Author´s note: At this point, things start to untangle, plots and ploys are starting to be revealed one bit at a time, some teasing along with it so you will not get to know everything in this chapter, but soon, very soon. I would estimate, seeing from my notes, that after this chapter we are 2 more chapters away from the end of this fic, or rather: 1 chapter and an epilogue. So I hope you´ll stay along for the rest of the ride.

Sister1256: Thank you. :-)

Clio1792: But was it a black ops team who were really on to her? Or someone else? Oh and I totally agree, her family is a mess so she will have to be tough and brave for just a little bit longer because things are not yet handled… ;)

FitzLivForever: Thanks :-)

Noro: Always nice to see you are still reading, and I know the "asap" is not something I am too good at but I hope you don´t mind too much.

Patricia: That´s so nice of you to say, thank you. :-)

Jennkyle: Thank you :-)

Armelia: I hope this is at least somewhat of an answer, thanks for reading. :-)

Kelleekellkell: That´s what I am hoping for. It´s in fact the first kind of story that I have ever written in this genre so I am always glad to see you guys like it. As for future Scandal stories, I´ll have to see where the muse strikes. :-)

Chapter 43

Spinning and spinning

Things happened quickly after that. She would never admit it to herself, but the minutes after she had

confronted her father and risked her life only to have things turn just the way she had expected and

not expected them, calling his bluff, were minutes Liv spent in a blur. Fear was nothing anyone ever liked to admit to, at least not the strong; but when the special ops rushed into the room, securing it in seconds, finding Tom Larsson and the Iraqi that had so willingly sided with him before turning against his own men unarmed already and ready to surrender, in that moment she knew that everybody had to make sacrifices. Sometimes this sacrifice was someone´s innocence. Today, it seemed, the sacrifice was somebody´s guilt:

"Don´t shoot!" she shouted. "They saved us. They saved everybody." She hated how her voice was nearly choked by the heaves of sobs that escaped her throat, not even sure if the sobs were relief or utter, desperate frustration. Her eyes met those of the tall agent that had turned twice in so few minutes. There was no doubt in her mind now who he was really working for. When someone helped her up, when she felt herself guided out of the room, she felt like spitting into Tom Larsson´s face. She felt like slapping him across the face, felt like screaming to the special ops and the terrified, shaking press people that had been part of the drama that this man was working for her father, that this man had more likely than not killed the president´s son… She felt Larsson´s gaze meet hers. Calmly, no fear in them. And it shook her even more.

But she knew there was no way. There were already medics in the room, only to confirm that the Iraqi president was dead. That piece of news would shake the world. It had the potential to spiral into a global crisis, one that might even lead to war. What this story needed to avoid this, was a hero. A hero to save the day, the American agent and the Iraqi who had saved them all, who proved beyond a doubt that this was not some American ploy against a foreign head of state. No reason for war. No ground for crisis.

She tore her gaze away from Tom Larsson because she knew she had to do this: There was press in the room and press could be swayed, convinced, bartered with. But the less ground they had for suspicion the better. Yes, Tom Larsson was the villain of this story, or one of them, but it looked like he had to be made the hero for all of them to go free. At least for now, she told herself. At least for now. One day, judgement would come. And she would be behind it.

As they left the room, she felt anxiety rise in her. The story had to be contained. It had to be contained, before any of the press people could spill anything. There were five journalists, two women and three men, different nationalities, that had witnessed what had been going on. A relatively small number, but keeping the press contained was no small thing. How would she make sure they would not spread what they had seen… how….?

And like some guardian angel with dubious morale, the decision was taken from her. "Ladies and gentlemen? Please, we need to make sure you are all safe and we will see to any injuries you might have suffered. Follow me, please." The man was clearly secret service and there were two more behind him. "We need to contact our stations." one of the press people said. She was maybe in her mid -thirties, dark blonde with a French accent to her otherwise impeccable English, and in her shock over everything that had happened she had probably not yet noticed that there was a blood stain that had sprinkled darkening red dots across her left calf.

"Of course, Ma´am." the agent assured with a curt nod. "Due to security reasons broadcasting within the building and its vicinity however has currently been suspended. None of you will have any connection on your phones."

"But…"

"You will understand that this is due to the ongoing investigations. Please, follow me so we can take your names and check you medically, then we will immediately take you to your hotels where you can contact your media outlets or you may even contact your press team to report on sight…."

Sometimes, it seemed, there were small miracles.

They were rushed into a corridor that held the airports medical unit and quickly the medics went to work. Her head felt like it was about to split, but she knew chances were slim, getting slimmer by the minute. She lingered behind, letting the press go first, then Larsson and the Iraqi and when one of the agents who had just joined them asked her if she was all right, all she said was: "I need to contact POTUS, now. And if you want to avoid this crisis from going full blown international, you will give me a phone that works."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He wasn´t quite sure what the young hacker made of it, of his determined, slightly mad grin that had started to spread across his face as he hacked away, finding little lapses in code, little trails that he followed into information highways so broad he couldn´t believe they were not hidden any better. Of course, what was obvious to Huck was untraceable to most other hackers, but this time it was particularly satisfying.

Whether or not his grim face terrified her, eventually Kimi stepped next to him, looking over his shoulder. He did not tell her to go away, a little proud, in fact, of what he was uncovering, layer by layer, bit by bit, byte by byte.

She gave a low whistle, clearly impressed. "That´s some crazy coding."

"Thanks." His fingers kept racing over the keyboard.

"I mean…it looks incredibly complicated. Whoever wrote this really wanted to cover his tracks."

He grinned wolfishly. He had been one of the ones that wrote it, he could still read his style all over the code even though Command had clearly tried to eradicate it, but it was still there and he was onto it like a blood hound to a fresh trail.

"Wanted to…" he just said curtly.

She didn´t reply to that, but he heard the small huff of annoyance that indicated she had hoped for some more information of what she was doing. He didn´t give it to her. He had had a major breakthrough minutes ago. By now Brussel´s anti terror police would have tracked her down, but she was not his only target today…

His phone rang.

"Could you get this?"

"What am I, your secretary?"

"Are you looking for a job?"

"Not as a secretary."

He cast her a glance as she tossed him the phone. "You understand any of this?"

She nodded. "Got a few ideas, yeah."

He moved away. "Keep at it. I can use someone like you. I know people that pay well. Good people."

"People like you?" but she moved to the screen, glanced at it, instantly continued. She was indeed a natural.

"Better." he said. "Much better." And he answered the phone. It was Liv.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Everybody had a price. Liv had learned that long ago. It was somewhat depressing realization about humanity, but on days like these it was the only thing that kept the show running. And it gave her a feeling that she had not had in a while: she felt in control.

One by one the journalists had been checked, patched up where necessary, and told by the secret service that they would be escorted to their hotels where they would be able to contact their news outlets. Or that they could join their news teams around the secured airport areas. One by one they had, before leaving, been led a detour and ended up in a room with her. Not a hostile room. Functional. The office of an airport official. Her behind the desk. Looking calm and in control despite the cut on her forehead. A cup of coffee on the desk. Or tea. Or soda. Whatever the person´s preference. One by one had had a conversation with Olivia Pope that would change their trajectory. Would turn a story of seeing her scream at a camera, a story of seeing secret service agents turn and alliances shift into another story:

"Today, in a terrifying and courageous twist of events, one American agent and one Iraqi soldier faced down the true villains of this terrific politic murder, saving the world from international crisis." The New York Times would title later.

"Heroes save the day." was what Le Monde chose to run with.

"American government completely innocent of Masri assassination. Evil ploy to cause world crisis thwarted by courage." A German yellow pages paper chose to take the more emotionally flippant route to report.

Everybody had a price, had a lever that could move him or her, could shift perspective.

For the French lady with the blood splattered calf it was the prospect of moving up in her paper´s ranks, because it sure did look like a sex scandal would soon dethrone the current CEO.

The Iraqi journalist agreed on settling for scholarships for his twin daughters, a school of his choosing, made even easier to decide at the prospect of moving to a much nicer place somewhere at the East coast.

The American journalist, male, 52, had a few own skeletons in his closet that took the shape of pretty young female colleagues whose existence and continuing presence at the journalist´s house whenever the wife was away he did not want to come to said wife´s attention.

The German female had long hoped for a true breaking story that would get her away from boring everyday journalism and that would ensure some wider recognition. She now had a free pick of three names that interviews would be arranged with.

And for the last journalist, all it took was some reassurance that the lurking brain tumour that he had not even told his family about would be treated instantly, by the best doctors, as soon as he touched down on British soil.

Everybody had a price. And to find it, it was always good to have a Huck. All in all, it took no more than 30 minutes, five pairs of disbelieving eyes, a few sobs and some reassuring smiles to set the thing straight.

oOoOoOoOoOoOo

The news anchor seemed beside herself, eager to be the first one to report which he wished her good luck with seeing she was hardly the only one on scene, the hall of the airport behind her teeming with cameras and microphones.

"There is not much that we know yet," she announced gravely to the camera. "but the stories that are starting to leak unanimously agree that some true heroism must have taken place behind those walls at the terrifying scene. There are, in fact, true heroes to report today, and one of them was from president Grant´s own secret service. At this point we should be extremely careful about any rumours, but this very much looks like the perpetrators of this cowardly attack came from the outside. Who, however, wanted president Masri dead? We are going to stay on live but for now let´s switch to studio where we have an expert on terrorism in the Middle East…"

He couldn´t suppress a chuckle, shaking his head in amusement at the similarly focused and grave expression of the middle-aged man whose head and shoulders now filled the screen and who started on a tale of Masri´s Iraqi enemies back at home…

Beautiful…. Just beautiful, Eli Pope thought. There were some things that never changed. Maya had tried to wreak chaos, even wage a war, but as it seemed one could always trust Olivia Pope to fix things.