W.W. – Thursday afternoon
Toby Zigler sat on the plane, a military version of the Boeing 707, and listened to the poorly insulated whine of the engines. He was at least thirty minutes out from Ramstein Airforce Base in the Federal Republic of Germany, and perhaps another hour way from the military hospital.
"Say yes," he'd said. He'd been almost speechless, an unusual situation for him. His carefully crafted speech had been totally forgotten. "Just, say yes."
Andrea Wyatt, former councilwoman and party fundraiser from Silver Springs Maryland, had looked at him with an indulgent grin.
"You have cream cheese on your lip," she'd replied, tousling his remaining hair. She'd looked so warm and fine and perfect, with her hair a messy halo on the pillows, a hundred years ago.
"That's not a yes," he'd persisted. He'd tried not to frown, because she loved it so much when he did. Her own personal basset hound.
"You actually got up and ate a bagel, then came back to propose?" She'd laughed, her breasts shaking under the sheet and one eye twinkling out from under the mass of auburn hair.
He'd shrugged.
"If you say no, I might not feel like eating later."
"And if I say yes?"
He'd grinned, a wolfish grin, the rare blinding transforming smile that always curled her toes when he smiled it at her that way.
"If you say yes, neither one of us will be eating for a while."
She had reached out and flicked a crumb of sweet cream cheese off his lip and touched it daintily to the tip of her pink tongue.
"I like the way you think, Zigler. I love the way you write, and I especially love the way you propose."
They had missed breakfast entirely.
Toby Zigler sat on the plane, a military version of the Boeing 707, and listened to the poorly insulated whine of the engines. He was at least fifteen minutes out from Ramstein Airforce Base in the Federal Republic of Germany, and perhaps another hour way from the military hospital.
"Say yes," he'd said. He'd been almost speechless, an unusual situation for him. His carefully crafted speech had been totally forgotten. "Just, say yes."
W.W.
"Donna?" Josh stumbled awake, then frowned at his surroundings. It was bright daylight, and he was sitting against the wall in the new house, surrounded by contracts and notes and files. He couldn't remember the last time he had slept so late, so soundly. It must have been Rosslyn, the drugged sleeps after surgery that kept clawing him down when he tried to wake. That memory must explain the sour taste in his mouth.
The pounding, however, was not in his head, but rather on his front door. He pulled himself together and staggered down the hall to the foyer. He opened the door to a surprise.
"Joshua, you have your mother in hysterics."
Avi Maxwell stood on his porch, hat in hand. The Chrysler 300 that was his pride and joy idled smoothly in the drive, door still ajar. His red suspenders cut across his broad shoulders like county lines on a precinct map.
"Uh, good morning?"
"Afternoon." Maxwell looked past him. "No phone, you don't have the television?"
"Power is on but no cable, I just have the keys on a handshake while the… Avi, what are you doing here?"
Maxwell put a big, snowy-haired hand on Josh's shoulder.
"It's Donna. In Israel, there was an attack." His face was stone, his eyes filled with unreadable emotion.
"An attack on what?" Josh stood, blinking in the sunlight at the old man on his porch. "I don't understand."
He shrugged off Avi's hand and reached for his phone, staring without seeing at the blank screen. "I don't… she was supposed to call. I don't understand."
Avi shrugged his shoulders and gestured towards the running car.
"Come with me. You can listen to the radio, and I'll take you wherever you need to go."
"I, yeah, thanks." Josh started to walk out, then looked back at the door in confusion. "I don't even have keys yet. They're sending contracts over today."
"Son, a wise man will walk away from his luggage many times, and maybe his home if need be. You want to be in the car."
Josh nodded, and clapped a hand on the old man's arm. "Thanks."
When the realtor arrived an hour later, the front door was open, and the office floor was covered in note cards, but there was no sign of her client. If it were not for specific instructions from her boss, she would have thrown everything out and put the for-sale sign back out. Instead, she straightened a few things, placed some paperwork in a conspicuous location, locked up, and left the key under the mat. On the way back to the office, she listened to news from around the world, none of it good.
W.W.
"They have the bomb maker." Nancy McNally looked across the table at Leo and the President.
"But not the one who gave the order," sighed the President, a cigarette forgotten in his hand. "Not the one who said, 'These settlements are starting to chap my ass, let's kill some Americans.' I swear, I'm tired of dealing with middlemen."
Leo nodded. "The problem with the middle east, Mr. President, is they're all middle men. No one steps up, no one sticks his head up high enough to be crowned or to be cut off."
"So what do we do, we let them kill Fitz, we let them kill our people, and we spank them in the UN? Then trade sanctions? Fabulous. If only they had an Olympics we could boycott it would be the trifecta."
"They have the bomb maker," Nancy repeated quietly.
The President stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. "Tell Mossad we want these guys talking, not serving as an example to others."
On the other side of the world, Israeli soldiers received word from their superiors, and life became very uncomfortable for two Palestinians and an Egyptian in a loft in the West Bank.
W.W.
As he sat by the bed of his ex-wife, holding her hand and watching her sleep, Toby looked across the hall. The other American was there, also in intensive care, also covered in bandages. A surgeon was outside, talking to a nurse about care for the woman's eye.
Making sure that Andi was sleeping, Toby carefully placed her hand back at her side, and slipped out of the room. He went to the glass partition separating the hallway from the other American's room. He saw the blonde hair, the bloody bandage. His stomach tightened.
"She's a mess." The voice was soft, tired. Familiar. Toby turned.
Donna Moss, with a bandaid over the bridge of her node and two black eyes like a raccoon, was standing there, a paper cup of coffee in her hands, wathicng the other American woman sleep.
"Donna," Toby said. He stared, unable to process what he was seeing.
"Good to see you, Toby. Andi seems to be doing okay, now they set her leg. I'm sure she's glad you're here."
"Donna?" Toby pulled her to him, almost dousing them both with coffee before she could set aside her cup. He clung to her, her sore ribs creaking from the embrace.
"Toby," she said. "Toby, air!"
He released her, all awkward distance and sniffles. Then he frowned almost comically, and jerked his eyes back to the blonde on the bed. "Donna, who is that?"
"Kate Harper. Says she's with Commerce, but she's one of Nancy McNally's, I think."
Toby nodded slowly. "You need to call home. Quickly."
"I've been calling Josh but it goes to voicemail. I imagine there are some people worried about me."
"You think? Call Leo, would you? Oh, and some one should tell Nancy about her girl here."
Donna nodded, and watched Toby go back to Andi's bedside before she walked back down to her own room to call home. She'd been pretty banged up, and was sore all over, but there wasn't anything to be concerned about. She hoped no one was worried.