Falls the Shadow

By

Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part Two

All eyes turned to follow the tall form of Ron Butterfield, Senior Agent in Charge of White House Security and Head of the President's personal detail, as he stalked his way towards the front of the briefing room. None of the agents assembled for the morning orientation said a word. A grim silence descended with only the shuffling of papers and files, the occasional clearing of a throat to breaking the tense atmosphere.

They were all professionals; they didn't need to be told the gravity of what was going to be said today. The previous briefings and current events were still fresh in their minds. This was their job; they lived it every day. Unknown shadows and threats changed nothing. They weren't looking for excuses or the direction the next attack may come from - just solutions. When the attack came, and they all knew it would, they would be ready.

With long, purposeful strides, Butterfield reached the desk. Wordlessly, he turned and leaned back against the edge. Letting his gaze move across the gathered faces, he gave them the moment to collect their thoughts, settle their emotions.

The frustrated anger hovering in the atmosphere was almost palpable.

Butterfield scowled. He understood their rage, the frustration borne of an inability to strike back, to give a name to the shadows haunting them. He shared it, although he knew, as they did, that it was a useless emotional road to take. No amount of fury was going to do any good unless it was focused.

Time to motivate them just a bit more. "The situation is totally unacceptable," he told them in a level, carefully controlled voice.

Nobody disagreed with him. Faces already clouded with uncertainty hardened, welcoming the challenge he offered. The situation they found themselves in, practically under siege, was unprecedented in the long history of the Secret Service. Nobody doubted his or her abilities. The lack of information was the only stumbling block to resolution.

The time for reacting was over.

Sensing their renewed determination, Butterfield nodded, more than satisfied. The NTSB report had shocked them all to the core. How do you fight or protect from what you couldn't even see, let alone comprehend? The deliberate downing of Marine One, followed so soon after by the senseless death of yet another one of their own, had shaken their confidence. They were good people, professionals knocked off their stride by the unknown.

Butterfield's lips tightened. Giving the unknown just a partial recognition had gone a long way towards giving his people some of that lost confidence back. Taking it one step further, he asked curtly, "Carlyle, you have a report?"

Sliding out from behind his chair, Dale Carlyle stood. "Yes, sir. I ran a probability analysis on all White House perimeter breaches going back two years. There is a pattern."

The attention level in the room went up a notch, with all eyes and expectations turning to Carlyle. A slight, grim curve at one corner of his mouth was the only indication of his satisfaction. Catching Butterfield's nod of consent, he continued, "There was nothing out of the ordinary till about seven months ago..."

"Even the break-in regarding the President's daughter?" a single voice from the back interrupted. "She was armed."

"But unbalanced," Butterfield corrected the speaker before Carlyle could. It was a good question, but one of the few they had a concrete answer to. "Continue, Dale."

"Sir." Carlyle flipped through his pages. Finding what he was looking for, he said, "It's not much, but the number of intruders detected on the grounds have nearly doubled in the last few months. What's curious is that the number of detainees has not followed that same curve."

"We're being tested," Butterfield concluded. He waited for someone to try and contradict him.

Nobody did.

"Yes, sir." Carlyle nodded. "That was my conclusion as well."

"It's a good one. The stories of the intruders caught have all checked out?"

"To the line. The usual collection of the mentally questionable, the politically motivated and ill-advised college pranks."

A few chuckles greeted the last point ticked off. Pledge week was usually a time of stepped-up security and more than a touch of forbidding amusement. There was nothing quite like scaring the living tar out of a drunken fraternity or sorority pledge caught doing what they would never have contemplated sober.

More than a few heated discussions had erupted over exactly who was going to have the pleasure of calling the kid's parents.

Butterfield let them laugh, then waved them silent and asked, "Nothing at all conclusive on the getaways?"

Carlyle shook his head. "No, sir. Just that statistically there are far too many."

"And too good," someone added. "They're in and out before we can catch them."

"Way too good," another voice muttered.

Where there had been laughter a moment before, only unhappy grumbling existed now. The Secret Service rightly prided itself on its collective skills. They were good and knew it. Someone thumbing their noses at those skills grated, and all they could do at this point was stand around and take it.

"That's enough!" Butterfield snapped, ending the sour mutterings. At this point, it wasn't what he wanted to hear. "What's the status on employee background checks?"

Caro Lindstrom stood. "Slow going, sir," she answered, not exactly keen about passing on what little she and her team had garnered. "There are fourteen-hundred civilian employees in the White House. And keeping this in-house isn't making it any easier."

"No excuses."

Caro's eyes narrowed. "I'm not making any. We'll get it done."

Butterfield sighed, rubbing his eyes and giving the young woman, and himself, a moment to settle. It was as close as he'd come to an apology. "Nothing has twigged yet?"

"No, sir. So far, no unusual financial activity or suspicious after hours movements. Nothing. We're almost down to the cleaning staff and nobody has raised any flags."

"Not what I wanted to hear."

"Me neither," Caro muttered, dropping back into her seat and scowling at nobody in particular.

Beginning to wonder why he'd even bothered showing up for this meeting, Butterfield clenched his teeth on the oath he wanted to utter. The whole siege mentality that had set in over his people and the West Wing in general was beginning to affect even him. Weighing the whole structure of events, the dire conclusion was that the still-invisible enemy had intended just that.

Mind games, and they were losing.

"In other words," he snarled, not quite able to keep the fury from his voice, "we're right back where we started."

Nobody had the courage to answer him.

"You’re making me repeat myself. Not what I wanted to hear, people." Banking his irritation, Butterfield told them tightly, "I want any line of inquiry followed, no matter how ridiculous."

"The Russian connection, sir?" someone from the back asked.

"Is being looked into," was all Butterfield would admit to. He wasn't as put out at having Lord John Marbury in the loop as the Chief of Staff was, strongly suspecting that the eccentric British ambassador was one of the few aces they had, but he still didn't like it. "If anything concrete is confirmed, we'll be told."

"What about Columbian?" Caro asked cautiously. "As criminals go, the local drug lords are no happier with the President than the Red Mafia."

Butterfield hesitated for a moment, measuring her and the question before asking, "You have something, Caro?"

"Maybe. The rumors have been flying about a certain... connection between the Old World and the New. Weapons, sir," she clarified at Butterfield's questioning look. "The drug lords want to buy, the Russians, legit or otherwise, want to sell. And the conventional type isn't the only toy on the bargaining table."

"The President's stand on international controls hasn't made him very popular with the arms dealers," Carlyle added. "Conventional or otherwise, these people are not happy having their bank accounts cut into. You can't run drugs without guns."

Scowling at the word conventional and the massive can of worms that opened, Butterfield nodded at Caro and inquired coolly, "You still have connections at the FBI?"

Caro grinned. "The prodigal daughter still has some friends. A few at ATF as well."

"Keep it low-key, but see what you can find out."

"Understood, sir."

Emil Torres, Head of Detail for the First Lady, entered the room. Late, he positioned himself against the back wall and offered an apologetic shrug of his shoulders to Butterfield. His boss merely nodded in return, by silent inference acknowledging the fact that of all the agents present, Torres' particular job was the least predictable. Glancing over the shoulder of one of the juniors, quickly scanning the man's meeting notes, Torres brought himself up to speed.

Scowling, Torres realized that he hadn't missed much and not all that much had changed. Speculation piled on riddles with the life of the President caught smack in the middle. It wasn't good, and from his own perspective, even worse. He had to deal with the First Lady, and that indomitable woman wasn't about to be left in the dark over this.

Honestly, he couldn't really blame her, and more than once he had bent a few rules to keep her in the loop. Quite frankly, and he knew it bordered on the ridiculous, he had come to regard Abigail Bartlet as just one more aspect of the President's personal firewall.

Clearing his throat, Torres caught Butterfield's attention. "The perimeter breaches, sir?" he asked, all too aware he was about to add just one more piece to the already chaotic puzzle.

Butterfield scowled. They'd already covered that point. "You have something to add?"

"Not really. I agree someone's been testing us, looking for holes."

"And?"

"There may be another point, sir." Eyes narrowing speculatively, Torres watched Butterfield's expression darken, confirming his suspicions. His boss had been thinking the same thing. The verification of his guess didn't give him any sense of achievement. "Whoever they are, they're trying to get in. That much we know. They may be trying to get him out as well."

Butterfield let out a long breath, nodding. Torres had hit on the one other point he'd wanted to bring up. "Elk Horn," he growled.

Quickly assimilating the new theory, more than a few eyes widened at that.

"Yes, sir." Torres frowned, a muscle twitching angrily in his clenched jaw as he thought about the near catastrophic accident that had occurred only a few months before. "We were this close to putting the President on Marine One, removing him from the security of the White House. If he hadn't been so adamant about not going..."

"Can you blame him?" Caro demanded a bit hotly. Like Torres, she was former FBI and more than a little inter-departmental rivalry existed between the two of them. "After what happened? He hasn't used Marine One since the accident, would you?"

Butterfield let his expression set into a mask of stone, revealing nothing and allowing his people to continue with their only halfway correct inferences. An accident of that magnitude would give anyone second thoughts about the dubious safety of air transport. He and Leo McGarry were the only ones who knew that the President's latent claustrophobia added a whole new wrinkle to the human equation.

"Especially after what happened," Torres was saying, a frustrated edge to his voice. He hadn't liked the idea when it had first occurred to him and he liked it even less now. "They brought down Marine One once already. Why not go with an already working scenario and try again? We still don't have any leads as to the inside man who planted the explosives to begin with. The possibility of a repeat is still there."

Butterfield crossed his arms and settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the desk. The debate was getting heated, perhaps more so than he would normally allow. But the speculation and argument allowed them to vent their frustrations and give voice to a few legitimate questions.

For the moment, he was content to let them continue.

"You mean they..." there was a distinct sneer in the speaker's voice, obviously not pleased with the only naming qualifier circumstances allowed, "...orchestrated a nuclear accident in order to get the President out of the White House?"

"Maybe," Torres shrugged. "It's worth thinking about."

"We've covered the bases on that one," Butterfield pointed out, playing devil's advocate. "The heavy haul was stolen; the explosion in the Goldfield tunnel was an accident."

"If we're certain of one thing, sir, it's that we're not the only ones covering all the bases. Like I said, it's worth thinking about."

"I have, Emil," Butterfield acknowledged softly, a dangerous hint of warning in his voice.

Torres nearly flinched at that, but managed to hold his ground. "Yes, sir."

"It's a stretch." Caro was thinking about it as well, and she didn't like it. "If that, then why not make an attempt at the play? ‘Wars of the Roses’ would have been a perfect venue. Or any of his other speaking engagements? There's been more than a few, and all of them open for an attempt. Why not?"

Battlefield smiled grimly at that question. "With the President's own personal security tripled, not to mention extremely on edge? And Governor Ritchie's to boot? I don't think they're that stupid. Success is the game, not a spectacular failure."

"They may have tried," Caro insisted stubbornly, not willing to yield to either Torres or her boss.

Watching the faces of his people, Butterfield could clearly see what they were thinking. The name wasn't said aloud, but it was on everyone's mind. Simon Donovan; one of their own, dead from multiple gunshot wounds trying to stop a petty robbery. Everybody had liked him and his loss was deeply felt. It would have been nice to be able to give that death some meaning.

Unfortunately, he couldn't give them that. "No, this much we're sure of. Simon's death was... a mistake." He couldn't think of any other word. Donovan's fall had hit him nearly as hard as it had C.J. Cregg, but not even for her or his people could he change the sour facts. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They," his lip curled beneath his mustache, no happier with the qualifier than anyone else, "had nothing to do with it."

Carlyle nodded his agreement. "Whatever game is being played, it's a lot deeper than using a dime store robbery as a cover."

"Or a stalker," Caro added, eliminating that point before it could be brought up. They had Mr. Vera Wang in custody. A twisted, sick mind; fitting the textbook psychological profile for an inadequate personality perfectly, but nothing more than that.

Butterfield inclined his head in agreement; grateful that his people were starting to focus again, no longer wildly grasping at straws. "Yes, our stalker has nothing to do with this. His interest wasn't in the President." Determined to steer his operatives' attention back to the familiar patterns of their job, he continued, "There will be another meeting this evening, for the purposes of risk-assessment and scenario projection. All available agents to attend. Eagle’s personal security remains at optimum alert, and his personal escort doubled, even in-house. Anything new to report there?"

"He's not very happy about it. Oh sorry, anything new? No." Carlyle's lugubrious tones sent a ripple of amusement through his colleagues. The stories about the President's initial reaction to the increasing of his detail even before the NTSB report had begun to cast its shadow were already bordering on the stuff of legend. Although coming to accept its necessity as the ugly truth continued to unfold, his silent exasperation with the almost total lack of personal space he had experienced ever since was quite obvious to his bodyguards. They secretly sympathized with the man - he hadn't had a private moment in weeks - but there was no way they were letting him out of their sight in these circumstances.

"Uh..." Knowing the man's feelings, and remembering how he had occasionally rebelled against such restriction in the past, Caro had just had a nasty thought. "Any danger of him ditching his detail again, like he did at the First Lady's birthday party?"

Just about everyone present winced, and more than a few hot glances were flung in her direction. Their collective performance on that night - and more than a few would have willingly sacrificed a week's pay to know how it had happened - was not something they wanted their boss to be reminded of.

Glowering briefly, just to let them know he hadn't forgotten, Butterfield vetoed that concern. "He won't do that." His eyes narrowed for a moment. "We had words. Besides…" He smiled almost wolfishly, causing several of his subordinates to grin in response as they imagined the scene, "... with the increased security, he knows that his chances of ditching us undetected are pretty small right now. And he's not prepared to let us know the secret behind that vanishing trick just yet. He knows that once we know, we've pretty much got him where we want him."

The grins became general at that. Butterfield deliberately gave his people their moment of light-heartedness before reminding them of the sober reality behind their gathering. "Also, he's fully aware of the gravity of the situation. The President is a responsible man and a family man. He won't take stupid risks. And he wants answers, people. Answers we should be able to provide."

Nobody needed to point out that a meeting was going to take place in the Oval that very morning. More information might be forthcoming, but would it be of any more use than what little they already had? More than one of the agents present cast their eyes down, unable to meet the searching gaze of their Chief.

Yet another sign Butterfield didn't like. "Eyes up and listen to me, people!" he snapped. When he was certain he had their attention, he tempered his voice just a little, but there was still a demanding edge to it. "We do our jobs. We don't need to know who, we don't need to know why or what..."

Caro Lindstrom laughed shortly, shaking her head.

Butterfield actually smiled. "Your FBI is showing, Caro."

Swallowing another laugh, she replied evenly, "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."

Torres snorted, earning a dark look from his former FBI compatriot.

"No. That's good. As long as it doesn't get in the way of your primary job." Butterfield held Caro's gaze, then one by one made slow eye contact with everyone in the room. His next words were clipped and to the point. "The President's life is our job. Let them come. We stop them. Understood?"

A chorus of determined agreement greeted that challenge.

Butterfield nodded. For now, it would have to do.

~ooOoo~

Bartlet led the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs towards the Oval Office at a brisk pace. "I don't care whether it's feasible or not, Fitz," he snapped over his shoulder. "The Intelligence budget has to be good for something. I want detailed information on any possible suspects in the Marine One investigation, as well as the likely players in the field of black market weapons and nuclear armament sales. And I want it yesterday."

Admiral Percy Fitzwallace found himself struggling to keep up with the shorter man. Not for the first time, he wondered how a President who had never served a day in uniform could still march at a pace that left professional combatants in despair. At least when he'd been obliged to carry a cane for a few days after the accident… "Sir, I agree with you. We need the information. But our Russian advisors would like to remind you that the troublesome state of that country's governmental, military and law enforcement bureaucracies…"

"I don't care, Fitz. I've heard it all before." Bartlet blew through reception, raising more than a few curious eyebrows, and opened the door to the Oval Office.

Charlie Young rose hastily from behind his desk and followed them inside. He still didn't understand why, but the President wanted him in on this meeting, maybe for moral support. He wasn't quite comfortable with that. Still, it wasn't his place to question an executive order.

"I refuse to believe that the Russian Mafia, or lone criminal masterminds for that matter, are capable of better intelligence gathering than the US military, sit down everybody," he growled irritably to his already assembled senior staff. "I'll start our meeting in a minute, wherein I have no doubt the Russian situation will arise."

McGarry moved to join Fitzwallace in the center of the office, while the staff resumed their seats on the sofas to each side. "Is this about the latest intelligence reports on our most likely suspects?" He directed the question towards the President, who had halted his own progress behind his desk.

Dropping a folder onto his blotter, Bartlet remarked acidly, "You could say that. But to me, an intelligence report implies the actual imparting of information. Not taking three pages of verbiage to say 'Sorry, we don't know where this guy is, who he is or what he may be up to.'" He snorted. "In fact, they still can't conclusively link him, if there is a him, or anyone else to the Marine One incident."

McGarry spared a brief glance for his unusually silent and tense colleagues. The incident had been consuming a generous proportion of their attention ever since that nightmare had first been revealed, to say nothing of the truly horrific future possibilities he had spelled out for them only last night. He turned back to the President's military advisor. "You mean to say there's still nothing?"

Fitzwallace shrugged, uncomfortably aware that he was being put on the spot and in direct line of fire of the President's ire. It couldn't be helped. "I wouldn't go quite that far, Leo. It's true that we have no concrete information on who our suspect may be, but we do have reason to believe that he is in this country, and that he is running active lines of communication with the Russian Mafia both here and back home. To what purpose, we can make an educated guess. And we don't like the answers, especially in view of the President's ultimatum to the Russian government about the inspection teams and their lousy safeguards on nuclear sites and disposal facilities."

"Nobody likes having their profits cut into," McGarry growled. "How certain are we that this is being handled locally?"

Fitzwallace sighed heavily. "Not very. The only thing we are sure of is that whatever money has been spent hasn't come from the standard overseas accounts. There has been no unusual activity on any of the accounts, and taking out the President of the United States would cost. Someone's being paid, but for whatever it's worth..."

"Which ain't much."

"... the paymaster is here," Fitzwallace finished, ignoring McGarry's snide commentary. He was getting used to it.

This particular revelation did very little to improve the President's already foul mood.

"Apparently it's official. The Russian Mafia have now added me to that long list of people they would like to see permanently retired from public life," Bartlet commented dryly, settling wearily into the chair behind his desk. Rubbing his eyes, which for some reason even a partial night's sleep hadn't induced to cooperate, he glanced up at the blurred faces staring at him expectantly.

Expecting what? He didn't have the answers any more than his advisor's did, and wasn't any happier with the gaping holes left over. Blinking, he noted curiously that Toby and Leo, usually presenting a united, centered front at meetings like this, had placed themselves on opposite sides of his desk. Any other time and Bartlet would have thought it a flanking maneuver, but with both men studiously avoiding direct eye contact with each other - and failing miserably at the attempt to not look like they were doing so - the conclusion was obvious.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one to have noticed either. Everyone was uncharacteristically silent. Sam looked like he wanted to find a hole to crawl into. Josh had stationed himself as far away from the two men as possible - probably for a quick escape if needed - and C.J. had that expression on her face like she wanted to bang heads together.

The President was tempted to let her. As if he didn't already have enough problems. What the hell was going on there?

Bartlet sighed, settling back in his chair. Young stepped discreetly closer, not crowding him, but within easy range should the man require anything.

The Chief of Staff had stiffened at the President's last statement. He swung back to Fitzwallace. "What does he mean? Did some new information emerge at the briefing?"

"No more than you already know, Leo." The Admiral glowered, starting to feel just a little picked on. "The intelligence reports turned up very little. But they did pass on persistent rumors that the organized crime groups we have focused our attention on within Russia are extremely unhappy about the pressure the President has brought to bear about the lax controls in the arms and nuclear sectors. And that they may have conveyed this unhappiness to our suspect's organization, with the suggestion that certain steps be considered."

McGarry froze in shock. It wasn't any different from what he and Nancy had told the President last night. Or what he'd already passed on to the senior staff. But somehow, having Fitz confirm it gave the nightmare a harsher reality. He winced when he heard Toby Ziegler's voice rise in angry disbelief, finally giving into the fury that had been deflected by other issues, however debatable, brought up last night.

"Are you trying to tell us that a criminal organization has decided to place a contract on the President of the United States?" The Communications Director's voice was almost trembling with barely suppressed outrage. Of all the staffers, Ziegler knew he had what might have politely been termed the stormiest professional relationship with Josiah Bartlet, but for all that he was fiercely protective of the office of the President, and equally loyal to the man who held it.

Those same emotions were reflected in the faces of the rest of the senior staff.

Fitzwallace shook his head curtly. "We have no proof of any such communication, but our agents and sources say that there is considerable agitation in the Russian underworld, and a strong rumor to that effect persists. Something has gone down. I don't think we can afford to ignore…"

"Ignore?!" Ziegler's volume rose to a dangerously high level.

McGarry winced again. "Calm down, Toby", he advised, for the first time that morning making eye contact with the Communications Director.

The exchange did not go unnoticed by the President, who was beginning to wonder if he was actually going to have to play referee on top of everything else. The tension between the two men was thick and heavy.

"I am calm!" Ziegler stopped, casting his eyes down and forcing himself to take several deep breaths. "Leo, this is beyond serious. We're talking about the office of President of the United States. That these... people could even consider a course of action like this… the ramifications are horrific. Democracy and government just doesn't operate like this. Can't operate like this."

"Sometimes it does." The President's voice was so low as to be almost inaudible, but it froze everyone in place. He looked up to meet their uncomfortable gaze and couldn't help a twisted smile when they looked away. The unspoken subject, the non-secret that no one dared raise although everyone knew what had really happened with Shareef. He trusted them all - but how did they regard him now, knowing what they did?

"Do you believe in karma, Toby?" he asked quietly, not really knowing what he expected in response.

McGarry glanced away quickly.

Ziegler cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on his shoes. "Mr. President…"

"Never mind." Bartlet waved him away, feeling a little guilty. It had been an unfair question, but the weariness that still weighed on him, despite the respite of last night, seemed to turn his thoughts down such dark paths with greater and greater ease these days. He sighed gently; wishing he could banish the near constant fatigue that seemed to bleed away all energy and leave him feeling burdened down in both body and spirit.

Making an effort to shake the malaise, he pulled his chair closer to his desk and held out his hand. On cue, as always, Charlie handed him the day’s schedule and stepped back again, granting him some personal space. Putting on his glasses, Bartlet flipped the folder open. Then he paused, his attention caught by an item on his desk. Puzzled, he leaned closer.

It was a chess piece, more specifically, a bishop, resting neatly on a white envelope that had been placed slightly off-center on his blotter.

Bartlet felt his mood lighten somewhat and he essayed a slight chuckle. "Looking for a rematch, Toby?" he asked, a smile indicating his approval of the gesture and its timing.

Ziegler blinked. "Sir?"

"Another chess match?" Bartlet pointed to the piece in front of him. "Aren't you tired of getting beaten?"

"Not guilty, sir." Ziegler's mind was plainly on other things, and he forced himself to concentrate on this new topic. "I didn't leave it there. And you don't beat me that often," he added with an indignant huff.

"You keep that thought, Toby." He turned to the other likely suspect. "Sam?"

"Not guilty either, Mr. President. Unlike Toby, I do get tired of being beaten. Especially when it's not so much a defeat as an outright massacre."

Bartlet couldn't help a short laugh at that. He had been showing off to the young man just a little. But it had been a good evening. One of the few good ones he could remember in recent times. "Charlie? Do you know who left this?"

"No, Mr. President." Young stepped forward again, exchanging a puzzled glance with McGarry. The preparations for the morning had been hectic, and without a senior secretary in the outer office to help with the chaos, more than a few things were being missed. He didn't like it. "It wasn't here when I left last night, and this is the first Oval meeting of the day."

"Hmmm." Distractedly, Bartlet turned his attention back to the piece. It really was a lovely thing, incredibly detailed and intricately molded. He reached out and picked it up, raising it to examine the fine detail on the surface. His fingers recognized the smooth warmth of ivory and the yellowed patina of the obviously hand-carved material indicated a great age. This was no store bought gift.

"Is anybody going to 'fess up?" he asked, taking his glasses off and rolling the piece speculatively between his fingers.

He laughed heartily at the guilty looks they exchanged. Only this group of people would feel at fault for leaving an anonymous gift. Where was the protocol for that? The gesture touched him deeply, and the symbolism, while curious, indicated a familiarity he found comforting. Sometimes, it was the little things that made a difference.

McGarry, dismissing the incident and the mystery, turned back towards the assembled staffers. He wasn't in the mood for games. Getting back to the business at hand, he said curtly, "Okay, you all know why we're here… " He broke off abruptly, staggering a bit as Fitzwallace suddenly pushed past him.

"Mr. President, put it down!"

"What?" Startled at the uncharacteristically commanding outburst, Bartlet looked up from his examination. Instinctively, he began to release his hold on the chess piece, dropping it from suddenly stiff fingers. "Fitz? Why on earth… "

~ooOoo~

"So..." Leo's morning schedule in hand, Margaret let the rather loaded beginning to her question trail off and perched herself on the edge of Donna's desk. "Is the pizza embargo still on?"

Donna looked up from her work, wrinkling her nose with profound disgust. "You mean the command from on high that I never bring the substance into any part of the White House ever again?" When Margaret nodded, she picked up her phone and waved it like a club. "Josh is still on the warpath. He even worked up enough technical skill to wipe out all my speed dial sets."

Slamming the phone back into its cradle, Donna pouted just a little. "Is that fair? I mean, how am I supposed to survive this... zoo without pizza?"

"Well, he's probably afraid..."

"I know what he's afraid of." Donna glared at Margaret; not at all happy she was still paying for her mistakes. She should have known better. Josh was like a dog with a juicy bone over her culinary indiscretion with the President. "It was an executive order!"

"You keep saying that."

"It's true!"

"C.J. ordered pizza," Margaret offered helpfully. "He hasn't banned it entirely."

"Like Josh would even think about telling her what she can or can't do."

"That's true," Margaret agreed sagely. "He does have some survival instincts. Leo's enjoying the show, though."

She didn't bother to point out that her boss showed no inclination towards stopping the ongoing battle of wills either. He was having too much fun. Donna didn't need to hear that, though. Telling her about the full extent of executive amusement being found at her expense would only make matters worse.

Donna scowled. "He would." She hadn't got any support from that quarter. Luckily, the First Lady seemed to have taken the whole incident with totally unexpected good humor. It was about the only thing she felt safe on.

Josh on the other hand was becoming a royal pain in the nether regions. "I'm going to have to do something about this," she declared ominously.

"It's about time."

Smiling sweetly up at her, Donna asked, "You wanna help?"

Blinking her eyes innocently and smiling just as sweetly in return, Margaret replied, "May I?"

"I wouldn't think of leaving you out..."

She never got any further. The echoing noise, loud, sharp and totally out of place, snapped through the bullpen like a gunshot. Minds and bodies reacted like it was a gunshot. Margaret jumped off the edge of the desk and Donna was already out of her seat. Both women had a moment to exchanged frightened looks before a voice boomed out.

"Everyone, stay where you are!"

The Secret Service Agents, always so unobtrusive and invisible, swarmed through the bullpen, weapons out and ready. A few stationed themselves at all the exits, glaring forbiddingly at the people milling uncertainly within.

Security crashes they were used to; the staff knew how to handle them. They didn't need to be told that this was horribly different.

Donna watched with growing fear as a larger group of agents stampeded - it was the only way her shocked mind could describe it - through the room, dodging around the desks and out the other side. Headed towards where?

Her breath caught in her throat. "The Oval," she gasped.

Clutching her file folder like a shield, all Margaret could do was nod dumbly.

~ooOoo~

Everybody jumped violently at the sudden explosion, and then swung about in alarm, as almost simultaneously there came an abrupt, shocked cry from the President, echoed by a gasp from Young.

Heart in his throat, McGarry hurled himself around the edge of the desk, Fitzwallace on his heels. He reached for the President. "Sir? Are you all right?"

Bartlet had flung himself back into his chair with his hands to his face. To McGarry's horror he saw that the collar and front of the man's shirt was stained with blood, and more trickled slowly from between the fingers covering his face. He couldn't tell whether the blood on the President's left hand had come from the wounds on his face, or the damage it had taken from the initial explosion.

Muffled gasps of horror from the staffers were drowned out by the sound of all four doors into the Oval Office crashing open, causing its already unnerved occupants to startle anew, as about half a dozen Secret Service agents poured into the room, weapons at the ready.

McGarry and Fitzwallace, both combat veterans, managed to ignore the influx and the babble of shouted instructions and reports, bending their attention to their Chief Executive, who was breathing heavily with his hands still raised before him.

McGarry gently reached for his wrists, only to have the man pull abruptly away from him with a small grunt of pain. "Please sir, I need to see." Bartlet seemed to relax a bit at the sound of his voice, and he asked, "How badly are you injured?"

"God, Leo. It hurts." The President's voice was tight with strain and his breathing was ragged. He slowly lowered his hands, blinking and squinting as tiny rivulets of blood ran down his cheeks and into his eyes from numerous small cuts and gashes on his forehead and face.

McGarry pulled out a handkerchief and gently began to run it over Bartlet's face, only to stop abruptly at a sharp, indrawn hiss of pain from his friend. He nearly jumped when Fitzwallace's hand came down on his wrist.

"Hold it, Leo. Those are shrapnel wounds. There could still be fragments embedded in some of the cuts. Wait for a medic."

Galvanized, the Chief of Staff swung around. "Charlie! Get an ambulance…" He broke off abruptly. "Oh, hell! Charlie, you all right?"

"Charlie?" The President's voice pitched high with alarm. He squinted around for his aide, obviously half-blind from the blood still running over his brow and into his eyes. "Are you hurt?" He attempted to rise, but was easily thwarted by Fitzwallace's firm hand pressing him back into his chair.

"I'm fine, Mr. President." The young man's voice was shaky and he held a handkerchief to his face. "Something just caught me on the cheek is all. It's nothing."

"Leo?"

Obeying the unspoken appeal and knowing if he didn't give Bartlet a satisfactory report they were going to have a very uncooperative Chief Executive on their hands, McGarry stepped forward and critically examined the cut on Young's cheek. "He's telling you the truth, sir. A shallow cut on his cheek. Probably stings a bit, but I don't think it'll even need stitches."

Satisfied, McGarry nodded to a pale and trembling C.J., who gently took Young by the arm and steered him to a place beside her on the sofa.

"Good." The word sighed out gently on a long breath of relief as the President sagged back into his chair, cautiously cradling his bloodied left hand against his chest. Two agents had moved in behind his chair, weapons still drawn but no longer raised; the remainder took up station by the wide open doors.

Ziegler shouldered his way past the agents at the desk. "Leo? The ambulance…"

One of the agents looked up from where he had been communing with his palm mike. "An ambulance has been requested, Mr. Ziegler. The call is going out from the main switchboard now."

"Good!" McGarry swung back to his friend and crouched down beside him. Bartlet was pale and trembling slightly, but his eyes seemed mercifully undamaged, although his face and even one of his eyelids were peppered with abrasions. But his hand...

McGarry took one look and winced. Bartlet's left hand, the one that had been holding the bishop, was coated in blood, the flesh torn and splinters of the ivory still projecting from some of the wounds. "What happened?" The question was knee-jerk. He'd seen it all, heard the explosion and could see the results.

He just wanted to hear his friend's voice.

"I'm not sure." The President's voice was still rough, and he couldn't seem to stop blinking. He took a deep, calming breath. "The chess piece. I think it exploded. I guess I was lucky; it might have still been in my hand, but I'd just begun to drop it." Twisting his head slightly, he regarded Fitzwallace, blinking against the stinging blood running into his eyes. "You knew?"

The Admiral shook his head grimly, still keeping one hand on his Commander in Chief's shoulder. "No, sir. I didn't. But in view of recent events, when something unexplained is found in the Oval Office, I'm going to err on the side of paranoia." He regarded the bloody visage of the man before him with regret. "It's a pity my paranoia didn't kick in a little sooner."

Bartlet drew in another shaky breath and accepted the handkerchief that Fitzwallace held out to him with his good hand, mopping gingerly at his eyes. Not a good idea. Wincing at the stinging pain, he looked up at the ring of somewhat blurry faces circling him, both staffers and agents.

"You managed fine. Thank you, Fitz."

"Sir." Fitzwallace shrugged, obviously uncomfortable with the praise and the thanks, however heartfelt. Turning to the Chief of Staff, he tried to get the man's attention. "Leo."

McGarry didn't seem to have heard him. Still at the President's side, his entire concentration was focused on the injured man.

"Leo!" Louder this time, earning a blinking, dazed response. "I have to tell the NSA, now, before she implodes."

McGarry's only response was a distracted nod.

At a bit of a loss, Fitzwallace silently entreated the President for permission to leave.

"Go," Bartlet told him shakily. "The last thing we need is Nancy going off. And gather the Joint Chiefs, Mr. Chairman. We don't need them going off as well."

Fitzwallace had no problem agreeing with that assessment. Without another word, he strode purposefully towards the nearest exit. Not exactly keen on being trampled in his wake, the agent on guard quietly stepped out of his way.

The agent who had reassured Ziegler about the ambulance came around to stand by Bartlet's side. "Sir, we need to get you out of here and secured back in the Residence until we can confirm what happened here, and how."

On the President's other side, McGarry protested vigorously. "We're not moving the President until he's been checked out by a doctor. His eyes may need washing out. Those cuts have to be tended to. And that hand is going to need stitches, at the very least." Looking down at his clearly shaken friend, and aware of the man's air of dazed disorientation, he ordered, "Direct them to send a doctor to the Oval Office. We'll meet the ambulance at the Residence, if he says the President can safely go that far."

"Cancel that!"

McGarry swung around as the order was grated out in a panting but firm voice. Judging by his breathless state, Ron Butterfield had sprinted the entire distance from the security central command room. He'd made good time too. Or perhaps he hadn't had so far to come. In recent weeks, the Security Chief was rarely to be found far from his main responsibility. Judging by the emotions currently tightening his features into grim lines, the Chief of Staff had a feeling that the President would be chafing under an even shorter leash in future.

"No ambulance," Butterfield snapped the order at his subordinate who, after pausing to blink briefly, hastily turned away to address his palm mike again.

"No ambulance?" Lyman's protest was almost a squeak of disbelief. "What the hell..."

Butterfield nailed him with a glare. "There is a perfectly adequate operating theater in the basement, fully stocked and ready for emergencies. If it's needed, we go there." Sweeping the room with his eyes and letting all present see the rage smoldering in their depths, he reiterated, "No ambulance."

"But... the President!" Seaborn stepped forward impulsively. "He needs a doctor."

Barely sparing the young man a glance, the Security Chief brushed past McGarry to drop into a crouch beside the President's chair. "And he'll get one," he shot over his shoulder. Turning back, he softened his tones and addressed his charge gently. "Sir? I'm sorry to ask this of you, but do you feel up to moving? We need to get you to the Residence. You can't stay here."

Bartlet regarded his bodyguard as best he could through eyelashes encrusted with blood. The reminder of the medical facilities in the basement had done little to calm his already shredded nerves. Only to be used in emergencies. He supposed this counted. Still, he had to ask, "Not the hospital, Ron?"

"No, sir. Not unless the doctor deems it absolutely necessary. Admiral Hackett is on his way to the Residence now. He'll be waiting for us." Butterfield regarded his protectee anxiously, trying to gauge the man's physical condition, and his ability to absorb what was being told to him. "I can't allow you to leave the White House in these circumstances, sir. We're in total lockdown. Nothing's going in or out. You'll be safer and better protected in the Residence."

"Afraid they'll try again?" Bartlet half-joked, shifting awkwardly in his chair.

"Yes, sir."

The President looked up sharply at that flat declaration. He studied the agent's grim visage for a moment before dropping his gaze. His shoulders slumped and he unleashed a low sigh. "Okay."

Butterfield glanced around swiftly to check if anyone else was going to waste his precious time with fruitless protests. It looked like he didn't have to worry. Lyman and Seaborn were standing together wearing stunned expressions. On the sofa, C.J. Cregg was gently patting at the no longer bleeding cut on Young's face, but her shoulders were tense and her face drawn into strained lines. He let his gaze rest on her for a brief moment.

C.J. looked up, catching Butterfield's searching glance, the unasked question he wouldn't dare voice. She was on the verge of giving him an answer, and then bit back the words. All she gave him was a quick nod, then returned her attention back to Charlie.

Butterfield's jaw tightened at the brief, haunted expression in her eyes. Too much violence following too soon after Donovan, and again someone she cared for was the target. But she could handle it. Of that he was certain.

McGarry and Ziegler were standing next to the desk, perfect studies in grimness. Butterfield allowed himself to relax just a bit, if not completely. If anyone fully grasped the implications both of this incident and of his exchange with the President, he would have expected it to be these two men. McGarry still looked like he wanted to protest, but he was holding himself in check and the normally cool Communications Director appeared shaken to the core. They could consider the consequences of this later. Right now, he had more immediate concerns.

Carefully touching his President's upper arm, painfully conscious of the subtle tremors vibrating through the limb beneath his hand, he asked quietly, "Sir? Can you stand?"

"I think so." Bartlet mopped again at his eyes with Fitzwallace's now ruined handkerchief. He made a mental note to replace it. At least only the deeper facial cuts were still bleeding, but it was amazing how irritatingly uncomfortable drying blood could feel. He awkwardly hitched himself forward in his chair in a struggle to rise, only to drop back with a hiss of pain. "Damn! My hand..."

"Sit still a minute, sir." Butterfield gently took the injured limb and laid it back against the President's chest. Holding it there, he fumbled one-handed to loosen his own tie. "Can anyone..."

Ziegler stepped up quickly beside him, his own tie dangling from his outstretched hand.

The Security Chief took it with a quick nod of thanks, and swiftly wrapped it over the President's left arm and shoulder, across his back and up under his right arm, lightly pinning his damaged hand in place against his chest. Stepping back, he slid a hand under the man's undamaged arm and carefully eased the President out of his chair.

Leaning heavily on his tall bodyguard's arm, Bartlet stood swaying slightly, waiting desperately for the room to swing back into focus and willing his legs not to fold under him. Following Butterfield's gentle pressure, he turned towards the door onto the portico, only to wobble violently for a moment. He steadied himself and smiled reassuringly at McGarry and Ziegler, who had both lunged forward to catch him. "It's okay, fellas."

Ziegler looked skeptical, but stepped back in acknowledgement of the President's unspoken wishes. McGarry wasn't so easily pacified however, and carefully grasped Bartlet's free arm, mindful of the injured hand. Security lock-down and Butterfield's fears be damned, it was on his tongue to demand that the President be removed to a hospital.

Butterfield sensed this, and catching the Chief of Staff's eye over Bartlet's shoulder, he said softly, "Leo, he cannot leave the White House."

McGarry's only response was to glare accusingly at the agent.

Bartlet stiffened at that ominous declaration. He hadn't missed the hidden meaning, even if his overwhelmed Chief of Staff had. Leaning a little more on to his friend's arm, he said, "Listen to him, Leo."

McGarry didn't want to, but had to admit that he was outnumbered. Taking a firmer hold on the President's arm, he shook his head with frustration, duty fighting a losing battle with his concern.

His old friend sighed in exasperation at the added support, but wasn't really in a position to protest. And he was forced to grudgingly admit, if only to himself, that he needed the support. Smiling at his Chief of Staff, the President asked, "Shall we go? I'm sure Hackett's at the Residence by now, which means Abbey knows what's happened. And if we dawdle in the circumstances..."

Even Butterfield winced at the mental images this conjured up. Carefully, he and McGarry began to move the President towards the door, the other agents closing in around on all sides.

With evident reluctance, C.J. stood up from the sofa and stepped forward. "Leo..."

"Not now, C.J.," McGarry snapped, tension and worry simmering dangerously close to the surface.

"Yes, now." The Press Secretary's tone was apologetic, but unyielding. "Please, Leo. It's important."

The Chief of Staff locked gazes with her for an instance, his angry and anxious, hers concerned but remaining implacable. Finally he sighed and pressed his friend's arm gently. "Sir, I'm sorry. I'll catch you up in just a moment. Toby, would you…?"

The Communications Director stepped forward swiftly and slid his own hand under the President's arm, and was rewarded with a slightly twisted, ironic smile from the man. The group passed slowly out through the portico doors and along the walk towards the Residence. A phalanx of agents converged on the slow moving trio, blocking them from view and harm.

McGarry watched them go with a strained expression before turning back to the remaining staffers. "Charlie, go after them. You need someone to have a look at that cut. Now," he snapped at C.J. as the young man hastened out. "Make it fast."

C.J. exchanged worried glances with Seaborn and Lyman. "The press, Leo. What are we going to do? You stressed last night how important it was to keep this whole mess in-house, but after today... we can't keep this quiet. There was an explosion in the Oval Office for heaven's sake!"

"To say nothing of the fact that anyone who so much as catches a glimpse of the President over the next few days is going to have more questions than we can handle," Seaborn pointed out. "No matter how good a repair job Hackett does, he can't conceal those cuts, and that hand looks to be an awful mess. We can't brush this away, Leo. His riding his bike into a tree was a front page story!"

"And then there's the whole security alert," Lyman chimed in. "We're in lockdown, and agents are on high alert all over the White House. To say nothing of the fact that someone must have heard the explosion. And a call for an ambulance went out from the Oval office. Any reporter with a police scanner could have picked that up once it passed the switchboard."

"Oh, God!" C.J. sank back onto the sofa with a groan. "The Press Room is probably filling up right now. Leo, I'm good but there's no way that I can spin this! We've got to come up with something, and fast!"

McGarry ran a hand over the back of his head distractedly. "I know, I know. Look C.J., let's just find out what the damage is and then we'll see. In the meantime, the three of you get together and come up with some options for me."

"Leo!" For the first time some of the emotion she'd been holding in check broke through C.J.'s control.

"Later!" McGarry's patience was close to snapping; his entire anxious attention focused on the man currently being shepherded towards the Residence. "We'll discuss it as soon as Toby and I get back from the Residence. Be in my office in one hour. And C.J.? Hold the press off until then. I don't care how."

The three youngest members of the senior staff watched in dismay as the Chief of Staff abandoned them and departed through the portico door at a pace just short of a run. Glancing back and forth, each waited for the other to say something first.

The Press Secretary to the White House sighed heavily, turning a grim look on the two spin-doctors she had left. Josh had his crushed puppy look going full force and Sam was standing at near-perfect military parade rest. The sight was depressing.

"Come on boys, you heard him. Time to earn our government paychecks. We've got to come up with something in the next five minutes that the press won't immediately laugh back in our faces." She watched them shift uneasily and couldn't resist adding, perhaps just a bit maliciously, "And not to put any pressure on you or anything, but if you don't produce something good for me to take out there, I quit. For real this time. You can take on the White House press corps all by yourselves."

~ooOoo~

Abbey settled back into her chair with a slight groan and wondered if she would ever fully be able to relax again. Her muscles seemed stiff and unnatural, and she felt as if she hadn't properly taken a deep breath since she and Jed had talked last evening. Of course, it wasn't every day you had to deal with the fact that not only had an attempt been made on your husband's life, but that the same threat continued to shadow him even now.

Someone wanted Jed dead, and it seemed as if they would not stop until they had achieved their objective. The very thought caused fear to surge within her, turning her limbs to water.

Oh, he was one of the best-guarded men in the world, but they had tried already, and come so close to succeeding. And all it would take was one sufficiently determined and reckless person in a crowd. The President couldn't govern from an isolated fortress. Nor would Jed's own personality permit it. Both of them had discussed the possibility of assassination before, acknowledged that the Secret Service took excellent care, and that all else was left in the hands of God. There was nothing they could do about it but trust in those hands, and in their protectors.

Abbey scowled to herself in firm resolve. She might not be able to protect Jed against that particular threat, but she could and would do everything possible to ensure that her stubborn husband did not leave himself open to attack on another front. Leo's concern the night before, coming on top of her own observations, had only reinforced her determination to try to get her husband to slow down before he drove himself into the ground.

Leo would help, she knew. Charlie too, along with the entire senior staff. All she had to do was ask. And she was going to need all the allies she could muster. Even last night's ultimatum had proved considerably less successful than she had hoped. Leo had been right; one single night of rest wasn't going to solve the increasingly visible problem of Jed's ongoing exhaustion, but it would have helped.

Would have... if he had only obeyed her. She had returned to their bedroom well after midnight - her talk with Leo and pondering on the threat had left her unsettled and wandering the corridors for some time - only to find Jed dozing, propped up in bed, telephone on the mattress beside him and the bedspread strewn with files.

Silently raging against his obduracy, she had managed to settle her weary husband back under the covers and had joined him, gently stroking his hair until he finally slept. But he had risen even earlier than usual, muttering something about a staff meeting in the Oval, to be preceded by a briefing with Fitzwallace.

Tonight he would sleep through the night. Abbey was determined on that, even if she had to ask Admiral Hackett to consider prescribing something, and unplug the wretched telephone. Jed had never been the best of sleepers, but this broken napping was taking its toll. Well, tonight she would see that he slept. After that...

Maybe she could persuade Leo to clear Jed's schedule for a few days, get him up to the farm. He could usually relax there. It was his home, the one place where he could pretend for a little while that he didn't have to make life-affecting decisions for millions of people on a daily basis.

The First Lady's reflections were interrupted by the bedroom door being abruptly flung open and the two agents who had been on duty outside bursting through. She looked up, startled, then paled. There were no prizes for guessing the reason for the intrusion. A security alert. Jed...

"I'm sorry, ma'am." Agent Daniels was tense. "We have notification of a security breach and orders to secure your safety. Could you remain here, please?"

Abbey nodded, heart pounding but outwardly calm. She and Jed were becoming as accustomed as it was possible to get to such violent interruptions. There seemed to have been a great many in recent weeks. All quickly and unthreateningly resolved, but bad for the nerves all the same. She sat quietly. No point badgering for details. These two probably hadn't any concrete information yet. They would let her know as soon as they did.

A couple of minutes of strained and mutually uncomfortable silence were finally broken by the hasty arrival of her Head of Detail. Abbey greeted him with relief. "Emil, what's happening?"

Agent Torres' expression suggested that in no way was he looking forward to answering that question. "Ma'am, I'm afraid that reports indicate there was some kind of explosion in the Oval Office within the last few minutes."

Watching the face of the woman before him blanch in shock, he hastened to add, "It was a small explosion, and there have been no fatalities, or critical injuries."

The First Lady gave a little gasp of relief. "No injuries? Jed's all right?"

Torres winced slightly. "Not exactly, ma'am. There were no critical injuries."

"What do you mean?" Relief had vanished again, and Abbey was on her feet and practically in the unfortunate agent's face. "Jed's hurt? Is he hurt? How bad is it?"

Helplessly wishing that one of his colleagues would have pity and pass on those answers, Agent Torres struggled to make sense of the din on his radio. "Ma'am, I'm afraid the President was hurt. I don't know the extent of his injuries at the moment, but I can tell you he is conscious..."

"You don't know..." Fear and anger blended themselves in Abbey's tones. Determinedly, she moved forward, forcing the agent into instinctive retreat. "I'm going down there."

Agent Torres closed his eyes and briefly meditated on the Four Last Things before moving to block the First Lady's progress. "Ma'am, I'm very sorry but my orders are explicit. I cannot let you go into a danger zone. Please. Wait here."

Usually, Abbey yielded to Secret Service requests with the minimum of protest. They were just doing their job after all, and both she and Jed were always only too painfully aware what that job might one day require of the men and women who undertook to guard the lives of America's First Couple. Plus, she felt that making their lives as easy as possible was the least she could do to make up for the occasional juvenile stunts Jed pulled on his own detail.

But not now, not in these circumstances and after the revelations of recent days. "Emil..."

"Please, ma'am." The agent's tone was sympathetic, but inflexible.

Abbey glared at him for an instance, tears of frustration and fear welling in her eyes, before abruptly turning away to perch rigidly on the edge of her armchair.

Torres fidgeted uncomfortably, before whipping his hand up to his earpiece. Finally, some news he could give to the anxious woman. "Ma'am?"

Abbey's head snapped up hopefully. "Yes, Emil?"

"Ma'am, Agent Butterfield is escorting the President to the Residence. The President is ambulatory, but has sustained injuries to the face and one hand." Torres frowned as he concentrated on the voice in his ear. "Admiral Hackett has been summoned, and is entering the Residence as we speak. He should be here..."

"Now," Abbey interrupted him, rising to greet the tall, uniformed medic who had just come through the door. "Robert, it's good to see you."

"Ma'am," The naval doctor nodded briskly and courteously to the First Lady.

Now back on rotation as attending physician to the President, Robert Hackett felt that he had forged a mutually respectful relationship with Josiah Bartlet's wife and doctor. Honestly regarding himself as an essentially good humored and intelligent man, his matter-of-fact attitude had helped smooth over any awkwardness between him and his patient over the former's non-disclosure of his medical condition when Hackett had first been obliged to attend on an executive collapse.

Likewise, his innate professionalism had recognized the medical skills of the First Lady, and he hadn't permitted her problems with the medical boards to alter his attitude towards her as a fellow physician in any way.

Now was not the time for social niceties, however. Dumping his satchel and medical tray on the table top, he stripped off his overcoat, demanding of Torres, "Any news yet on the President's arrival?"

Torres again pressed a finger to his earpiece. "The President has just entered the Residence, Admiral. He has a full security detail, and is being assisted by Agent Butterfield and Mr. Ziegler."

"Well, at least he's still on his feet." Dissatisfaction evident in every gesture, Hackett snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and began to unpack dressings and instruments from his bag. "I still think I should have seen him before he was moved..."

"Security procedure..."

"Yes, yes." Hackett waved down the agent impatiently. "I do know how these things work. And I trust Ron Butterfield's judgment. He wouldn't have moved the President, however precarious the situation, if he thought it would be dangerous for him. I'm just saying that, from a medical standpoint, the position is less than ideal."

Abbey cleared her throat awkwardly. In the wake of recent events, she had sometimes felt quite tentative about offering any opinions or advice on her husband's health to his attending physicians. But concern and fear overcame her hesitancy, and Hackett had gone out of his way in recent times to let her know that he still considered her a valued colleague, especially for filling in any blanks his occasionally less-than-cooperative and always reluctant patient might leave him with. "Robert? Will you be treating Jed here? You won't be taking him to Bethesda?"

"No, ma'am. Not unless the nature of his injuries makes in-house treatment seem an unacceptable risk." The Head of White House security had also been insistent that only the Admiral attend, no assisting medics till all security checks had been seen to. His paranoia seemed a bit excessive and Hackett had nearly balked at that, but given what he'd been told of the injuries and knowing the First Lady would certainly be present, reluctantly agreed. For now. "Ron is particularly anxious that the President remain at a secure location, considering the circumstances."

"Yes." Abbey nodded, the panic once again beginning to rise. Ever since the NTSB report, the circumstances had seemed to ensure that Jed's always-precious freedom would be even further circumscribed. Just one more factor to wear on his temper and nerves.

Much as her professional instincts might balk at the idea of Jed not receiving the full attention of a hospital staff - even with the miniature hospital in the basement - she could understand Ron's caution. Right now though, she wanted nothing more than to have her husband there in front of her, so she could wrap him in her arms and shield him from those who sought to hurt him.

She didn't have long to wait. Within the minute, there was an audible flurry from the corridor, and the doors opened to admit a strained and silent Charlie Young. Abbey rose, alarmed by the sight of the thin laceration on the aide's face. "Charlie, are you all right?"

The young man scarcely glanced at her. "Yes, ma'am." He stepped aside to allow the group behind him to enter.

Immediately, and rather shamefully, all thoughts of the President's body-man were dashed from Abbey's mind, and she stepped forward, hands impulsively extended, to meet her husband. Relief at having him here at last warred with shock over his appearance, and the now ever-present dread surged anew.

Jed Bartlet entered his bedroom unsteadily, supported on one side by the stern Butterfield. Toby Ziegler cautiously grasped his left elbow, trying to exert enough pressure to hold the man erect while avoiding jolting the hand bound against his chest.

The President's face was masked in blood, still trickling down to be absorbed by his collar. The front of his shirt was also soaked crimson at the spot where his mangled hand rested. Aware of the dramatic picture he presented he looked up, blinking through blood-sticky lashes, to meet his wife's horrified regard.

An attempt to smile reassuringly was aborted with a wince as cut lips protested. "Hi, Abbey. I seem have got a bit of a hangnail here..." Awkwardly, he indicated his torn hand. "Think you could take a look?"

Oops. Clearly humor had been the wrong note to strike. Bartlet watched with some apprehension as his wife's expression darkened with irritation. On the plus side, he had achieved his objective of reassuring her panic. It was just a pity he hadn't been able to manage a more positive mood swing. 'Pissed Abbey' wasn't really much better than 'panicked Abbey', not from his front row target position. Still, being wounded had to offer some protection, right?

Apparently it did, for Abbey managed to close her lips over the exasperated retort struggling to escape them. A suspicious curve formed at one corner of her mouth. The vexation briefly smothered her anxiety, enabling her to fall back into the old, familiar patterns.

Darting into the bathroom, she emerged with two large bath towels. "Toby, Ron. Bring him over here," she directed briskly, spreading the towels over the pillows and eiderdown of the bed. "That's right, lay him back. Carefully," she added sternly as the two men eased their President into a sitting position on the bed.

Butterfield gently supported the man's head back onto the pillow as Ziegler lifted his legs onto the mattress. Both men then withdrew slightly, to join Young in anxious and useless vigil at the foot of the bed.

Abbey bent over her husband, brushing the slightly damp hair back from his forehead and attempting to assess the damage to his face and neck. It looked messy, but not as bad as she had feared. His hand though… she swallowed hard, how had he managed to avoid losing any fingers?

Yet, somehow he had. The flesh was torn and practically flayed on his palm, but the hand itself seemed basically intact. She reached to loosen the tie holding it in place - then froze. With a mixture of apology, discomfiture and frustration, she turned to the uniformed man hovering behind her. "I beg your pardon, Robert. I didn't mean to keep you from your patient." God, but that was hard to say!