The following takes place between 8:00pm and 9:00pm on January 6th, 2002, in Washington, DC unless otherwise noted.
The President stole a glance back at his wife, who sat wide-eyed on the couch. The Situation Room could only mean one thing. Not only was her own life in danger, the country was too. He gestured for his Chief of Staff to wait a moment, then cautiously approached her. She stood to meet him halfway.
"Abbey…"
He ran his hands up and down her arms gently. She smiled reassuringly, attempting to comfort both herself and her husband.
"It's okay. You need to go."
"I want you to make that appointment."
"Jed." She flashed him 'the look.' "Go."
"Okay," he replied, nodding.
She smiled again, and he leaned forward to kiss her softly.
"Abbey," He said again, searching for the words he needed to aptly convince her.
"Jed, in the time you've spent standing here with me, every foreign head of State in the world could have been assassinated. Go."
8:03 pm
The President followed his Chief of Staff into the hallway and walked briskly beside him on their way to the dreaded Situation Room.
"What's going on?"
"The IRA, in association with Sinn Fein…"
"Oh, for God's sake," Jed muttered under his breath.
Leo sighed and continued, unperturbed.
"The IRA, in association with Sinn Fein, is apparently planning an attack on the US, through means of…"
"What the hell? "
"Sir."
"Ireland is attacking us!" Jed exclaimed. "Tell me this is some kind of horrible 'too bad you won that election' joke."
"No, sir, I'm afraid not. We're Code Red on account of a bomb threat from the Irish equivalent of Italian fascists."
"The United States does not negotiate with terrorists."
"Mr. President…" Leo protested.
"The United States does not negotiate with terrorists, Leo"
"That's the thing."
"What's the thing?"
"There's no question of negotiation. They don't want anything."
"Are you-what the hell is going on here, Leo!" Jed demanded, angrily.
"Their intent is to weaken England's foremost ally and, in doing so, weaken the crown."
"That's…that's twisted. I don't even...I don't think…I can't…hell, I can't even finish a damn sentence."
"This is a 'hey, look what we can do' threat," Leo said. "This is a 'hey, England, check this out.' Next thing you know, we're looking at bits and pieces of Parliament floating along the Thames river."
"Let's hope it doesn't start with bits and pieces of the Capitol floating along the Potomac. Tell me, if the IRA is planning to bomb the hell out of us, why would they tell us about it beforehand if they don't want anything?"
"They didn't. It was one of our guys."
"A mole?" Jed asked.
"Yeah, in the NSA. He came forward an hour ago offering his information in exchange for immunity."
"It take it you gave it to him."
"Yes, sir."
"What's his name?"
"Sir, I'm not sure…"
"What's his name, Leo? I want to call him up and let him know he's a traitor to his own country."
"His name is Paul Crawford, native of Los Angeles, grandparents both English immigrants," Leo explained.
"Man, his grandparents must have put him through hell if he's…"
"Married to Colleen McGann, the youngest daughter of…"
"Brendan McGann," Jed finished, sighing.
"Yeah."
"Who is orchestrating the whole thing."
"Yeah."
Jed shook his head in disbelief.
"Boy, this gives whole new meaning to the phrase 'fighting Irish,' doesn't it?"
Leo nodded.
"Yes, sir."
They paused in front of the guarded door to the Situation Room. The President took a deep breath and with one subtle nod of the head, they were granted entrance.
"All right. Let's go."
8:11pm
"I'm assuming you haven't been in a situation like this before."
Both Admiral Fitzwallace and Dr. McNally exchanged glances before making eye contact with their President.
"Nothing quite like this, sir," Fitz replied. "This is an organization with no known gripes with the United States, other than the fact that we consort with Britain. Before now, mere consortiums haven't been grounds to bomb another country."
"What about World War Two?" Leo questioned.
"During peacetime, I mean."
"Do we have any sort of time frame to work with here?" Jed asked.
"Crawford gave us a pretty sizeable window of time. He either wouldn't divulge specifics or he doesn't know. Our guys are working on him as we speak," Fitz explained.
"What are we looking at?"
"Twenty-four hours," Nancy said. "But anything could happen up until that point."
"Okay." He sighed. "I want the Secretarys of State, Defense, and Homeland Security. I want the directors of the CIA, FBI, and CTU, and I want the Irish ambassador. And get me Lord Marbury. Now."
8:18 pm
Abbey was grateful for the ominous silence. It gave her mind a chance to catch up with her heart and somehow form a compromise. She paced the bedroom anxiously, wringing her hands and breathing heavily. An hour ago, she had been enjoying a romantic dinner with her husband. Twenty minutes ago, he was leading her to the bed, that passionate glint in his eyes. Now, she was alone in a room with only her thoughts, thoughts that involved the words "cancer," "surgery," "chemotherapy," and the most terrifying of all, "death." Somewhere in the back of my mind, she realized the improbability of the latter word, but that didn't ease her fears. If death was creeping up slowly behind her, this wasn't how she wanted to go. Not in the White House, not in the same building as the White House press corps, not on the cover of People magazine. When her time came, she wanted her husband to have the time to spend with her in her final days, rather than running off to the sit room or Air Force One. She needed him. She wanted die where she was born. She wanted to die in New England- in Manchester, if not Boston.
But she was getting ahead of herself. It was just a lump. Women get lumps all the time. As a doctor, she should know this. She should be rational. But it's not so easy to be rational when your own life is at stake.
A knock at the door jostled her out of her reverie. She cautiously approached double doors and invited the unidentified intruder inside.
"Millie."
She breathed her best friend's name in both surprise and relief. Millie, whose mood at that moment could have been described as exhasperated and cynical having been ditched by her date, closed the door behind her and skeptically observed the First Lady's expression. Abbey's eyes were wide and vulernable, her lips trembling.
"Oh my God."
Millie frowned and quickly threw her arms around her.
"What's wrong?"
They broke apart and Millie lead her to the couch, holding her hand tightly.
"Abbey."
The look of concern in Millie's eyes was Abbey's undoing. She abandoned her senses and broke down in tears. Millie pulled her into her arms and held her until her tear ducts had dried out.
"You ready to tell me what's wrong?" She asked quietly. "Is it Jed? One of the kids?"
Abbey shook her head.
"It's me."
8:29 pm
Ellie Bartlet's normally quiet apartment in Baltimore was abnormally saturated by fits of laughter and giggles. In an all too rare occurance, the three Bartlet sisters had gathered for absolutely no reason at all. They were not celebrating a birthday, holiday or anniversary, they were not attending a special gala for their father. They had congregated willingly, on their own terms, and were determined to enjoy it for as long as they could.
Occupied by the glasses of red wine in their hands and nostalgic stories to tell, Liz, Ellie, and Zoey were completely in their element. Nobody to impress, nobody to care for.
"We really have to do this more often," Liz stated.
"Maybe if we all lived a little closer together…" Ellie said.
"Zoey, why don't you move back to New Hampshire after graduation?" Liz suggested.
"What about grad school?" Zoey replied.
"Dartmouth! Or you could even do grad school in the Boston area for all I care. It's not like there aren't enough choices."
"I don't know, guys. I've got Jean-Paul to think about. And somebody has to take care of Mom and Dad." Zoey winked at her sisters.
"Don't let Frenchy rule your life, Zo," Liz said firmly.
"Jean-Paul. For the love of God, his name is Jean-Paul."
Zoey took a long swig from her wine glass.
"Well, whatever. Don't let him keep you from your family."
"Hey," Zoey complained, defensively. "I'm not that kind of girl. If I want to do something, no man is going to keep me from doing it."
"Then what's the problem?" Ellie asked.
"I don't want to leave Jean-Paul."
Liz rolled her eyes and frowned at her empty wine glass.
"Then you're out of your mind."
8:37 pm
Leo McGarry followed the President back to his office as they exchanged their respective stratagems about how to handle the situation with Ireland. They halted their conversation when they came in contact with Charlie Young and Debbie Fiderer in front of the office. Charlie and Debbie immediately stood to honor the presence of their boss.
"Guys, I'm gonna need you to hang tight for awhile. I hope neither of you had plans this evening."
They both shook their heads, regardless of whether or not they did, in actuality, have plans.
"Can I get you anything, sir?" Charlie asked.
"No. Thanks, Charlie. Debbie." Jed cocked his head to the side and gestured for Debbie to follow him a few feets away.
"Yes, sir." Debbie looked up at him expectantly.
"Do me a favor, will you."
"Anything, Mr. President."
"Call up the First Lady and find out her if she's done what I asked her to."
"In those words?"
"Yeah. When you get her answer, report back to me."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you!"
With that, he escorted Leo into the Oval Office and closed the door behind them. Charlie's eyes followed Debbie as she returned to her desk, sat down, and picked up the phone. She dialed a number that Charlie could not see and waited rather impatiently for someone to answer. Thirty seconds later, she hung up the phone, sporting a concerned expression on her face. Charlie walked over to her desk and waited to be noticed.
"Debbie."
"Huh?" She glanced up, startled.
"You look as if you've just seen a Muppet."
Now sufficiently snapped out of her daze, Debbie shrugged and stood up.
"I wish."
"Where are you going?" Charlie questioned.
"I have a dinner date with George Clooney."
Charlie scowled at her as she swept out onto the portico swiftly and was out of sight.
8:42 pm
"Damnit!"
Josh slammed the phone down onto the receiver for the twenty-first time that evening. This time, his frustration was so thunderous that it sent Donna scurrying into his office.
"What the hell…"
"I can't get Stanley on the phone!" Josh exclaimed.
"No kidding," Donna said. "I wouldn't want to talk to you either, especially if I was your shrink. He's probably out for the night. Why don't you wait and call him in the morning?"
"He's not out for the night. He's a psychiatrist, for God's sake."
"Psychiatrists have lives too, Josh."
Josh shook his head.
"Not this one."
He got up and grabbed his jacket off of the couch.
"Where are you going!" Donna demanded to know.
"To Stanley's apartment."
She called after him, but he was already gone.
8:45 pm
Millie had spent the last nearly fifteen minutes convincing Abbey that she had nothing to fear. She spouted out all the medical facts that Abbey already knew, hoping that hearing it from her would do the trick. In all truthfulness, however, Millie was almost as frightened by the potential illness as Abbey was. She just much better at concealing her trepidation.
A knock on the day saved them from delving deeper into the issue at hand. Abbey wiped her tears with the back of her hand and answered the door. Upon seeing the traumatized face of the First Lady, Debbie Fiderer was both regretful and thankful that she had come.
"Mrs. Bartlet, I'm so sorry to bother you."
Abbey smiled, sniffling.
"No, it's okay, Debbie. Come on in."
Debbie smiled gratefully and stepped inside the lavish presidential bedroom. Her smile instinctively widened the moment she spotted the Surgeon General, who stood to greet her.
"Dr. Griffith."
"Ms. Fiderer."
They congregated in a circle, Abbey still clearly shaken, Millie cautiously optimistic, and Debbie nervous as all hell.
"What can I do for you, Debbie?" Abbey asked, softly, sniffling once more.
"Ma'am…"
"Abbey," the First Lady corrected her quickly.
"Abbey," Debbie rephrased. "The President asked me to call and…"
"Oh, that was you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'm so sorry we didn't answer."
"Oh, it's no problem. I just thought I'd make sure you were all right," Debbie said.
"That's very sweet of you. But, wait. The President told you to…"
"Find out if you did what he asked you to."
Abbey nodded knowingly.
"I see. Did he…"
"Give me any remote idea as to what he was talking about?" Debbie asked. "No. He didn't tell me a thing, ma'am."
As if for approval, Abbey glanced hesitantly at Millie, who nodded.
"Well, I guess I could use all the advice I can get."
Abbey and Millie guided a bewildered Debbbie over to the couch and sat her down.
"Debbie, about an hour ago, while my husband and I were…actually, that's not important. About an hour ago, I discovered a cyst on my left breast."
Debbie's hand involuntarily rose to cover her mouth. Seeing this, Abbey paused, then continued as if she hadn't.
"My husband is insisting that I make an appointment right away to have it checked out, but I'm hesitant to do it so soon."
"Why?" Debbie questioned bluntly.
"Well, I…it's nearly nine at night and I…"
"Mrs. Bartlet, you're the First Lady. It doesn't matter what time of night it is. And wouldn't it be better to go now? You know, less press and all that?"
"We had thought of that, yes," Abbey replied.
"With all due respect, ma'am, what the hell are you waiting for?"
8:53 pm
Leo McGarry stood in front of the President's desk, speaking in almost a whisper. The President leaned in, listening intently. When Charlie Young entered the room, they both halted all conversation and gave him their full attention.
"Sir, I have CJ and Toby."
Jed nodded.
"Send 'em in."
He and Leo moved to sit in their two usual chairs beside the couches and waited for CJ Cregg and Toby Ziegler to take their seats.
"Where's Josh?" Leo questioned.
"He's running around on some kind of scavenger hunt trying to find Dr. Keyworth," CJ exlaimed.
"He'll be back soon," Toby said quickly.
"Okay. Sir?"
"Yeah. Listen, we've got a situation," Jed began. "Although this sounds like a practical joke, I assure you, it is one hundred percent real."
"Oh, God," Toby mumbled.
"The IRA, that is the Irish Republican Army, not the International Reading Association." He stole a glance at Leo. "Yes, Nancy told me about that. Anyway. The IRA, we have learned, is plotting an attack on U.S. soil within the next twenty-four hours."
"Ireland is attacking us," CJ said flatly.
"No, Ireland is not…yes, Ireland is attacking us."
"It's important to understand," Leo said. "That it's not the whole of Ireland attacking us. It's the IRA and Sinn Fein, a terrorist organization and political party respectively."
"Excuse me, but isn't Sinn Fein's primary purpose to gain full indepedence from England?" Toby inquired.
"Yes."
"Then why, may I ask, are they planning to attack the United States?"
"Beats the hell outta me," the President murmured in exhasperation.
"In their minds, if they get us, they get England," Leo explained. "We're England's most visible and powerful ally."
"That's completely nonsensical," Toby complained.
"Yes, it is. But believe you me, the IRA isn't largely unintelligent," Leo replied. "They have a reason, they have a goal, and they have a damn good plan to achieve that goal, and we're not gonna rest till we figure out what that plan is and put a stop to it."
"Am I talking to the press?" CJ asked.
Leo shook his head.
"No. Not yet. We don't know where they're planning to attack and we don't know precisely when. We don't want widespread panic, that's no good. Once we have something concrete, we'll talk."
"Okay. Anything else?"
"No," Jed said. "But be sure to stick around."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. President."
8:57 pm
Josh had the cab park a block away from Stanley Keyworth's apartment. From there, he walked, complete with backpack and everything, down the sidewalk, his eyes widening more with every step he took. In the distance, he could clearly spot an ambulance, two police cars, and three unidentified black vehicles parked directly in front of Staney's townhouse. Josh's brisk race quickly morphed into a jog, a run, and soon he was racing to the scene. He harriedly approached a group of police officers on the sidewalk in front of the building and interrupted their hushed conversation.
"Excuse me. My name is Josh Lyman, Deputy Chief of Staff to the President. What's…" He looked around. "What's going on here?"
"You know a…Dr. Stanley Keyworth?" One officer asked, looking at his narrow pad of paper.
"Yes," Josh replied quickly and, despite potential loss of dignity, continued. "He's my…he's my psychiatrist."
The officers exchanged weary glances and shook their heads sadly.
"He's dead, kid."
Josh's breath caught in his throat and he began coughing in the cold night air. The officers watched him warily.
"I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"Stanley Keyworth is dead," the officer repeated. "He's been murdered."
8:59:57 8:59:58 8:59:59 9:00:00
