Authors: Anne Callanan and
Kathleen E. Lehew
E-mail addresses: Anne - annemcal@gofree.indigo.ie
Kathleen - nitehowl@livingston.net
Summary: This is a continuation of the story arc we
began in our premiere story, 'A Frightened Peace', and which we attempted to
bring to at least a partial conclusion in 'Farther off from Heaven'. As you can
see, we were unsuccessful, hence the arc continues on its merry way here. Don't
blame us!! None of these characters would cooperate!! It's very frustrating.
Summary/Main: As the threat to his life continues,
the President has several decisions to make. The enemy remains elusive, but the
battle lines are drawn. Nothing is as it seems or as simple as politics would
wish it to be.
Spoilers: Just to be on the safe side, all of the first three seasons –
this particular story now takes place after ‘Posse Comitatus’ and during the
break between season three and four - and of course the above mentioned
stories. It is sort of necessary that you be a little familiar with both. For those who want to check out/refresh
their memories of 'A Frightened Peace' and ‘Further off from Heaven’, you can
find it on www.fanfiction.net, here at www.therealthing.8k.com, http://westwingstories.com/library/index-02.shtml,
http://www.jabbers.cjb.net/, or http://anotherunofficial0.tripod.com/,
a great new site you should seriously check out.
Characters/Pairing: Jed and Abbey to be sure. Can't
forget those two <G>. Leo and Ron insisted on being included as well.
Then there's Fitz, Nancy, Charlie, the WHOLE of the senior staff and... okay.
Everybody. Talk about people wanting screen time!!
Category: Drama and - we're baaaack! <VBEG> -
Action/Adventure. In our opinion, these people were starting to get just a
little too comfortable. They needed to be shaken up a bit.
Rating: PG - 13. Some language, - and not just Jed
this time- a few adult/political issues and a bit of graphic violence. Our
usual excuse is that nobody told us we couldn't, so we did. As long as that
excuse works, we're gonna stick with it.
Besides, this is too much fun.
Feedback: PLEASE!! - picture us begging and you'll
come pretty close <G>. Honestly, if it weren't for the great
encouragement we've received, we wouldn't have known where to go with this.
Keep it up and we may actually finish the silly thing <VBEG>. Oh, and the
threats? Those ain't half-bad either.
Again, some major kudos and thanks to Sheila for being the best beta reader a couple of fledgling West Wing writers could find. Luckily, the job hasn't slowed her down on her own latest story, so any guilt we've been feeling has happily been dispersed <G>. We now have a clear conscience. Any stubborn mistakes that remain are ours, not hers
Authors' notes: To any lawyer reading this, and
we're darn sure there are few, we make no claim of ownership for the characters
contained herein. Like many authors who have gone before, we're just borrowing
them. With all due respect to Aaron Sorkin, we promise to give them back in time
for the season four premiere.
This is getting complicated - not our fault,
blame the characters! - but keep in mind this arc began with 'A Frightened
Peace', continued with 'Farther off from Heaven' and takes off with a bang here. Revelations are made, yet more clues
are presented, and danger surrounds all. Did you honestly think we could keep
things simple? HAH!!
As always, we hope you enjoy it.
Okay, Kathleen was stupid enough to leave the dedication to me this time, so I want to dedicate this to her. <G> For being a great friend ever since we first met online through another fandom, for encouraging me to start to write and teaching me how to do it properly. And for seizing on 'A Frightened Peace' and turning it into the totally evil conspiracy fest you've been reading. Thanks for the fun, Kathleen. I was so thrilled when I learned you were a WW fan too.
Falls the
Shadow
By
Anne Callanan
and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part One
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
Thomas Stearns Eliot: 1888 - 1965
"Why am I just finding out about this?"
Seated behind his desk, Josiah
Bartlet, President of the United States, calmly raised his hand to forestall
the lame excuses he knew were coming. He'd heard it all before and he knew he
was going to hear it again. "Humor me," he said softly, leveling the
two people seated across from him with an ominously cool stare.
Leo McGarry exchanged a harassed glance with Nancy
McNally, the National Security Advisor. Not that he'd really expected it, but
he got little support from her, just a helpless shrug. Knowing the President as
he did - a forty-year friendship did have certain advantages - he'd known from
the start that this was not going to end well.
Hell, it hadn't started
well. And McGarry knew it was all going to go steadily downhill from there. He
consoled himself with the grim reminder that while this particular day of
reckoning had been a long time coming; at least it was finally here. He only
wished he had more to give the man. Supposition and vague hints backed up by
very few sure facts were all he had.
Still, what little he did have was valid enough to warrant this meeting, despite the lack
of certainty. Too much was at stake to risk otherwise. The reticence he felt,
an unaccustomed inability to voice opinion or defense to the President's
question, was borne as much from fear for his friend as it was from frustrated
duty.
Until he could get his bearings, a drawn-out moment
of speechless deferral was all McGarry could offer his Commander in Chief. He
had few answers to give, only conjecture
and more questions. Considering the haggard look in the President's eyes,
his features careworn by recent events, he didn't relish the idea of adding to
the man's burden.
Following his lead, Nancy held her tongue as well.
When it came to handling Josiah
Bartlet's sometimes mercurial moods, she'd learned when to speak and when not
to. This was not one of those moments
where a casual platitude or evasion would serve. Right now, this was McGarry's
show, and she didn't envy him at all.
In the strained, unproductive silence that followed,
a brief thought occurred to Bartlet as he watched his advisors struggle to find
an answer that would satisfy him. Politics,
the art of the possible. For the life of him, he couldn't remember where
the quote was from. A vague recollection of a Broadway musical, Abbey dragging
him kicking and screaming out the White House doors - she never had been
impressed with Presidential tantrums - was the best he could do.
Politics was
an art. He had no problem agreeing with that observation. It was the possibilities inherent in this
conversation that had sent his blood pressure and temper soaring to new,
un-dreamed of heights. A pity that possible
and politics very rarely went hand in
hand with responsibility.
McGarry cleared his throat. "Mr. President...
"
One executive brow rose with sardonic inquiry.
"Leo?" His voice dripped with angry scorn. Tired and irritable, he
wasn't in the mood for excuses.
Unfortunately, excuses were all McGarry had.
"It was an election year, Mr. President."
Nancy winced. "Good one, Leo," she
whispered to the Chief of Staff, sotto
voce. He in turn gave her a narrow eyed frown that clearly indicated he was
not at all amused.
Neither was she.
Nancy may not have known the President as long as
McGarry, but like many of the other advisors, she'd learned - more often than
not the hard way - how not to open a
statement to their somewhat prickly Chief Executive. Especially now, with
recent events weighing heavily on the man's conscience.
McGarry should have known better. He did know
better. Do not open any response to the man's questions, however open-ended,
with an evasion. The fact that he'd
obviously forgotten one of the most important rules of presidential engagement
was a clear indication that his own personal strain was beginning overrule his
common sense. It occurred to her that McGarry was riding the edge of control as
narrowly as his friend, frustration dulling his instincts. Bartlet, however,
was not holding up as well under the strain.
The President did not look well. Shadows darkened
his eyes and the lines of care and worry had deepened across his face. He
rarely smiled anymore. While Nancy
missed his relentless humor, she also understood that he gave too much of himself, accepted too many burdens and
received little in return. Too much had happened of late, with no chance to
rest or recoup his losses, both mental and physical. Those few moments of peace
he'd been allowed had been fleeting.
Nancy scowled. Now this.
"And there's the sound byte," Bartlet was
saying, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "An election year. I suppose that grants them absolution? 'Excuse us,
but we were too busy trying to keep our jobs we forgot to mention the criminal
element running amok in what's left of our government? Oh, and by the way, one
of them is trying to kill you. Sorry for the inconvenience.' Russian
pragmatism, Leo?"
"The communist, hard line incumbent is about to
get his ass kicked by a liberal wild card, the polls have him trailing and
losing momentum by the minute." McGarry retained his normal unperturbed,
affability. But there was a distinct gleam of annoyance hardening his eyes, a
sharp, and cutting edge to his words. "You,
a man whose opinion for some bizarre reason beyond my understanding carries
a tiny bit of international weight, make
no secret of the fact that a reformer in the Kremlin would please you
absolutely no end ... "
"So this is my fault?"
"Oh for God's sake!" McGarry rolled his eyes
heavenward. "Of course it's your fault! Isn't everything? Inflation,
piss-poor education standards, failing social security ... "
"A slashed defense budget," Nancy added
with a growled mutter.
"Hey!" Bartlet turned on his National
Security Advisor with a scowl. "Four decades of putting up with me cuts
him some serious slack. You're relatively new. Behave."
"My apologies, Mr. President."
"Ignore him, Nancy," McGarry told her.
"You're a target of convenience."
"That makes me feel so much better."
"Then give me an inconvenient one, Leo," Bartlet demanded in a deceptively
sweet tone. To anyone who didn't know him, he presented the image of studied
patience.
McGarry was one of the few who understood how
deceptive that benign appearance could be. The internal fires were banked for the moment, but he knew with sure certainty that those
flames were about to erupt into an all-consuming conflagration. Jed Bartlet was
not one to sustain a controlled, slow burn for long. Unfortunately, those same
fires tended to burn fiercely for short periods, devouring emotion and intent
along with the man's patience.
And the last few months had see far too many of
those fires. There wasn't much left within the man to burn and McGarry had no idea how much more the President could
take and still stand before the storm. Driven by hard necessity, he'd taken the
morally ambiguous path, chosen to damn himself rather than let the innocent
continue to suffer.
Posse
Comitatus. Bartlet
hadn't said the word, but McGarry knew in his heart that in his darkest moments the President thought it, that the perceived evil of his choice had never truly
left him. Probably never would. Regardless of what others may have thought or
tried to convince him of, he had passed silent judgment and found himself
wanting.
Murderer. Shareef was dead. It didn't matter that the President had no other alternative, that
for the greater good all the rules of civilized conduct and government were
abandoned.
Sighing, the Chief of Staff rubbed his eyes, banking
his own irritation and offering the President the only thing he could.
"The possibility existed they were about to lose the Kremlin, sir. The Red
Mafia is spending money like water, putting their
people into the Duma, struggling to maintain a very profitable status quo.
Against all odds, they lose. Money doesn't always talk. Then this? In the
middle of a hotly contested election, you don't
announce to the electorate, Russian or otherwise. 'Oops, sorry, missed that one. While we weren't looking some petty
thief... '"
"Hardly petty."
"' ... and his organization have decided a
liberal reformer in the Kremlin is not good for business.' Then you come along, after having slapped
them down once already about shitty weapons control, happily meet up with the new
man in charge, who does agree
with you, in Helsinki and actually listen to the visionary bastard ...
"
"My fault again, is it?" Bartlet made no
attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice, although a weary amusement flashed
in his eyes when he added, "And that sentence structure would earn you a
serious scolding from Toby."
"Screw Toby," McGarry muttered, leveling the
President with what he hoped was a quelling glare. "Sir, with all due
respect, shut up and listen, will you? Just this once?"
Despite herself, Nancy couldn't help but be
fascinated by the heated exchange. She'd never seen the like before - certainly
not in the Oval Office - and probably
never would again. These two men, balanced by a deep friendship and abiding
loyalty, were skirting what little remained of the protocol line and executive
etiquette like circling predators. With some trepidation, she wondered who
would snap - literally and figuratively - first.
If the situation hadn't been so grim, she might have found it a touch amusing. A
small part of her already did. As briefings go, this one was shaping up to be a
true classic.
At his Chief of Staff's outburst, the President
spread his hands in a pacifying gesture, content for the moment to let the man
continue. A sharp glance in the
National Security Advisor's direction warned her that not only was he aware of
how this exchange looked, but also promised in no uncertain terms that any
laugh, sarcastic or otherwise, by her at this point would find suitable
punishment in future.
Satisfied that at least one of his advisors was
towing the line, he turned his attention to the disappointing paperwork laid
out across his desk. Bartlet had
already read the NSA report, several times in fact, and been given Nancy's dry
take on the events and findings that had prompted this meeting. Admiral
Fitzwallace as well. Neither one of them had been able to provide any
satisfying answers. The facts, what little had been provided, were there, easy
to see. What he didn't see was where he, the
President of the United States, figured into the state of Russian politics and
criminal business practice. It didn't make any sense.
Nancy had been unable to explain it, and for all his
diligence, other matters had distracted Fitzwallace. That stalwart was doing
his level best to clean up the mess and tie up the loose ends created by a
presidentially ordered murder. It wouldn't do to have the damning trail of breadcrumbs lead straight
back to the Oval Office.
That left Leo McGarry. As it should be. Bartlet was
satisfied to let him fume, to find his own truths amongst the lies. He was good
at it, almost too good. It appalled Bartlet sometimes how such a kind, loving
man could lower himself to that level, to think
himself into the darkness that was not only international politics, but also
the world in general. It was a frightening talent, being able to lower oneself
into the pit like that.
Bartlet couldn't help but wonder how long Leo could
continue to do so and find his way out again.
Rather than let these two men continue to go at it
and risk getting sucked in herself, Nancy decided to inject a few pertinent
facts into the proceedings. She knew it wouldn't calm either of them, but it would, hopefully, bring them both back
to earth. Finger pointing wasn't going to do them all any good.
Flipping through the report on her lap and choosing
her words carefully, she began to recite what little was known, "The
Quantico labs have confirmed the type and
the source for the plastic used to bring down Marine One. Semtex was the
base."
McGarry scowled. "Semtex is a Czech specialty,
sir," he told the President. "A favorite of terrorists and arms
dealers the world over."
"If it's Czech, then where do the Russians
figure into this?" Bartlet asked irritably, never comfortable discussing any aspect of military hardware.
"Czechoslovakia hasn't been a member of the Warsaw Pact since 1989."
"Up until the late eighties, the Czechoslovak
government was in the habit of allegedly...
" McGarry almost winced at his poor choice of words, allegedly being one of the more
over-used political evasions currently in use and guaranteed to ignite the
man's temper. Watching the President for signs of imminent eruption, he
continued, "... selling large amounts of Semtex plastic explosive to a
number of nations that are known to sponsor terrorist groups, including Libya,
Iraq and North Korea."
"Allegedly," Bartlet muttered, not so much
because the word irritated him but that he knew
his repeating it would irritate Leo. "Don't we know anything for certain?
Again, just in case you're not up on recent events, Czechoslovakia hasn't been
a country since 1993. Who are we dealing with now? The Czech Republic, or
Slovakia?"
"The Czech Republic, sir," Nancy
interjected, saving McGarry from a verbal flaying. The President was in an
unpredictable mood and they both needed to present a solid front. "There
is a tough export control policy in place requiring a case-by-case examination
of any arms sales from the Czech Republic by the ministries of Foreign Affairs,
Defense, Trade and the Interior. But unfortunately, there is also a powerful
black market in the country. A good portion of their GNP comes from arms sales,
both legitimate and covert. According to the Czech Security Information
Service, it is more than possible to still illegally obtain any amount of arms,
ammunition, support equipment and any number of plastic explosives of your
choice, including Semtex. No questions asked."
"Including Russia?"
"Yes, sir. Their biggest buyer."
"Wonderful." The President tilted his head
back and stared at the ceiling. Whatever he'd expected from this meeting, it
hadn't been a rundown of the current state of international arms sales.
"And we know the Semtex is Russian how?" he asked, hoping for once
he'd get a simple answer.
"The base was Semtex, Mr. President,"
Nancy replied. "Unfortunately it's fairly common on the open market. The
stabilizer was a Russian RDX known as Cyclonite. That trace element is unique
to a government run arms factory outside Minsk. Unfortunately, that same factory
also deals in a thriving civilian trade. Weapons grade isn't their only
market."
Bartlet's answering smile bordered on a sneer and
contained very little humor. "And Russia's weapons controls are?"
That one he already knew the answer to, he just needed to hear his National
Security Advisor say it.
Nancy sighed. "Worse than the Czech, sir."
"And the nightmare continues."
"Yes, sir," Nancy agreed, slumping a
little in her chair.
"Anything for an easy buck," McGarry
snarled, disgusted at the expediency of profit without accountability.
While she agreed with him, Nancy was still irked by
his cynical tone. Straightening a bit, she turned a bit of her ire on the Chief
of Staff. "Yes, money, Leo. The
new god of the Russian Republic. Don't ask who,
don't ask why, just collect the cash
and lose the records."
Aware that the annoyance he was feeling was rapidly
spilling over into an open rage, McGarry forced his jumbled emotions into
order. He needed to think right now,
not feel. "Agreed. That line of
inquiry is a dead end. What passes for their marketing department isn't going
to let their customer lists out for open scrutiny, international or
otherwise."
Irritated by his mocking tone, Nancy tried to
disguise her own frustration and snapped at him, "And still no word on who or how said explosives were placed on Marine One's rotor
housing."
"It was an inside job."
"Tell me something I don't know. Money, Leo. Find me the money, and I'll tell you who
did it."
Ignoring them for the moment, Bartlet had his reading glasses on and was slowly leafing through
his own copy of the report. Frowning,
he blinked to bring the blurry lines into focus. Shaking his head, he realized
he must be more tired than he thought. No great revelation there. Lack of sleep
would do that to a person.
Of course, nothing had changed since the first time
he'd read it. No new disclosures leapt
from the pages. Oh, he was a bit calmer now, but not by much. There were too
many questions without answers. "Tell me about the nuclear problem."
McGarry fielded that one.
"That's about the only good news we have. So far, there's been no word on
any front indicating a loose nuke or pony bomb on the market. The Russians are
desperate, but not that desperate."
"It's only a matter of time, Leo," Nancy
interjected sourly. She'd seen too many close calls over the years to give that
problem an easy pass. "Remember what happened last year? Forcing the
Kremlin to accept UN and US inspectors has curbed the temptation for the
moment, but the vultures are still circling. Government and criminal vultures."
"Is it just me," Bartlet asked, giving
both his advisors a hooded look, "or are there far too many questions
without answers? We do have an intelligence budget, right? Where is it
going?"
Neither of his advisors could give him an answer. At
this point, the President wasn't surprised. As intelligence briefings go, this one was a true classic. Nothing
concrete, no sure bullet points and no
answers. Just questions.
"So we come full circle, right back to the
Russians." It was a statement requiring no response from his advisors. The
headache he'd woken up with this morning clicked over onto the next level. Yet
another problem to deal with.
One question, however, refused to be stilled.
"Did Chagarin know?" the President asked, looking up from his desk
and giving both McGarry and Nancy a veiled warning. He didn't want excuses, not
now. "During Helsinki, did he know about the possible threat?"
Both advisors stared at each other over a sudden,
ringing silence. That was the
question they'd both been dreading. So much good had come from that meeting.
Two men had agreed to bring the world back from the brink of nuclear
annihilation. Nothing truly concrete had been set, no words on paper to lock it
down. But it had been a bright beginning. Now this.
Unfortunately, Nancy had the answer. "Yes, sir.
He knew."
Finally said aloud, McGarry felt an odd
disappointment at her words, a sorrow that seemed to weigh him down. Not for
the world or the petty politicians left out in the cold, but for his friend. The President had so
wanted something good to come from
that meeting. Afterwards, he'd been able to believe he'd actually been able to
accomplish something, to take a stand on an issue that would affect the world
and leave a lasting mark on history.
Bartlet's mood had improved considerably after that.
Then came Shareef, followed by the senseless death of Secret Service Agent
Simon Donovan. His friend had seen too much, been witness to too many petty
scenes and had his moral certainties nibbled at by lesser souls. The knowledge
of what it had cost the President twisted in McGarry's heart. Just once, he
would have liked to see something
turn out the way it should. Just for him.
He should have known better.
"How do we know for sure Chagarin was aware of
the situation?" the President was asking, snapping McGarry out of his dark
musings. He couldn't help but note the faint thread of hope in the man's voice.
Nancy smiled thinly and shot a sidelong glance at
the Chief of Staff. McGarry hadn't liked this one bit when he'd found out. Time
wasn't going to make it go down any easier.
"We sicced Lord Marbury on the Russian ambassador."
Far from disappointing her, McGarry performed to
standards. His snort of disgust was loud, heartfelt and nearly rattled the
windows.
A reluctant smile pulled at one corner of Bartlet's
mouth and he shook his head with amused wonder at McGarry's reaction to the
British ambassador's name. Uttering it in his presence never failed to illicit
some sort of exasperated response from the Chief of Staff.
"Be fair, Leo," Bartlet consoled him.
"The man is good at his job. Besides, thanks to recent events, he was already in the loop."
"The man is a menace," McGarry responded
with a curled lip. "And considering we're trying to keep this in house,
away from the press, the gossip and
several dozen international intelligence agencies that leak like a sieve, he
shouldn't be in the loop in the first place."
"He can be trusted."
"So you
say."
"So I know."
With that, the President closed the book on any further arguments. One of these
days he was going to have to lock the two of them in a very small closet and
let them work out their issues. The entertainment value alone would be worth
the effort.
Wisely, McGarry refrained from making any further
comment.
Nancy relaxed a bit at the camaraderie displayed by
the two men. It was still far from perfect, but the strained atmosphere of
earlier had lessened considerably. She could work now. "Ambassador
Koslowski was less than circumspect in Marbury's company."
"In other words, he smiled at her like a loon
and she caved," McGarry
commented dryly.
"She caved."
Bartlet grinned. "He has that affect on
women."
"Not to mention your staff." McGarry put
the emphasis on your, disavowing any claim
or responsibility for the individuals in question. It hadn't taken long for the
British Ambassador to wrap the majority of the senior staff around his finger.
As far as he was concerned, neither the senior staff, their assistants or anyone else working in the West Wing
were going to be allowed in the same room with that man again.
For an instant, McGarry's gaze sharpened and he
measured the President with a shrewd, appraising stare. Mind you, certain other people shouldn't be allowed either, but for the moment he had
no control over that, or the inexplicable disappearing act the President had
pulled at his wife’s birthday party that had brought about the revelations to
Marbury in the first place. As much as he hated to admit it, McGarry had to
give credit where credit was due, to both the Ambassador and the senior staff. The
best and the brightest.
His scowl deepened into an accusing glare, now
giving Bartlet his full attention. Oh, they’d found him eventually. But the
damage had already been done.
The President caught the look and the meaning behind
it. "Don't go there, Leo,"
he cautioned sternly, all too aware of the lecture he was about to receive if he didn't put an end to it right
now.
He'd already caught a small part of it from his over-protective Chief of
Staff, often and usually when he least expected or wanted to hear it. He'd
caught the other part from his equally smothering senior bodyguard. Ron Butterfield may have been a man of few
words, but those few had been quite a mouthful.
Abbey had let him have it as well, although that particular set-down had been far
more entertaining, if not the reforming influence his wife had hoped it would
be. At least he was winning points on that front.
Bartlet sighed, weary of the argument. It wasn't going
to change anything and some good had come of that evening's escapades. It had
been his wife's birthday party, and he didn't
want or need to be reminded how
quickly the shadow of current events had nearly destroyed it and the precious
peace he'd managed to find.
Easily changing the subject, the President turned to
his National Security advisor and
demanded curtly, "Long story short, Nancy."
"According to Lord John... "
McGarry snorted.
"You know," Nancy made no effort to hide
her irritation at the peanut gallery comments as she confronted the scowling
Chief of Staff. "You're gonna
blow an adenoid if you keep that up."
"He's been warned," Bartlet couldn't
resist adding. "Many times."
McGarry's eyes flashed in a familiar display of
annoyance. "Happy as I am to provide the both of you with ammunition for
the ridicule neither of you seem to be able to contain, I would like to know
what Lord Fauntleroy found out."
"There's that questionable sentence structure
again," Bartlet muttered.
Eyes narrowed, McGarry somehow managed not to offer the President a few more
words of questionable merit.
"Not much," Nancy responded, shaking her
head and feeling like a referee in a sand box scuffle. "Nadia caught on
pretty quick and clammed up. Even Marbury's charms couldn't shake much loose
after the first few minutes."
"Why am I not surprised?" McGarry sneered.
"Leo," Bartlet cautioned his friend in a
low voice. "Not now."
"My apologies, sir." If asked, McGarry
couldn't say exactly what it was about Marbury that set him off, but it never
failed to do so. Schooling his features into a somewhat more receptive cast, he
asked Nancy a bit more reasonably, "So what exactly did he manage to pry
out of Nadia?"
Nancy eyed him warily. "You sure?"
"You're not helping," McGarry accused her
with a besieged glower. A quick glance at Bartlet only confirmed the
observation. He had taken his reading glasses off and was absently twisting
them in one hand. The other hand was tapping out a staccato rhythm on the arm
of his chair.
Whatever release the humor had allowed was fading
rapidly. The internal fires were getting hotter, burning higher. McGarry gave
his companion advisor a subtle warning, tilting his chin towards Bartlet.
Nancy caught the warning, giving the President an
appraising glance of her own. The man wasn't going to like this. "Chagarin
knew, of that much we're now
certain. But he was caught between a
questionable reactor sale to Iraq, his own Duma, and the need to open an honest
dialog with you. With most of his advisors already in the Mafia pockets, who
does he trust to send the message?"
"Another excuse?" Bartlet growled,
suppressing the majority of his anger under the mask of executive indifference.
"He managed to get the nuclear sound byte through. Why not this?"
McGarry already knew the answer to that one.
"Because if he did, he had no guarantee you'd even show up at Helsinki. He
couldn't risk that."
"I would have shown."
"He didn't know that," McGarry pointed out
as reasonably as he could. "A Russian national tried to kill you, came
damn close to succeeding. Would you have believed him if he had told you that
neither he nor his government were involved? Another president wouldn't
have."
"I might have. But thanks to stubborn Russian
reticence, we may never know." Rubbing eyes burned dry from lack of sleep,
Bartlet tried to recall the last time he'd beat the four-hour mark and managed
to make it through the night. The fact that he couldn't remember was enough of
a clue that it had been far too long.
Blinking away some of the grit and forcing fatigued
optic muscles to focus on his Chief of Staff; he realized tiredly that only one
question remained to be asked. "Why me?" Bartlet had a nasty
suspicion he wasn't going to like the answer.
McGarry looked at Nancy and nodded, passing her the
ball. This answer belonged to her. He already had a glimmering of the final
result, but she'd been the one to put the first pieces of the puzzle together.
Even if she did
have to ask Marbury for help. That just added insult to injury.
Nancy paused for a moment and weighed the question.
There was no easy answer and she wasn't a politician. She didn't play the game,
couldn't dance with the diplomats with any degree of skill or balance. She was
far too blunt. But she was good at putting the pieces together after the fact,
creating a coherent picture from seemingly unrelated people and events.
This picture was an ugly one. "Chagarin needs
you, sir."
Bartlet was honestly confused. "Me?"
"He wants to tear his government apart, rebuild
it from the foundations up. With half the Russian governing body in some
criminal's pocket, the military selling itself and its weapons to the highest bidder, and a raging
criminal element wanting to keep it that way, he can't do that without support. Your support. Helsinki was only the beginning. Without you in his
corner, he can't do it, Mr. President."
"Mr.
President." Bartlet laughed mirthlessly. "He may not have me in a
year."
That was a possibility McGarry didn't even want to
consider. Something had happened that night at the theater. He knew the
President had met with Governor Ritchie, and that more than a few hot words had
been passed. Exactly what, his friend had yet to tell him. The President had
come away from that meeting more grimly determined, but with a much darker,
almost Machiavellian outlook on the future.
McGarry wasn't sure that added darkness was a plus.
"He doesn't need a year, sir. Whatever support you give him now is enough.
If," he put a heavy emphasis on
the all-important if, "you lose
next year, whatever President-elect who's sucker enough to take the oath of
office ... "
Bartlet shot his friend a dubious look, unable to
stifle a self-mocking smile, "Thank you for that, Leo. This job was your idea."
Nancy shook her head, chuckling softly.
McGarry ignored them both
and continued, "Whoever takes that oath is going to have no choice but to
follow through with what you've begun. International, public and moral pressure
will force him to."
"Even Ritchie," Bartlet muttered sourly.
It was true. He could see that now. Chagarin was in a corner and taking the
only way out he could. In a way, they both were. That sudden insight gave him
little comfort.
"Even Ritchie," McGarry agreed, wondering
at the hidden meaning behind the President's low-voiced comment. Why him? Ritchie was no more a shoo-in
than his opponent was. "Chagarin needs the support of an American
President to reshape his world. He has you; the one man luck or blind fate has
given him to at least have a slim chance of succeeding. Your support. He
couldn't risk losing it."
"They kill you," Nancy added softly,
watching for the executive reaction, "and it ends before it has even
begun. The criminal element wins and they get to keep their profit margins. If they can get at you, nobody is
safe."
"Nobody laid claim to Marine One," Bartlet
pointed out, not quiet ready to buy into his advisors’ somewhat elaborate
speculation.
"You didn't die," McGarry replied sharply,
unsure of whether the surge of anger he felt was directed at the still faceless
assassins or the apparent indifference of their target. "Why brag at a
failure? This isn't a terrorist act. This is strictly for profit. They don't
want your fear, they want your death."
The President's reaction wasn't quite what McGarry
had expected.
"Business as usual," the President
muttered, slipping his glasses into his coat pocket and closing the file on the
desk in front of him. It was a
signal he was about to call the meeting closed. "A hope for future gain,
regardless of cost, is no excuse. People died," he said wearily, still struggling to come to
terms with the revelations.
"It's their excuse," McGarry pointed out,
not quite as ready as his Commander in Chief to call the issue closed.
"It's a poor one."
"It's the only one he has, Mr. President,"
Nancy told him, willing him to understand. "Can you blame him? Hard
line communists, criminals and a government unraveling at the seams. He's
riding a thin line. You listened to him, and now we're stuck with it."
"I'm
stuck with it." Bartlet rose from his chair, the final signal that the
meeting was indeed over. For now. "I want names. I realize keeping this
in-house puts you all under considerable constraint, but it can't be
helped."
McGarry and Nancy respectfully stood as well,
exchanging troubled glances.
Rubbing his eyes, Bartlet hoped his voice didn't
sound as hollow to his advisors as it did in his own ears. Truthfully, he felt
as hollow and listless as his voice sounded. "Use whatever avenues of
inquiry that you feel safe exploring." He gave McGarry a hard look,
warning him, "And I do mean any
avenue."
McGarry took the rebuke on the chin and didn't
bother arguing with him. There would have been no point. He may not like it,
but Marbury would remain in the
loop. "Sir... "
Waving him off with a curt gesture and making his
way towards the doors leading to the portico, Bartlet gave both his advisors an
ultimatum. "Names, Leo. It's an odd conceit, but I find that when I'm
someone's target, one they would like
to see six feet under, I find that they
as a naming qualifier is somewhat... unsatisfactory."
"In the meanwhile, sir?" Nancy asked,
giving Leo a questioning look. This wasn't ending the way she had envisioned. Unsatisfactory didn't even begin to
cover it.
Opening the glass doors, Bartlet paused and turned.
Giving her a curiously sad smile, he said, "In the meanwhile, I get to
tell my wife. That should be fun, don't you think?"
McGarry winced. "Sir, I don't think... "
"Tell the staff, Leo," Bartlet
interrupted, ignoring his friend's attempt to caution him about the wisdom of
telling Abbey the whole truth. He wasn't about to listen. As ugly as this truth
was, he was done keeping things from her.
God knows she'd more than earned his candor. Telling
her would be suitable punishment for whatever transgressions he had left. He'd forgotten exactly where he was on the
list. "Charlie!" The President's bellow was directed towards the
closed office door where he knew his body-man was hovering just outside.
Lately, all any
of his staff seemed to be doing was hover. It was starting to get on his
already frayed nerves.
The door opened and, hands shoved into his pockets, Charles Young reluctantly stepped into view. Pausing just inside the entrance, he spared a quick glance for McGarry and Nancy, and then turned his attention to the President. "Sir?"
"Cancel any meetings I may have left for the
day, Charlie."
"Yes, sir."
"Tomorrow morning, Leo. Eight A.M. I want the
senior staff here, prepared and ready to listen." Bartlet turned back to
his aide and one corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smile. For such a
good poker player, the young man's guilt was clearly evident. "You too,
Charlie. Just reward for... eavesdropping?"
The flustered aide wasn't given a chance to stammer
out an apology or excuse. With that enigmatic statement, the President turned
on his heel and strode with stiff dignity out the doors. Once outside, an agent
quietly pulled the doors closed
behind him and two others stepped forward
to follow discretely behind as he made his way towards the Residence.
Yet another moved up alongside, keeping himself
between the President and the portico's outer railings. Butterfield's security measures had hit an
all-time high since the party. Bartlet
felt he could barely turn around now without barking an elbow on a solidly
built agent. He was only surprised his
staff hadn't come right out and asked what was going on.
Through the French windows, Young watched him pass
down the portico and out of sight. Confused, and more than a little troubled,
he turned to the Chief of Staff and tentatively asked, "Leo?"
"Clear his schedule as much as you can for the
next few days."
"Already done," Young responded
confidently, a look of implacable determination on his face. Running pass
interference for the President was his job, and he was damned good at it. As
keeper of the schedule, he had to be. "Should I be there?" he asked,
somewhat more cautiously. Senior staff meetings weren't part of his job description.
Catching some of his reticence, understanding its
source, McGarry told him, "He said to be there, Charlie."
"But..."
"I happen to agree. Thirty minutes, my office.
Be there."
Though Young didn't answer, his face spoke for him.
He may not have been staff or an advisor, but he still cared. Deceptively
composed, there was still a hint of gratitude in his expression when he nodded
curtly to both McGarry and Nancy, then left without a word.
Watching him leave, Nancy let out her breath and stopped herself just short of swearing. "That whole thing didn't go well."
McGarry's brows rose and with ill-concealed sarcasm
said, "You think?"
"Did that help?"
"No."
"Didn't think so," Nancy sighed.
Considering the source of the order, the next question was rhetorical. But
knowing McGarry as she did, she had to ask,
"You really gonna tell the
staff? Everything?"
"I've been ordered
to." McGarry's voice clearly indicated he wasn't happy about it. On the
one hand, they deserved to know, even Charlie. On the other, he knew what was
going to happen when they found out. Given recent events, even deaths, there
was a lot of repressed aggression floating around the West Wing.
Oh, Leo McGarry knew all too well what their
reactions were going to be.
So did Nancy. "I'll duck the shrapnel. You
might want to find a nice, out-of-the-way soundproofed room."
"Like that's going to help," McGarry
muttered darkly.
~ooOoo~
Abbey was nearly overwhelmed by the bleak suffering
on his face, the careworn exhaustion that had turned familiar laugh lines into
worried furrows. She studied his profile as he paced in front of her, shrugging
out of his jacket and quartering their bedroom like a condemned inmate awaiting
execution as he spoke. Even his voice seemed lost. She no longer really heard
the words, her alarm growing at what her eyes were telling her.
Initially, she'd been so caught up in her own
emotional turmoil as she listened to him speak that she hadn't seen the signs,
what he was doing to himself. Maybe she hadn't wanted to see it. It had been
too easy to lose herself in the anger, to see only the possibilities of what
might have happened and the politically expedient lies that had left them
vulnerable to so much more.
Somebody, a
criminal, had tried to kill her husband. For whatever spurious, bureaucratic or profit
motivated reason, they wanted him dead.
If she had understood Jed correctly, they probably still did. That frightened
her, terrified her more than it had the first time she'd been party to the
information. That night, when she'd found out in the pressroom corridor, Abbey
had never thought to be so primitively afraid ever again. She'd been wrong.
Even that moment could not compare to what she was now feeling.
Another fear had been added to the rest, supplanting
the new and replacing it with one far older and sickeningly familiar. That it
was borne of love did little to relieve the ache in her heart. Watching him
pace, vaguely hearing his tiredly issued words, Abbey realized that they,
whoever they eventually turned out to
be, didn't need to try and kill the man she loved.
He was doing it all by himself.
The harder she tried to deny the truth, the more it
persisted. He had lost weight, a health issue whose merits Abbey had long
argued to no avail; he never listened. Well, she had finally won that marital dispute, but not in the way
she had envisioned or hoped for. He wasn't sleeping either. His appearance,
tired and haggard, was testament to that. From the tense line of his shoulders,
a slight hitch in his stride, she could see that his back was acting up as well.
Abbey couldn't stop the clinical analysis of what
else might be acting up if he didn't
slow down, if he didn't stop doing this to himself.
Closing her eyes, she turned her back to him,
deafening herself to the steady drone of his voice and fighting her own
internal battle with personal restraint. Abbey wanted to scream at him, to
shout down his stubborn persistence. One simple word. Stop.
But she couldn't. Listening to the advice of others
and the voice of her own conscience, she'd given him her permission to carry
on, to travel his chosen path with her devotion and support. She loved him and
could do no less.
That same love allowed for a great many things, but
not this. If he wouldn't relent, then neither would she.
"Abbey?"
Her husband, saying her name so closely behind her,
sent a ripple of awareness through her. For a moment, Abbey couldn't place the
odd tremor she detected in the usually rich and confident timbre of his voice.
When she finally placed it, she almost laughed, although the humor was bitter. Caution. Jed wasn't sure how she was
going to respond to this news. He was waiting for the fireworks.
In a heartbreaking way, she couldn't blame him. His wary reaction was her own fault; she had taught him that lesson. In three decades of marriage she'd managed to give him more pyrotechnics in the last three years than she had over the preceding thirty-one. Given her recent track record, how did she expect him to behave?
It all added up to just one more thing he had to
worry about, one more burden he didn't need.
Not this time.
Abbey shook
her head and swore softly, "Damn it, Jed."
She heard him stop pacing, exactly what she'd
intended. With her back to him, she knew he couldn't see the grim satisfaction
that flashed in her eyes and tightened the line of her mouth. Good! Intentionally or not, over the
last year Jed had become very good at pushing her buttons. At this point, Abbey
wasn't above pushing a few of his for
once.
All in a good cause, of course.
"Damned is relative, Abbey." Bartlet heard
the cynicism spill over into his voice. He couldn't help it. Lately, he'd found
himself simply waiting for the inevitable and right now was strangely
disappointed his wife wasn't performing in the way he'd anticipated.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shrugged and
said, "I was expecting..."
Abbey didn't let him finish.
In one motion, she turned and flung herself at him,
felt him pull his hands from his pockets and stagger a bit at the unexpected
impact. Unexpected. That was good.
She wanted him off balance. Abbey sensed his confusion as she wrapped her arms
around him and held him close, his response hesitant as he returned her
embrace.
The touch of his hand on her back was tentative, almost unbearable in its uncertain exploration. Abbey didn't have to glance at his face to see the look of overworked depression that passed over his features. She knew he was taking what he felt he could get, what little solace a brief moment of peace could give him. And somewhere, somehow, he had convinced himself he didn't