Josh really, really hated being pinched.
Responding to her partner's unspoken cue, she picked up the photograph that had inspired such a strong reaction in Thompson and studied the slightly grainy, black and white image. Two men, standing just inside the building entrance, clearly in the act of saying farewell. The younger, Thompson, visible in profile, features animated, hands frozen in the act of gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke to his companion. The other man, somewhat older, was listening calmly.
Despite expecting to see that face, Donna's eyes turned to scrutinize the sharper image of the official photograph. Noting the clean, angular lines of the face, the impassive blue eyes, she could not help thinking that it was a handsome face despite its coldness; a warmer emotion might have rendered it almost beautiful.
Unbidden, the quote suddenly ran through her mind, 'the children of Lucifer are often beautiful'.
Blushing slightly at this fresh evidence that her subconscious had a strong streak of melodrama, Donna turned back to the CCTV photograph. The poorer quality was exercising a softening effect on the features of its subject. Together with the half-smile that curved the lips, the slight tilt to the head as he listened, the effect was strangely compelling.
"He is beautiful." She wasn't even aware that she had given voice to the thought until she looked up and caught her companions' regard. Carlyle cocked a quizzical eyebrow, causing her to hastily redirect her gaze towards Thompson.
As her eyes came to rest on his face, Donna was completely disconcerted by his startled expression. Obviously seeing his own momentary confusion mirrored in her face, his mouth twisted wryly as he responded, "I thought so."
Donna felt her mouth forming an 'O' of sudden comprehension. She glanced back down at the photograph, noting the oddly predatory smile again, the slightly possessive way in which the man leaned in toward his companion, the open, eager expression on Thompson's face and the way his whole body turned towards the other man.
She looked up at Thompson, "I can see how you would. How long did you know him, Greg?"
"Not long. Just over a month."
"Were you close?"
"I thought so." This time, the words were laced with bitterness rather than humor. Thompson slumped down in his chair. "Guess I was wrong."
"I'm sorry, Greg." Donna's sympathy was as genuine as it was reflexive. After all, she was no stranger herself to the bestowal of undeserved affection. Fortunately, in her case the revelation had usually been followed by a round of commiserating over drinks with friends, not an interrogation session and a criminal charge.
"How did you meet this man, Mr. Thompson?" Carlyle quietly injected a business note back into the proceedings.
Thompson eyed him truculently. "What's in this for me? I mean, I've got information you want. Seems to me that if I cooperate, you'll owe me something."
Carlyle's expression grew cold. "Any information you have would have been of a lot more interest to us a week ago, Mr. Thompson. We're not feeling particularly grateful to you at all right now."
"Greg!" Donna leaned forward, dismayed. "Don't you understand the importance of this? This isn't one of your office scams, like lifting the occasional small Presidential gift coming through the mail room to flog as a souvenir to your friends, or flashing your White House ID to get into nightclubs and restaurants. This is serious!"
"We could probably make those other things serious as well," Carlyle murmured.
Thompson scowled. "I'm not the only one doing those things by a long shot. You tell people you work in the White House, that's got clout. People look at you differently then; they think you're somebody. But if the impression is going to last, you've got to have money too. More than I earn."
"Just about everybody here, from the President right down, could be making more money in the private sector." Carlyle looked over the young man's expensive clothes. "You seem to be doing okay."
"Like I said, you've got to make an impression. You don't think I want to deliver office mail forever, do you? This town is all about making the right contacts. And to do that, you have to get into the right places." Thompson sneered with a cynicism that far outweighed his years. "You'd be surprised how far a decent suit and a White House pass can carry you in this town. If people think you've got the entrée, that you can help them, they want to know you."
"So, they cultivate you, and give you gifts, while you promise to 'see what you can do'?" Carlyle said wearily.
Thompson grinned. "Most of the time, I don't even have to promise anything. This town is full of people looking for an angle. Often, they don't even wait to ask me what I do before they start in on cultivating me. They like to think they're being subtle, leading up to it."
"Which means you don't even have to lie, except by omission." Donna sounded dismayed. "All you have to do is tell them that you don't hold that kind of position when they ask. Oh, Greg."
The young man had the grace to look momentarily abashed.
"Was that how you met Volkov?" Carlyle demanded. "Making contacts?"
"Sort of." Thompson's sullenness returned. "It was at one of those nightclubs popular with mid-level government officials and lobbyists. Not exactly a lot of maintenance staff around. But it was different with him," he said hastily. "He asked what I was, straight out. And he didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed just as interested in me when he knew I was only household staff." He looked faintly surprised, as if he'd gotten so used to playing his personal game that he was genuinely amazed to discover someone might be interested in him for what he actually was.
Of course, for Volkov's purposes, he was probably of far more use precisely as he was, Carlyle reflected. It was highly unlikely this had been a chance encounter. Volkov was a professional, and it seemed as if Thompson might have been earning himself a little notoriety in certain circles. "How did he introduce himself?"
"As Dmitrii Volkov."
"Cocky bastard," the agent muttered.
"He said he was a representative for a Russian business consortium, working at their D.C. office," Thompson continued. "He didn't seem interested in lobbying for anything, or trying to pitch a product, or even in trying to angle for an invitation to a White House event. We just seemed to hit it off. I thought he liked me."
In another time and place, Carlyle might have been able to find a shred of sympathy for the faint hint of hurt in that last sentence. But too much had happened for him to be able to spare kind feelings for the self-centered young man before him.
"How did he come around to asking you to place the chess piece in the Oval Office?" 'And how were you so stupid as to not have some kind of doubts about that?' Carlyle mentally added.
"Dmitrii was fond of chess. He knew the President was too; he'd read about the sets he was given in India. He said that the piece was part of an old set that had been used in some famous Russian chess match that the President would know about. He said the note would explain. He said he admired the President and what he was doing to help control the situation in his homeland."
Carlyle choked slightly at that.
"Dmitrii said that he wanted to give the President something he knew he would be interested in, something he might enjoy, as a gesture of appreciation for what he was doing for Russia. He told me that he would like it to be a surprise, something informal. A personal gift. He said the note would explain." Thompson's face darkened slightly. "He talked about the President a lot, wanted to hear everything I knew about him - which isn't much, because I'm pretty sure the man doesn't even know I exist. But Dmitrii wanted to know how he acted, looked, spoke - everything. He knew so much about him. He seemed fascinated by him." Unconsciously, his tone developed a hard edge of resentment.
Carlyle's eyebrows shot up. 'Damnit, he's actually jealous of Volkov's interest in the President. Interesting…' "You're fully aware of White House security precautions. Why did you agree to take the chess piece? Especially as you had to have been warned to handle it carefully."
"He said it was old and fragile and I should touch it as little as possible, because the finish was easily marred," Thompson said sulkily, doubtless fully aware of how weak that excuse sounded.
"And that didn't set up any warning bells?" Carlyle was skeptical. "Why did you agree?"
Thompson glowered defiantly at the tabletop.
Donna glanced hesitantly at the agent, before leaning forward again. "Greg?" She waited until he looked in her direction. "Was it because you liked him? Because you liked him and he asked you for a favor?"
"Not entirely. He seemed to have connections. I thought it couldn't hurt to help him out, to seem to be someone with access of a kind." Thompson gazed at her, half-amused. "You're always such a romantic, Donna."
Donna flushed slightly and looked at him challengingly. "Not even a little bit? I don't believe you, Greg. You never went this far out on a limb for anyone else you fed a line to."
The color rose in the young man's cheeks. "I… liked him," he admitted slowly after a moment. "He seemed so awed by the White House, by the fact that I saw the President, if only in passing, most days. I guess I wanted to impress him."
"By pretending that you had personal access to the man he seemed so interested in." Carlyle ran his hands wearily through his hair. "Are you seriously telling me you weren't at all suspicious? You work in the mailroom, man! You know what security is like in the White House, never mind the Oval Office."
"It was a chess piece! It hardly seemed like something that would kill him."
"A piece you'd been specifically told not to handle. And you didn't think it might present some kind of hazard?" Carlyle snapped. "Did you even care?"
"I've got nothing against the President," Thompson said angrily.
"But you wouldn't care too much if something happened to him either?"
The younger man shrugged with exaggerated indifference. "Wouldn't change my job, either way. I just work here."
"What the hell did he ever do to you?" Carlyle was genuinely curious. He didn't seriously believe that Thompson was guilty of anything more than criminal negligence, and indifference towards the procedures set in place to guarantee the safety of the man in the Oval Office. It might be nothing more than the standard animosity that the President could attract simply by being president, or from some accidental imagined slight. It might be the automatic disdain felt by some towards anyone who had the temerity to occupy a position of power, but he did wonder at the faint but definite hint of genuine hostility displayed by Thompson.
"He never did anything to me." Thompson folded his arms and glowered. "Never did anything for me either, come to that," he half-muttered.
"Oh, I don't know," Carlyle said nastily. "After all, if it hadn't been for your access to the President, Volkov probably wouldn't have given you a second glance. It must be very irritating for you," he said quietly as Thompson's face whitened in anger. "This man who barely knows you to see, almost certainly doesn't know your name; a man you feel a massive indifference towards at best. Yet, an association with him, however tenuous, is your claim to fame - the only way to attract the interest and attention of the people who make up those circles you want to move in."
Thompson's hands slowly curled into tight fists, the nails digging into the palms.
"It must have been doubly galling for you a month ago," Carlyle continued remorselessly. "You'd just met someone you were attracted to and who seemed to move in that world you wanted to inhabit. And not only that, but he knew the real you. For once, you didn't have to pretend. And then you gradually come to realize that, while he may say he likes you, he's fascinated by the President. Once again President Bartlet has intruded, this time on your personal life, just as he has always dominated your working life and your social life. Did you resent him for that, Greg? For that ability to so completely grab the attention of others, whether for good or ill? Was that why you were prepared to throw security procedure to the wind and take a chance with his safety?"
"I've already told you, I never had any intention of hurting him," Thompson ground out. "When I heard what had happened, I was terrified."
"Because he could have been killed, or because of what it would mean for you?" Carlyle sounded like he wasn't banking on the first possibility. "Maybe, subconsciously, you did wish him harm?" He smiled savagely. "After all, he had stolen your boyfriend's attention."
Thompson stared at him furiously. "Fuck you!" he spat.
"Where is Volkov?" Carlyle was done playing games.
"I don't know!"
"I don't believe you."
"Well, that's sad for you," Thompson sneered.
"It's going to be a tragedy for you, son, if you don't wise up and start helping us, fast."
"Greg," Donna interrupted, distressed at the increasing level of angry confrontation. "Please, this is so important. We need to find this man. We need to make sure the President is safe."
"The President, the President, the President!" Thompson snapped angrily. "It's all about him, isn't it?"
Donna blinked at him. "Well… yes," she said slowly. "Who else, Greg?"
"What about me?" the young man asked bitterly. "I was used! By someone I thought I meant something to. Doesn't anyone care that I'm as much a victim in all this as the President?"
Carlyle's tones were frigid. "During this affair, one man was killed, another was shot, and a third man was twice the victim of a murderous assault. Pardon me if I don't have much grief to spare for the catastrophe that is your personal life right now. I'm asking you again, when did you last hear from Volkov?"
"I haven't seen him since that morning, when he gave me the chess piece." The recitation of casualties seemed to shake Thompson and recall him to the seriousness of his situation. "I phoned him after I realized what had happened."
"What did he say?"
"He laughed, told me that I hadn't seen anything yet. I haven't had any contact with him since." Thompson sounded faintly desperate as the sheer magnitude of the situation he had gotten himself embroiled in began to weigh down on him again. "I went over to his place afterwards, but he was gone."
"Where was it?" Carlyle scribbled down the address Thompson gave him. "How long had he been gone?"
"From what the manager said, he left about a half hour after I called." Thompson looked deflated. "He must have been waiting for my call."
"A half hour?"
Carlyle stared at him and then swore richly and fluently for a moment. Recovering himself, he said bitterly, "He was damned sure that you wouldn't talk, wasn't he?" A half an hour - he'd lingered there for that long. The sheer, arrogant confidence implicit in that action was staggering. If they'd only had this information then… Volkov had clearly read Thompson's character well.
Shaking off the anger, Carlyle turned back to an earlier line in his notes. "He said that you 'hadn't seen anything yet'. What did you take that to mean?" he invited.
Features stricken, Thompson stared back at him. "I didn't take it to mean anything," he said dully. "I knew. He was going to try again, very soon. And he meant to succeed."
Carlyle leaned back in his chair and looked down at his notes. "You knew that he was going to try again," he said softly, dangerously. "You knew that another attack on the President was imminent, yet you chose to say nothing."
"If I said anything, it would all have come out," Thompson's voice wobbled. "The President had all of your people to protect him. I figured that he would probably be all right. I needed to protect myself."
"You figured that he would probably be all right." Repelled, Carlyle took up his pen, suddenly desiring nothing more than to bring this interview to a conclusion. "Your sense of civic spirit, to say nothing of plain human decency, overwhelms me."
Thompson looked sullen. "What's going to happen to me?"
"These agents will take you away and formally arrest and charge you," Carlyle gestured towards the viewing window for the men who had brought Thompson to the interview room to return. "As for the charges themselves…" He eyed the young man grimly. "Those range from withholding information to assault on the President of the United States. Your lawyers are in for a busy time. My advice to you right now is to be sensible and cooperate." Cynically he added, "If you're lucky, the need to keep this whole matter as quiet as possible may buy you a reduction in both the charges and your jail time."
As he was led from the room, Thompson paused by the table. "Donna?" The tone was almost pleading, an entreaty for understanding, for sympathy.
Donna looked up at him and shook her head slowly. "I could have forgiven you the first, Greg, but not the second. You should have warned us. Whatever the consequences, you should have warned us." Her voice was pained.
Thompson stared at her for a moment, then abruptly turned away, his impassive escorts leading him from the room.
Donna lowered her head as the door closed behind the departing group, studying the table with a distressed expression.
Carlyle glanced at her in concern. "Are you all right?"
"No, but I will be." She straightened and took a deep breath. "I don't know how you do this."
The agent shrugged. "Part of the job. Not one of the nicer parts, but necessary."
"I suppose." Donna listlessly began to collect her belongings. "Poor Greg, though. I mean, I know what he did was awful, but I can't help feeling sorry for him."
"I'm finding it singularly easy to restrain my sympathy right now," Carlyle said dryly. He could feel the frustration burning through him. If Thompson had only come forward immediately afterwards… Paulson might still be alive, the President might not need to totally refurbish his Manchester study and - just possibly - Volkov might not still be a threat.
"Oh, I know. If it had been just the chess piece, I could have felt he was really a victim. Stupid, but a victim. But not coming forward when he absolutely believed that there was still real danger - that was unforgivable." Donna literally couldn't comprehend how Thompson had seemingly found it so easy to subdue his conscience over the existence of a continuing threat. "Still, he's so young and his life is about to get very difficult. Then too," she blushed slightly, "I do know what it's like to find that someone doesn't really care about you after all."
"He had only known the man for less than a month, Donna," Carlyle observed kindly. "I don't doubt that he took to Volkov, but I don't think they were David and Jonathan exactly."
"No, probably not," Donna admitted. "Greg's approach to relationships tends to lean more towards jealous possessiveness when he's seriously attracted, and an off-hand presumptuousness when he's not." She picked up the CCTV photo again and studied it thoughtfully. "I was surprised though."
"To find that he knew Volkov?" Interested, Carlyle came across to look over her shoulder. "Not his type?"
"Very much his type, actually, I'd say. We were discussing the relative merits of Viggo Mortensen over Orlando Bloom just recently."
Carlyle grinned.
"No, Volkov surprised me, that he got close to Greg in that way." Donna shrugged. "I don't know why. I mean, it's no different to making advances to a female staffer, although entering into a relationship with someone just to use them to get close to a target..." She grimaced. "No, I guess I was surprised because, from what I read of the profile and what background information Lord Marbury got for Josh, I'd received the overwhelming impression that Volkov's inclinations ran the other way."
"He entered the military at a very young age. In an all-male environment like that, it's more than likely that he experimented, as so many young people do." Carlyle started to collect his papers. "But your impressions are right. From the information and psyche profiles, and from what we've been able to glean about past associations and relationships, Volkov's leanings are heterosexual in preference."
Donna's eyes widened? "But… Greg?"
"Yes, Thompson. Thompson was a means to an end."
Donna was frankly dismayed. "But that's so cold, so ruthless!"
Carlyle studied the photo in the open file in his hands, face grim. "And calculating. One more thing our investigation is starting to make very clear is that Volkov uses any and all tools at his disposal. The profile suggests that he likes to use people, to dominate them. There are a lot of different ways to control people, Donna. It seems as if Volkov is prepared to use them all. He's a professional; he does whatever it takes to get the job done." He tapped the photo slowly. "And it bothers me beyond belief to know that he's still out there somewhere."