Ron Butterfield dumped the small carryall on the office floor and wearily slumped into the chair behind his desk. Tilting the chair back, he unbuttoned his overcoat and propped his shoes on the desktop with a sigh of relief. Letting his head to fall back against the chair rest, he closed his eyes gratefully, the roar of airplane engines still surging in his ears. With all the zone changes, he wasn't even sure if he was entitled to feel exhausted. Had he gained a day? Or lost a day? Was it thirty-six hours without sleep, or had those hours and lack thereof vanished into the twilight zone of hemispherical travel?
Leaving the mathematics to those realms of quantum physics he was certain were involved somehow, for the moment he just sat there, allowing his body to slowly unwind, savoring the sensation of just being still for the first time in days. Allowing the silence to wash over him, soothing and restful…
"Oh, thank God! It's true; you're back!"
The Security Chief rolled his head slightly to one side and cracked open an eyelid to regard the sight of his second in command standing in the doorway, hand dramatically clutching at his chest, with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "Go away, Dale."
"No way." Carlyle dropped into the chair in front of the desk. "Where have you been, man? It's been over four days. What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was following up a lead."
Carlyle snorted loudly. "Don't give me that. You've been practically incommunicado for days. You didn't even wait around for the speech, and let me tell you that being responsible for Eagle's security on that took years off my life. You didn't wait for the speech, Ron. A high profile and provocative public appearance like that, so soon after a serious attempt on the man's life, and we didn't have a damn clue as to where the assassin might be? Eagle shouldn't have been out there at all, never mind poking yet another stick into the hornet's nest. And you weren't there. That's just not like you. A quick daily check-in on a cell phone doesn't count, you know, particularly when you don't tell us where you're calling from and expressly forbid us from tracing. Where were you?"
"Moscow." Butterfield gave a wintry smile as his companion's jaw dropped. "I told you I was following a lead."
After a moment, Carlyle found his voice. "You weren't kidding." He looked shocked. "A lone ranger effort? That's against every regulation…"
"I know, Dale. I know." Butterfield scrubbed his face wearily. "Maybe I really wasn't thinking. But something needed to be done, quickly, and I didn't think the usual channels would help. This son-of-a - this guy is good. Very good. And he has serious backing." He looked at his colleague soberly. "We knew the backers, we understood the motive, or at least thought we did. We had the profile. But I needed to know the man. So, I went to his back yard."
"To Moscow?" Carlyle leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. "You made contact with the local police." Statement, not question. It's what he would have done had the situation been reversed. It's what Butterfield had taught him. Know your enemy.
"One of them, yes. A good man, Dale, with real feeling for his job, and integrity to bolster it. And he knows Volkov. Not just the stuff that makes the official files, neatly ordered, sanitized and rendered fit for human consumption. He knows all of it."
"And…?" Carlyle asked the question almost hesitantly, not liking the darkness that flickered in his superior's eyes.
Dropping any pretence of relaxation, Butterfield lowered his feet from the desktop and leaned forward on the blotter. "He doesn't like it."
Carlyle snorted. "Well, we're not too wild about the whole situation ourselves."
"No. Dale, he doesn't like it."
The agent sighed miserably. Who cared now if everybody else, including Butterfield it would seem, was doing it? "I'm going to hate this, aren't I? Okay, shoot."
Butterfield winced slightly. "Language, Dale."
"Sorry, chief." The younger man didn't bother to infuse his apology with the usual hint of teasing mockery. This was neither the time nor the place. "What did your Russian policeman have to add to our profile?"
Butterfield leaned back and sighed wearily, rubbing his eyes. "It's personal now, he's sure of it."
"We already knew that!"
"Yes, we did." Butterfield's expression was grave serious. "But what we didn't know is precisely what personal means to this man. Chichagov knows exactly what it means."
"And?"
Butterfield narrowed his eyes and leaned forward once again, tenting his forefingers and pressing them against his lips. "You know what our own profile says. The real one, not the fairytale C.J. Cregg spun for the press."
Carlyle nodded. "The one Donna suggested be buried in the Rose Garden."
Butterfield blinked. "What?"
Carlyle waved his hand at his superior's nearly befuddled look of question. Even absent, Donna Moss had that affect on a lot of people, and there was no sense in opening that can of worms right now.
Butterfield was teaching again, as always, and Carlyle responded to the question with the smoothness and confidence of the star pupil. "At the start, it was purely professional, remote. Killing at a distance. But when Marine One failed to achieve its objective, Volkov had to start again, reassess his target. And over the course of that reassessment, something changed. Somehow, he became fascinated with his quarry. We're not sure why - a perceived personal connection, the high profile position, maybe something about the man himself. Maybe a combination of all those things, together with factors we can only guess at. Whatever the reason, he began to demonstrate a personal interest in his target. He felt a connection, and he wanted to make that connection a reality."
Butterfield was nodding approvingly. Encouraged, Carlyle continued.
"Hence the new approach, the more intimate knowledge displayed. One part of the false profile at least was accurate. The man has a massive ego. Normally, it probably wouldn't affect his methods of operation, but he's never had a target quite like this one before. Not just a politician, but also a highly regarded and respected world leader. But more than that, an intellectual, a Nobel Laureate considered one of the finest minds of his generation. Our man considers himself to have a first-class brain too. Volkov's impressed by the President, despite himself, but probably feels himself to be his equal. More than equal. And it became important to him that the President should realize that, that he should know the man hunting him was no ordinary assassin."
The younger agent paused for breath. "So, he started to make contact. Obliquely, and rather elaborately at first, with the chess piece and move. Then we smacked him down with that press conference, stung his pride and punctured his cozy little image of this as an elaborate contest of wills between two mutually admiring intellects. That conference showed him that not only did the President not show him the respect he felt was his due, the man actually held him in contempt. We shook our stick and goaded him."
Despite the horrors being recited, Butterfield gave a rueful grin. "You've been talking to Toby."
Carlyle rolled his eyes. "I've been avoiding Toby. Most of the agents have. Taking a bullet would be easier than one of his glares."
"He has reason."
"Yeah."
As was his due, Butterfield nodded and took most of the blame for that reasoning, daring Carlyle to deny it. "Go on."
The younger man knew what was not being said, disagreed, but carefully schooled his features into what he hoped was bland compliance as he continued, "That press conference galvanized him to make direct contact, to ensure that his victim was appropriately cowed before being destroyed. Ultimately, it was his undoing, as the need to gloat has been the undoing of countless psychopaths before him. The difference could be measured in seconds, but it was just enough. If he hadn't called, if he'd just waited and fired, or at least hadn't chatted so long…"
Butterfield fingered his moustache, nodding thoughtfully. "Vanity. A cold, brilliant, ruthlessly effective killer, but still he has his weakness. Not that we made much capital out of it," he added bitterly. "What's the current situation status?"
Carlyle winced. His boss knew the score, the entire department did, and bad news never got better with repetition. Still, he spelled it out obediently. "Zilch, zip, nada."
He caught Butterfield's caustic glare and blushed, a not entirely unreasonable reaction. There was a logical rationale as to why official reports dressed up their findings, or lack thereof, in technical jargon. Just the bare facts could be so… bare sometimes. "We have a name for our quarry, but no solid leads and no trail to follow. We have no idea as to his current location, his possible plans or the resources at his disposal. We're not even sure if he's still in the country, although we suspect he isn't. Things are just too hot for him here now. He had his chance at the President, and he blew it. For the moment," he observed glumly. "So, security around Eagle is still airtight, with no immediate plans to step it down. In fact, our only real bit of progress has been that," he nodded to the blue folder on the top of Butterfield's desk.
"Don't knock it." Butterfield picked up the folder and started to riffle through the pages, as was his wont quickly reading and digesting the information it contained. He'd never been one to waste time or effort. "That was good work, Dale. This guy, Thompson, may have claimed not to have any evil intent, but all I care about is what his actions resulted in. Besides, he allowed himself to be ruled by self-interest once before; what was to stop it happening again?"
Carlyle nodded sourly. Along with his colleagues and most other White House employees, he found it hard to find much sympathy for the hapless Thompson. Okay, the man had been scared for his job and his reputation, and had panicked. But he had allowed his sense of self-preservation to blind him to the possible consequences of his actions to a quite remarkable degree. Then, he had betrayed a considerable trust. That was what his co-workers could not forgive.
Carlyle knew for a fact that Thompson's colleagues in the mail department were taking the fact that the insider had come from their section very personally indeed. The necessary Secret Service sweeps and re-evaluation of their departmental personnel was only adding to their sense of mortification and outrage.
Butterfield frowned at a page of the report. "Donna Moss?" He looked up at his second. "You had a civilian present when you conducted the preliminary interview, before charging him?"
"Yes." Carlyle had expected this, but knew that his boss wasn't reprimanding, just waiting to hear his reason for such an unorthodox procedure. "It was Donna and Margaret who came to us after the senior assistants had heard the scuttlebutt about Thompson that was circulating among the interns. They didn't want to start a witch-hunt, so Donna approached me unofficially. Our own investigations had been leaning in that direction - it had to be someone from that department, and he was already raising a few small flags - so we were eager to listen." He shrugged. "I took her with me when we brought Thompson in because she was casually acquainted with him. I think Donna knows everyone in the building."
"A frightening thought, that," Butterfield grunted.
"Tell me about it," Carlyle agreed, though less worried about that prospect than Butterfield. "Anyway, I wanted to catch him with his guard somewhat lowered. Given how jumpy he was reported to be, I thought having a civilian with me whom he knew might help. And Donna… well, Donna's got a naturally sympathetic manner. It makes people willing to talk to her or around her. Thompson had been slowly cracking under the pressure of what he had done, and the stress of waiting for discovery. Once he knew it was all up, he was almost resigned to talking. Particularly to Donna."
"He seems to have been quite eager to justify his actions to her."
"Yeah." Carlyle's lip curled slightly in contempt. He hadn't been very impressed with Thompson's I'm the victim here as much as anyone angle on what had happened. A trust was a trust, and a betrayal was still a betrayal. Donna Moss had clearly felt the same, and he thought her air of wounded incomprehension had actually gotten to Thompson far more effectively than the unconcealed scorn of Carlyle and his colleagues.
"One hole plugged at least." Butterfield looked up at his colleague wearily. "I wonder if there are any more?"
"Right here in the White House? Who knows for certain anymore," Carlyle grimaced. "For sure there's another somewhere."
"Marine One." Butterfield stated it flatly. However much they might dread the prospect of a turncoat inside the Armed Forces, the fact remained that Volkov could not have sabotaged the presidential craft without some help.
Carlyle studied the carpet forlornly for a moment. Finally, he raised his head. "So, what about you? You said this Russian guy didn't exactly throw down any sunshine on Volkov?"
"No." Butterfield could feel the tension starting to clamp the muscles at the base of his skull. "But he's certain that Volkov is back in Russia. I am too. The people we talked to, the community in general, were too closed, too wary. They knew he was there, watching."
"Like the proverbial boogey-man," Carlyle growled.
Butterfield smiled without humor. To outward appearances, his trip and hunt may have garnered them nothing, but he and Chichagov had known better. "It gets better, Dale. Word also has it that the Russian Mafia has abandoned their contract on President Bartlet. Things have gotten too hot, and they want distance between themselves and recent events. "
"Really?" His second rocked forward eagerly in his chair. "Well, thank God for that!"
"I'm failing to see the good news here myself, Dale."
"Oh, come on, Chief! If the guy's definitely out of the country, then that means that he's given up, at least for the moment. He had his three strikes and now he's out. He doesn't even have a mandate to keep going after his target now the contract has been withdrawn."
"Remember that profile you just gave me, Dale? Remember my telling you that Chichagov knows Volkov? That he told me exactly what personal means to this man?"
His young colleague sagged back in his chair. "He's not going to give up?"
"No." Rubbing his eyes, Butterfield could feel the headache starting to assert itself.
"But why?" Carlyle's voice was almost despairing. "He's got no backers now, and probably considerably less resources. No one will be paying him. Surely his desire to score off the President can't be so overpowering, just because the man had the temerity to not die? I mean, everything we've heard about this man suggests that he's a professional. That's why he's survived as long as he has. He's a psychopath, but he's not crazy."
Butterfield could not help quirking his lips at that, but the humor was black. "Two things, Dale. One: remember my telling you that Chichagov knew Volkov, including the stuff that didn't make it into the official reports? Dark, nasty facts that had to be appropriately sanitized for official consumption, because no government wants to publicly admit that one of its soldiers could be capable of such things, could have been trained in the kinds of skills that go to make a killer of this kind. Volkov was protected, and his darker inclinations concealed or winked at, because he was so good at what he did."
The Security Chief fumbled inside his coat and tossed a crumpled sheet of official looking paper to his subordinate. "Volkov had some very dark inclinations indeed. He was and still is capable of cold, precise, surgical removals of targets. But sometimes…" He grimaced, watching Carlyle's face pale as he read down through the sheet, "... sometimes he enjoyed himself."
Carlyle looked faintly ill. "Where did you get this? It doesn't read like a professional psyche report."
"That's because it isn't. If there are such reports on Volkov in the Russian Military, they're buried so deep we'll never find them. No, this is Chichagov's own assessment of the man."
"But he's a policeman, not a psychiatrist."
Butterfield ruthlessly crushed that small tendril of hope. "Neither are you or I, Dale. But through years in this job, tracing cranks, nuts and genuine threats, we both know we can develop a feel for the nature of our quarry. We might not be officially qualified to tell the courts why these people do what they do, but we have a feel for what they might do. We have to; it can mean life or death to our protectees. I trust Chichagov on this, because he's seen the end results. He's seen the victims, and talked to some of the survivors. Volkov is every bit as cool, ruthless and intelligent as our profiles suggest. But Chichagov has warned me; there's a twisted darkness in the man, too, a real malevolence which, when unleashed, is a terrible thing to have turned on you."
"And you think the President has unleashed it?"
"I'm certain of it. So is Chichagov." Butterfield hesitated for an instant. "And there's something else."
"Oh, shit!" Carlyle's exclamation was heartfelt. Who cared at this point that the only person allowed to swear in this White House was President Bartlet? "What else couldthere be?"
"The Red Mafia did more than withdraw their contract. That alone would be a substantial hit to Volkov's pride and ego. He's always been their blue-eyed boy, and he's never failed so spectacularly, so publicly and so humiliatingly as he did with the President. He's lost face with his organization, probably his shot at a top slot. But that's not the worst of it. The Red Mafia didn't just scrub the contract on the President as being too hot to handle, they issued a new contract. On Volkov."
Butterfield didn't wait for his companion's reaction, closing his eyes in almost physical pain and remembering another reaction that had happened only hours - or was it days? - before...
They'd let the man go; satisfied that he knew nothing or was far too afraid to give what he did know. Volkov's reputation had sealed lips in every dive and corner of the city. Nobody would talk, but their terror was obvious to see. But this one, a local street boss, had been more than willing to offer them a bone of sorts.
Chichagov suspected he'd been ordered to do so, as did Butterfield.
Staring at the man's departing form, his own bodyguard following in his wake, the Russian police officer crossed himself in the old Orthodox manner and whispered, "Dear God, what have they done?"
"A contract," Butterfield replied through clenched teeth. "On Volkov. Do they rate his failure so high?"
"A message. A warning. It doesn't matter; they've turned the monster loose." Chichagov turned slowly, scanning the buildings, the people and the few cars still on the road this late at night. "And he's here, he knows. This has gone beyond insult, beyond pride and humiliation."
"If there was a chance he'd stop, it's lost now."
"They knew that, my friend."
"Of course they did..."
"Of course they did," Butterfield muttered, returning to the here and now.
Carlyle looked at his boss, wide-eyed. After a moment, he ventured cautiously, "You don't look very happy about what sounds like amazingly good news for us."
Butterfield shook his head. "It's not going to happen."
"Why?"
"Because it isn't. Because our lives could never get that easy, Dale." The Security Chief sounded unutterably weary. "Because this isn't a serious contract. The size of the bounty alone told us that. It's far too small to tempt the real professionals, especially for a target as dangerous as Volkov. No, this is a reprimand, Red Mafia style. And a goad. They knew exactly what they were doing. The contract is just a bit of kiss-ass face saving, makes them look good. Volkov's out in the cold right now. This is the Mafia leaders' way of disgracing him. Oh, they'll let him back in eventually; he's a valuable commodity. But it will be on their terms. And he'll probably find that pretty humiliating. From golden boy to being taken back on sufferance? He won't like that at all. So now two things are worrying Chichagov. And, therefore, me."
"And those are?" Carlyle really didn't want to ask.
Butterfield checked them off on his long fingers. "One, the fact that he almost certainly holds the President responsible for his failure and fall from grace. From what Chichagov has told me, having Volkov target you at any time is a bad thing. Having the man target you when he's also holding you personally responsible for humiliating him? Even now, with the withdrawal of the hit, and the new contract, it'll be a long, long time before we can be certain that he's given up, and the President is safe from him."
"And the second thing?"
Butterfield regarded his subordinate gravely. "I'm worried about just what he might do in order to regain face."
Carlyle flicked through the Soviet report again, as if hoping that the words within would be persuaded by constant shuffling of the pages to rearrange themselves into slightly more bearable reading.
"This…" he took a deep breath, "is horrifying."
"Ever the man with the mot juste, Dale."
"Seriously." For once Carlyle wasn't in the mood to fool around. "I mean, we've always treated this guy as a clear and present danger. But we've also been treating him as a professional – a professional who's started to make the job personal, but still a professional. Although the methods he used to manipulate Thompson seemed pretty cold-blooded. But this…" he turned over another page of the report and cringed. "This guy isn't just a killer – he's a sadist!"
Butterfield nodded somberly. "And he wants Eagle. Outstanding charges aside, we're going to have to actively pursue this guy, Dale. Chichagov warned me; Volkov doesn't give up, he doesn't forget, and he definitely doesn't forgive. The man is relentless, as destructive a force as Nature herself, and just as unstoppable. To put it simply, a monster. Chichagov told me that I had better hope the man decides to settle for a clean, swift strike." He paused to reflect on that. "I wish I thought he was joking."
After a moment's heavy silence, the Security Chief looked up. "How is the President?"
"Pissed." Carlyle's assessment of the Executive mood was both prompt and heartfelt.
"The letters?"
"The letters," his deputy confirmed. "Seriously, man, next time you can deliver your own damn mail. The first time, he glowered. The second time, he practically took my head off and demanded I produce you forthwith." He shuddered slightly at the memory. "I chickened out and gave the third letter to Charlie Young. I got that one back with a politely worded memo that managed to imply that, if I delivered any more, I would find myself in a position to report on whether or not verbal flaying is just a figure of speech."
Butterfield half-laughed, amused and apologetic. "I'm sorry, Dale. That was unfair of me." He quirked an eyebrow at his colleague. "I take it you haven't delivered any more of the copies I left with you?"
Carlyle pulled a slightly rumpled envelope from inside his jacket and tossed it down on the desk. "Why don't you deliver it yourself?" he suggested generously.
Butterfield picked the letter up and twisted it thoughtfully in his fingers.
Carlyle watched him for an instant. "You're not still going to offer your resignation, are you?" he asked soberly. "Ron, the President really doesn't want it."
"I let him down."
"He doesn't see it that way. He's pretty pissed at you right now, but not for that reason." Taking in his supervisor's doubtful, somewhat obstinate expression, Carlyle sighed in exasperation. "He trusts you, Ron. He trusts you to have his back. He's comfortable with you, and he listens to you." He smiled ruefully and added, "Most of the time, anyway."
"Listening to me didn't do him much good last Sunday morning, did it?" Butterfield asked bitterly.
"He's still alive." Carlyle pointed out, somewhat brutally. "He knows, as well as we do, that is the only criterion by which to judge success or failure in this game. Ron, he trusts you. That's an invaluable asset. Don't throw it away. For yourself… or for him."
Butterfield tapped the envelope thoughtfully with his thumb, and then slid it inside his own coat. "We'll see," was all he would say. "But thanks for being prepared to be the target, Dale. I guess I wasn't thinking any more clearly than anyone else after the weekend, but I shouldn't have left you to face the heat."
Carlyle shrugged easily. "I can take a roasting or two. The man's bark is always worse than his bite. Besides," his smile dimmed somewhat, "I had to let him down again yesterday."
Butterfield looked up enquiringly.
"The funeral." Carlyle didn't elaborate. He didn't have to.
"Damn it!" Butterfield swore. "It is this afternoon, isn't it? I wasn't expecting to be back in time; I'm glad I made it. He wanted to go?"
"What do you think?"
"You told him he couldn't?"
"What do you think?"
"How did he take it?"
This time Carlyle didn't bother to reply, but just spread his hands eloquently.
"Yeah." Butterfield sighed heavily. 'Damn, but he was doing that a lot lately,' he thought morbidly."Yeah."
The White House Chief of Security sank into gloomy silence. There was no way they could allow the President to attend Paulson's funeral so soon after the attack, however much the man might want to pay his final respects to the agent and come to terms with the fact that yet another life had been lost in his defense. That knowledge was weighing the President down, but the Secret Service just could not take the risk involved in granting him even that small measure of absolution. Not now.
In fact, with both the prime instigator and a possible second accomplice still at large in the world, Butterfield was seriously thinking of locking the President into his study in the Residence for the foreseeable future, and throwing away the key.
"Hey, Chief! Good to see you back." Agent Caro Lindstrom greeted her supervisor cheerfully from the doorway. At the sight of the two somber faces, her expression drooped slightly. "Did I miss Happy Hour?"
Butterfield couldn't resist a small grin as Carlyle snorted and rolled his eyes at his colleague. "Agent." The address was formal, but the tone was sufficiently encouraging for Caro to perk up again. She and Henry Vaughan were the youngest of the agents on Executive and First Family details, and the two kids tended to inspire a certain amount of amused indulgence in their more seasoned colleagues.
"Got today's mail, Chief." She waved a handful of envelopes at him. Advancing towards the desk, she stumbled over the strap of Butterfield's abandoned carryall, managing to shoot the small bundle of missives into her supervisor's lap. "Oh, man. Sorry!"
"Quite all right, Caro." Butterfield resignedly gathered together the mail strewn over his lap and stomach and brought his chair upright, flicking rapidly through the envelopes, as Carlyle stretched out a foot to lazily unhook the bag strap from Lindstrom's ankle.
"You haven't been home yet?" Caro regarded the cause of her mishap, and Carlyle, accusingly.
"Not yet, no." Butterfield was engrossed in a note from the Florida Field Office.
"Oh, Chief." Lindstrom's voice was heavy with reproach. "Does Marian even know you're back?"
Butterfield shifted guiltily. "I phoned her from the airport," he admitted.
"She must be pissed at you."
"Possibly a little," her superior conceded. "But Marian understands the job and that I can't always tell her where I am or when I'll be home."
Carlyle lay back in his chair. "That wife of yours is a saint," he commented sagely.
"I'll say." Caro straddled a straight-back chair beside him and folded her arms along the back. "I mean, not even she knew where you were these last few days. Just that you'd been in touch to tell her that you were out of town and you'd be home as soon as you could. She's been forwarding your home mail to the office. Seriously, if you were my husband, I'd be sharpening a few knives and filing for divorce. Where were you anyway?"
"Moscow."
"What?!"
Butterfield jerked his head towards Carlyle. His second in command amicably took the hint and began filling in his bemused colleague, leaving his boss to continue to peruse his mail in peace.
Tuning out his two subordinates, Butterfield tossed aside an irritable letter from the Treasury Department with a grimace. Reflecting that he would have to do some serious fence-mending there in the wake of his unauthorized trip, he picked up a padded envelope, noting with mild curiosity that it carried the return address of the Houston field office. Why the hell would they be mailing him at home? Marian had dutifully had it couriered to his office, as she always did when he was away. Ripping it open, he tipped a single white envelope and a folded sheet of paper out onto his blotter.
Eyebrows rising, Butterfield picked up the envelope first and read the hand-written name on it. His features froze, and he replaced the missive gently on the desk. He then carefully unfolded the sheet of paper with iron restraint and read the few lines printed thereon.
"Son of a bitch!!"
Dale Carlyle and Caro Lindstrom's heads jerked up in startled unison as the expletive ripped from the imperturbable Security Chief, the words totally inadequate to convey the sheer vehemence of the emotion behind them.
"Chief?" Carlyle started to rise from his chair. He found himself fielding the crumpled sheet of paper that Butterfield almost hurled across the desk at him.
"Read that," his superior snarled.
Exchanging troubled looks with Caro, Carlyle smoothed out the paper and bent his eyes to it.
Agent Butterfield, I hope you enjoyed Moscow, and that you had a pleasant flight home. Be a good man and deliver the enclosed for me, would you?
- Dimitri Zhidimirich Volkov.
"Jesus…" Caro breathed in his ear, reading over his shoulder. The word was a prayer.
Carlyle raised a pale face to meet Butterfield's burning gaze. "He knew that you had been there."
"And when I was coming home." Butterfield raised the padded envelope with its typed address grimly. "Houston, my ass! It's postmarked yesterday evening, right here in D.C. To ensure it would arrive in the first postal delivery following my flight's arrival."
Carlyle looked sick.
"But you said that Volkov was back in Moscow," Caro almost stuttered, looking about as sick and angry as Carlyle.
"He is. I'm sure of it." Butterfield reached out his hand for the offending note, taking it carefully by the corners from Carlyle. Despite its emotional manhandling, it might still be able to tell them something. "This is a facsimile - a fax or email. The paper isn't indented, and the top and bottom of the sheet have been cut away. No, he sent this when he knew I was returning." He didn't reveal the cold, itching feeling the thought of having being watched so closely in Moscow gave him between the shoulder blades. "He sent it to someone here in Washington, to be enclosed with something he had left behind for delivery and with instructions to address it from the Houston field office. He knew my wife would forward it to my office. My wife!" A cold, sick fear settled in the pit of his stomach at how much knowledge Volkov was displaying.
And how close, however obliquely, the man had come to Marian.
His wife!
"Thompson - " Caro began, only to be interrupted.
"Not Thompson," Carlyle shook his head decisively.
Caro sighed, and ran her hands through her hair. "I know. He's been under surveillance since yesterday afternoon. Besides, he was too scared to have done anything else. But this means there's still someone else, right here in D.C. Someone who's not afraid to continue to play with Volkov."
"We knew that," Carlyle pointed out. "Whoever helped him with Marine One was a serious player. This," he pointed at the sheet gingerly being held by Butterfield, "is just proof that they still want to be part of the game."
Caro slumped. "The President is going to go ballistic," she mumbled dejectedly.
"Him and Leo McGarry both," Butterfield muttered. After all the recent turmoil, to have to report that not only was Volkov out of reach, but that there remained an unknown threat right here in Washington…
"To say nothing of the First Lady," Carlyle interjected helpfully. He shrugged as his colleagues glared at him. "Well, she is."
"She will when we deliver this," Butterfield muttered darkly.
"Deliver what? That envelope?" Caro asked suddenly. "To whom?"
"Can't you guess?" Butterfield's glare seemed to intensify. Delicately, he picked the envelope off his blotter by one corner and angled its face towards his two agents. There, in the same flowing script that had graced the note, was the legend:
President Josiah Edward Bartlet.
Carlyle sucked in a breath. "Eagle's gonna love this," he said miserably.