In-House Forensics Lab: 10:33 AM
Three United States Secret Service Agents, two male and one female, were huddled over a workbench, watching grimly as a forensic lab technician carefully scanned the flap of the envelope through a magnifying lens.
The technician, Mahony, straightened, and pushed up his protective goggles. "Nothing, Agent Butterfield. No thickness or unevenness in the paper to suggest the presence of a foreign object. No residue on the paper, no prints, nothing. Our scans don't show anything either, which is as I would expect. The original package would never have got past the standard White House scans of incoming mail if there had been anything even slightly untoward." He held up the envelope in a gloved hand. "I'm equally certain this envelope contains nothing but paper."
Butterfield nodded brusquely. "Thanks, Mahony. Open it, would you?"
Mahony reached for a scalpel and cut along the flap. Easing the edges apart, he carefully withdrew the paper within and unfolded it, flatting it open on the workbench.
All four stooped over to read the two lines written there, then regarded each other blankly.
Caro was the first to speak. "Is that…?" She didn't have to finish the question.
"Latin, yes." Butterfield's tone was angry and frustrated.
"The nerve of the guy." Carlyle sounded wildly indignant. "Still playing his precious little games. First the chess piece, now this. Eagle will have a stroke."
"What does it say?" Caro's knowledge of Latin pretty much stopped at carpe diem.
Butterfield shook his head and looked inquiringly at the other two men.
Carlyle spread his hands apologetically. "I was never an altar boy, Ron."
"You surprise me, Dale. Mahony?"
The technician shrugged. "Only thing I can tell you is that it doesn't contain any medical terms."
"Okay, thanks Mahony. Dust it and scan for foreign substances, will you? Just in case. Then we'll take it from here."
"I'll get hold of a translator, Chief," Caro volunteered.
"Why bother?" The fire that had been burning in Butterfield's eyes flared up again. "We have an expert right here in this building." The smile he directed at his subordinates was almost feral. "Besides, it is addressed to him."
ooOoo
The Oval Office: 11:04 AM
"You can't go!"
Bartlet leaned back in his chair, left ankle propped on right knee, glasses dangling from his good hand, and regarded his companion cautiously. "There's no need to yell, Leo."
"Due respect, Mr. President, but it seems to me as if there's every need. And I didn't yell."
"You did."
"I did not."
"You raised your voice, Leo. In the Oval Office. To the President of the United States. In Leo-World, that's not just yelling; that's a full-scale meltdown."
McGarry made a valiant effort to drag the conversation back on track. "Sir, in the present circumstances, your suggestion - "
"... yelled at me..." Bartlet muttered in a faux wounded tone.
"Be that as it may, sir, you do realize that it's an impossible idea at the moment?" Observing the mutinous expression before him, McGarry asked dryly, "Would you like me to get Nancy back in here and see what she thinks?"
Bartlet scowled and tossed his glasses onto the desk.
"Or we could ask Abbey for her opinion."
"All right, all right," the President surrendered. "It was just a thought." For an instant, he looked depressed.
"Yeah... yeah." McGarry sat down heavily in a chair beside the desk. "It would be good," he said after a moment.
Bartlet met his gaze and smiled. "Yeah."
"Just not now."
"No." Bartlet rested his chin on his palm. "When, Leo?"
"When it's safe." McGarry shrugged helplessly as the other man tilted his head ironically. "Well, when it's safer. When they catch him."
"What if they don't, Leo? I can't skulk in the White House forever."
"We could give it a try?" the Chief of Staff suggested hopefully.
"We'll be kicking off the re-election campaign in just a couple of months, Leo. I don't think campaigning from this desk would achieve anything more than to make Ron Butterfield happy."
It would make more than just Ron happy. But McGarry didn't give voice to his thoughts. He shrugged. "It'll be over before then, sir. One way or another."
"Mmm. Leaving the security aspect of the matter aside for the moment, it would be too soon anyway." Bartlet shifted restlessly. "Much as I want to move forward with this, we have to give Chagarin a chance to gather his support."
"And a visit from you now probably won't achieve anything more than to cement the determination of the hardliners, and probably be resented as foreign interference by even moderate factions," McGarry completed the thought. "To say nothing of further enraging the people who have had us in their cross-hairs these last few months. A state visit to Russia right now, even with the laudable intention of conveying to Chagarin that you do indeed support him despite what's happened, is just too plain risky. Both politically and physically."
"We'll have to go eventually, Leo," Bartlet pointed out mildly. "If we're going to make this thing real, I'll have to go over there. Well, me or Rob Ritchie," he added whimsically. "God, I just hope we make enough progress that this will go ahead, regardless of what happens in November. But I would like to finish it," he said wistfully.
"You will," his Chief of Staff spoke with absolute conviction. "You and Chagarin will do this. I'm still not wild about the way he dragged you in, but you've both taken steps already. This morning you took another step, but this time it was together."
"Small steps, Leo, and a very long, hard journey."
"Then just remember to keep your eyes on the horizon."
"I will." Bartlet suddenly frowned. "Just as soon as I can afford to take them off where I'm stepping. Isn't there any intel yet on just how credible a threat Volkov still is?"
McGarry took a deep breath. "They're working on it." And if they didn't start producing something concrete soon, the combined forces of the CIA, FBI and Secret Service would be having words with Leo McGarry. His current frustration and anxiety was longing to find a target to vent on.
"They're working on it," Bartlet repeated slowly. "Well, I feel so much better now. Never mind about Volkov for the moment. Tell me, has the impressive resources supposedly at my command been able to find my own Security Chief? The same man I seem to recall ordering to have found and in my office today."
"He logged in a couple of hours ago. He'll be by shortly."
"He will?" The President sounded almost comically surprised by this discovery that at least one executive order had born fruit. "Well, that's nice. Much as I admire the man's letter writing skills, he has a distressing tendency to be repetitive."
"What will you do if he offers you his resignation again?"
"Ahh, hence the burning desire to see him in person. I'm not sure I can adequately convey my thoughts on that subject through the written word. The occasion seems to me to call for the addition of a series of rather eloquent gestures as well. That, and if he brings me one more of those damn letters, I'm seriously considering making him eat it."
McGarry grinned.
The door cracked open and Charlie Young popped his head into the gap. "Mr. President? Ron Butterfield is outside." The aide sounded equal parts relieved and nervous.
"Speak of the devil," Bartlet said with ominous jocularity. "Wheel him in, Charlie. Wait," a sudden thought struck as Young started to withdraw. "He's not by any chance carrying an envelope, is he?"
"Funny you should mention that, sir."
"Charlie…" his boss began warningly.
Young barely hesitated. "Why don't I just send him on in?" The end of the sentence vanished with his head back around the door.
A moment later, he was replaced by the imposing figure of the White House Chief of Security, looking just a little weary and rumpled. And clutching a manila envelope.
At the sight of it, the President growled. "Ron, so help me, if that's what I think it is…"
"I think I'm pretty safe, Mr. President, in saying that it probably isn't." Butterfield's voice was even grimmer than was normal, and now the other men could see the tense, tired lines scoring his face.
Bartlet hesitated and glanced at his Chief of Staff. "Okay," he said uncertainly. "But don't think you and I won't be having words about that. Mind telling me where you've been this past few days?"
"Moscow." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Butterfield was sufficiently human to find more than a little humor in the general incredulity such a simple answer could inspire. His present audience was more than living up to previous standards, even if they were a little less vocal about it.
"Moscow?" Bartlet asked carefully.
"Yes, sir."
"These last few days?"
"Sir."
"Interesting, was it?"
"Very interesting."
Bartlet sighed. "Ron, God knows, no one admires your discretion more than I do, but could you please elaborate a bit? What the hell were you doing in Moscow?"
"Following a lead, Mr. President."
"Yeah?" The President straightened. "What kind of lead? Because so far I've received no information at all, except for the fact that we've corralled our insider, poor bastard."
Butterfield sighed. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I was seeking information, sir. Local information. I got it," he added fatalistically.
Bartlet exchanged glances with McGarry. "And does it clarify our situation, Ron?"
Butterfield tilted his head to one side. "I'd say it complicates it, sir."
"Of course." Bartlet sounded weary.
"Ron?" McGarry's tone was equal parts invitation and order.
Butterfield responded with military precision. "Firstly, Mr. President, I'm confident that Volkov has left the country and is back in Moscow."
"Good news and bad news," Bartlet observed. He glanced at his glowering friend. "Lighten up, Leo. He's beyond our reach for the moment, but at least this means I can stick my head out of doors now."
McGarry's mouth twisted in bitter acknowledgement of the point.
Butterfield resumed. "Secondly, sir, my Russian contact's information leads us to believe that the Red Mafia have cancelled their contract on you."
Bartlet swung upright in his chair. "What? Why?"
"Bad press, sir." His Security Chief sounded absolutely serious. "Volkov had three strikes, and now he's out. Of the contract, the game and the Red Mafia... for now."
"Well, this is great!" Bartlet looked from McGarry, who was standing regarding the agent with a troubled expression, to Butterfield, whose features remained stony. "It is great, isn't it? Fellas?"
McGarry for once ignored his President. "Who's your informant, Ron?"
"A senior officer in the Moscow police."
"You trust him?"
"I do." Butterfield spoke firmly. "He was frank with me, and I believe him to be an honorable man. Besides," he paused. "He is aware of Volkov's… pedigree."
McGarry nodded sharply. "He confirmed our profile?"
"And expanded on it." Butterfield turned back to his protectee. "I have sent a copy of my report to the NCS and the FBI, Mr. President. I also have copies for you and for Mr. McGarry's office. Lieutenant Colonel Chichagov was able to offer me some personal insights, and unofficial details on Volkov's pathology." He hesitated. "It doesn't make for very pleasant reading, sir."
Bartlet rubbed his eyes with one hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm confused, Ron. You say that the contract has been cancelled, and Volkov is no longer in the United States. Surely the threat is over?"
"I believe the immediate threat is over, sir."
"But?" Bartlet could hear the equivocation in the other's tone, and felt the anger beginning to burn again. Would this nightmare never be done?
The agent bowed his head reluctantly. "We amended our profile of Volkov after that last attack on you, sir. There was an increasingly personal element to his approaches which seemed to jibe with his usual modus operandi, and which worried us. It seemed as if that which had started out as just another hit was slowly becoming something more. Chichagov confirmed our impressions and added a few insights of his own."
Bartlet folded his hands on the desktop. "You're saying it's no longer just a job for him? Somehow it's become personal?"
"Yes, sir." Butterfield regarded him steadily. "You understand, sir?"
It was McGarry who responded. "He's not going to stop," he said despairingly. "Contract or no contract, he's going to try again."
Bartlet stared down at his folded hands, willing them not to tremble as a chill swept through him. "Ahh… damnit!!" He looked up at his bodyguard. "You really believe it's not over, Ron?"
"I know it's not over." The agent stepped forward and placed the unsealed envelope he had been carrying on the desk.
Bartlet turned it over curiously, reading the formal address, as McGarry came around the desk to lean over his shoulder. "What is it?"
"A message, sir." Butterfield placed a second sheet of paper on the desk. "This covering note was included with it."
Bartlet's eyes widened as he read the signature. At his shoulder, he heard McGarry whisper, "Oh, dear God."
"When did this arrive?" Bartlet demanded in a harsh voice.
"It was delivered to my home this morning, sir. My wife had it couriered to my office, as she had been doing with all mail while I was away."
The President's head snapped up. "It was delivered to your home, Ron?"
"Yes, sir." And now there was a glimpse of the fury burning beneath that calm exterior.
"Ron, I'm so sorry."
Butterfield silently inclined his head, indicating both understanding and absolution. "We were hoping you would translate the message for us, sir."
"Translate?" Puzzled, Bartlet donned his glasses, withdrew the sheet and unfolded it. As soon as his eyes met the words, he felt the anger surge again, flowing out to burn along veins and limbs, rising like bile in his throat. He wrestled it back under control. "Well, it may be in Latin, but I doubt this guy's expertise extends much beyond raiding a phrase book."
"Sir?" Butterfield gently prodded for information.
Bartlet glanced up at him and then back down at the paper. "Well, you'll find you actually know the first line, Ron. It's a fairly common quote in English - 'Quem Iupiter vult perdere dementat prius.'" He cleared his throat, feeling the coldness grip him again, despite the calmness of his tone. "It's usually rendered as, 'Whom the gods wish to destroy, they first drive mad.'"
McGarry's hand tightened briefly on his shoulder. "I think that constitutes a threat in any language," he said grimly.
"Yeah." Bartlet ran a weary hand through his hair. "A clear, if not necessarily present danger. Somewhat egotistical too." He paused. "But I must admit, it leaves me with a cold feeling inside."
"It fits our profile too, Mr. President," Butterfield said quietly. "The strong suggestion of personal malice, and the vindictiveness. Chichagov told me that having Volkov for an enemy was never healthy. And he holds you responsible for his fall from grace."
Bartlet nodded slowly in understanding of the level of darkness those words contained. He angled the paper towards his friend. "I think you can translate the remaining line, Leo."
The Chief of Staff's eyes crinkled as he searched his memory. "'Para bellum'? Prepare… prepare for war!" He swore softly, furiously. "Damn him, damn him down to Hell."
Bartlet waved the paper at Butterfield. "Still want to resign as my head of Security?" he asked wryly.
Butterfield's eyes burned as he gazed back at his protectee. "No, sir," he said with quiet intensity.
The President graced him with a nod and a small smile, before rising abruptly and moving to lean against the frame of one of the large windows behind the desk.
McGarry and Butterfield glanced at each other, and then McGarry inclined his head towards the door.
Butterfield nodded and picked up the paper from the desk. With a quiet "Mr. President," he withdrew, leaving the two men alone.
McGarry regarded his old friend's tense back, before silently moving up to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, staring out the window. Waiting, as he always did, for the other man to speak.
After a moment, Bartlet spoke. "It's not over, Leo."
"No. No, it's not."
"It's not over, and we have no idea what form the game will take now." Bartlet turned and rested his back against the frame. "No idea what the next battle will be, or when it will take place. Leo, I can't live my life waiting for this guy to come back. Not knowing where and when he might strike. I may not even be in this job in six month's time. Will he follow me even then? Will he follow me home? He has already. Will he follow me right out of this office?"
"It's personal," McGarry reminded him quietly. "We don't know what the rules are now."
"What the hell am I to do, Leo?"
"We could always try to have him extradited and tried for the previous attempts. Ron's Russian policeman might be able to track him down."
"But what would a trial like that do to the agreement with Chagarin? Never mind his problems with gaining support from his Duma. We'll have problems winning over our own Congress. What do you think having a Russian National on trial for attempting to fulfill a kill contract on their President issued by Russian organized crime would do for American public support for such an agreement? It would be smashed to pieces. No, Leo. We can't let this get out, not if we want to succeed. And I'm not letting Volkov or his masters win by default on this."
McGarry glanced at his friend and quickly looked away. "We could try for a more permanent solution," he suggested softly.
Bartlet's head snapped up. "No!" he said vehemently. "No, no!" He pushed away abruptly from the window. "Not again, Leo. Not again."
"Sir." McGarry's voice was firm, and he waited until the President met his eyes. "You can't say that, sir," he said quietly. "You can't stand in this office, with these responsibilities, and say never again."
Bartlet's shoulders slumped and he turned away. After a moment he said in a low voice, "Then not easily, Leo, not often. And not for this."
"Sir, Volkov is just as big a threat as Shareef…"
"No, that's just it! He isn't!" Bartlet whirled around. "Shareef threatened countless lives. Volkov is a threat just to me."
"He's a threat to the President," the Chief of Staff countered angrily. "And he's taken other lives."
"But a threat just to me." Bartlet thrust his hands inwards to his chest in emphasis. "I won't do it, Leo. Not now. I can't let the anger win. If I do…" He abruptly turned away.
Concerned, McGarry stepped forward. "Sir?"
These two men had always seen the best and the worst of each other. Slowly, Bartlet turned back.
"I can't do it, Leo," he said miserably. "This business has already held up a mirror to me, and the darkness, the capacity for rage I saw in there - if I give in to that, then what the hell is the difference between him and me? This job… I've already done things that I could never have conceived of before. And over our time in office, it's gotten so much easier to think the unthinkable, to give the order to unleash devastation. This past four years, I've spent so much time staring into an abyss of destruction and darkness, that it no longer seems as terrible a sight as it should be. I feel as if I'm becoming immune to horror, and I sometimes wonder if the man who walked into this job would recognize the man who will walk away from it."
He took a deep breath. "I won't deal with Volkov like that. I have at least that much control over the situation he has created and I will not, I won't take that final step. I won't let him turn me into him."
McGarry reached out and gently squeezed his friend's arm. "All right," he breathed. "We'll find another way. Somehow."
Bartlet smiled at him crookedly. "We'll find our way, Leo. I'm not going to have him force me to play the game by his methods. I will not lose myself, or you, in that abyss. We'll play it by our rules. If we can only do that, I'll know that, no matter what may happen, I've beaten him, in the only way that matters. To either of us."
The End
He who fights against monsters should see to it that he does not become a monster in the process. And when you stare persistently into an abyss, the abyss also stares into you.
From Beyond Good and Evil
Friedrich Nietzsche: 1844 –1900
Author's Notes: All the pieces are in place, the players ready and the stage set. To be concluded in 'Mercies of the Wicked'. Coming soon…