|
It was a rare occasion that the First Couple of the United States found their official travel plans to be in concurrence. The President naturally dealt with politics in one form or another for the vast majority of the time, which was one subject his wife made every effort to avoid. Few families saw so little of each other over an average day. So when his complicated agenda coincided enough with her own public projects to let them share transportation and accommodations, they seized the moment with both hands and gave heed to no concerns about security or anything else. Anyone who doubted the closeness of the Bartlets' relationship needed only a glance at this mutual determination to have all suspicions quashed dead. Of course, security there always was, no matter where they went . . . and always would be to some extent, even after Jed Bartlet left the White House for good. And yet, although the Secret Service beefed up its efforts as a matter of prudence whenever away from the familiar and well-defended surroundings of that primary residence, staying elsewhere - however briefly - seemed almost like a vacation to the President and the First Lady both. No one who worked (or lived) at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue could ignore the level of security on all sides, looming perpetually over one's shoulder like a drill sergeant just waiting for someone to break ranks. And since protecting the nation's Chief Executive had to be at least a little discreet when in full public view, the illusion that the First Couple was less harried than usual persisted, to their own personal preference. Reality check: it was, after all, just an illusion . . . In this particular instance the President's cortege had almost the entire floor space of a relatively small (by New York City standards) hotel to themselves, in a relatively secluded (again, according to New Yorkers) suburb of the Big Apple. For all its antique exterior and posh interior, the Westboro maintained a cozy charm for the much-traveled and a convenient distance from the City's action. It had, in fact, been designed with an eye for this very market: a large political gathering where expedience and security could be provided together. Conference rooms, state-of-the-art communications wiring and an easily-secured layout were all included. So, rather than expend Air Force One petrol on such a short flight north (as a flying four-star barracks and complete situation control center, it was easily defensible yet undeniably expensive), Bartlet had declared this sojourn a scaled-down holiday and elected to accompany his wife for the sleepover. Certainly, if some national crisis sprang up during his absence from Washington, the executive chopper could whisk him back fast enough. In fact, the entire White House senior staff had remarked upon their Commander-in-Chief's considerable anticipation of this trip for the last full week. Even a president can get tired of having most of the world brought to him. Of course, holiday or not, there was no escape from the bureaucracy of paperwork that forever followed this most influential of world leaders no matter where he went. On this, their third evening, Charlie Young had just been admitted into the President's temporary office on the Westboro's tastefully decorated second floor. Lounging comfortably in a plush armchair, jacket off and tie loosened, a paperback in hand for once instead of the usual official report, Bartlet looked up. "Yeah, Charlie - oh, don't tell me," he almost groaned at the sight of the thick envelope his personal aide carried. The young man grinned in sympathy. "Afraid so, sir." "I told you not to tell me!" The President slapped his novel onto an end table, hard. "You know, I resigned myself long ago to reading half a dozen briefs on one topic or another each evening at home. You'd think that on an away trip I could have a night off once in a while." He accepted the folder and tore it open with rather more force than strictly necessary to break the seal. "What does it take to give us a real holiday?" "I'm really not sure, sir." "Should've held this conference at the South Pole." Charlie wore a patient smile. "That would cut down on the couriers, sir." Bartlet obtained his reading glasses and paged through the sheaf of documents. "Well, there does seem to be a bit less this time than I expected." He grunted. "Maybe people are grasping the fact that there's no telling how long even a White House packet can take to pass through the security grid downstairs." His young aide politely reserved judgement, two respectful steps away in case he could be of further assistance. The President shook his head resignedly at something on one page. "And just when I was hoping to finish Brave New World tonight." Charlie glanced at the discarded paperback. "It's a pretty good book, sir." ""Don't tell me how it ends." "I wasn't going to, sir." This time Bartlet raised his head. "What's this - withholding information, are you?" Apparently caught between two orders, the boy waited one careful heartbeat - he hadn't held this position all that long - before realizing that a rapid defense of either order wasn't required. The President had a notorious sense of humor. This time, unlike quite a few in recent memory, Charlie managed to rise to the occasion without flustering. "Yes, sir, I guess I am." His boss smiled, eyes now twinkling. "Attaboy." Another knock on the door made them both look around. The President's expression clearly indicated that he expected a veritable cartload of reports to be delivered. "Yes?" The Secret Service coordinator entered two steps. Empty-handed. Not shutting the door behind him. "Mr. President?" Bartlet gave him a sharp once-over, and grinned. "Well, since you aren't bringing me more paperwork, you can come in. What's up, Ron?" Charlie drew back. He hadn't actually been dismissed, but a personal aide had no place at a security briefing. "Just to let you know that we're locking up for the night, sir," Ron Butterfield announced. "All personnel are accounted for." "Good - that means no more deliveries. I might get my book finished after all." The agent didn't quite smile. They weren't supposed to. "Yes, sir." "All right, then; see you tomorrow." Ron gave a brisk nod. "Good night, Mr. - " And broke off, one hand flying to the security radio-microphone in his ear. Instantly he had the President's attention. Charlie's, too. One glance at the man's sudden tension was enough to warn them both. Ron relayed the news at once to all forces. "We're breached. It's Regina." Bartlet sat bolt upright as if jolted by electricity. The Secret Service had code names for everyone, and he made a point of knowing them as well. This one sent a shock of ice water down his spine. "Abbey?" Then, without any further hesitation, he catapulted out of his chair and sprinted through the door at a dead run. Leaving both his personal aide and his security coordinator staring. "Sir!" The President didn't even hear him. And if he did, he wouldn't have cared. Security protocol specified clearly that the Chief Executive be protected above all else, followed by a descending hierarchy of the most vital staff members - most of whom were not present on this trip. Ranking very high on that same list were the other members of the First Family, due to a constant fear of abduction. What more effective way to pressure the President of the United States into political action of some sort? He would not likely be that cooperative with dire threats against himself, but if someone threatened his loved ones . . . In any event, the last place he should go was into the danger zone. None of these thoughts registered. Bartlet tore around the hall corner at full throttle with single-minded intent, blue eyes blazing in voiceless fury. His entire self was focused on the suite at the end of the corridor, an endless thirty yards away. Every bit of strength in his sturdy build channeled towards that one goal, driving him on in a desperate effort to reach it first. When was the last time anyone had seen the President run? The Secret Service was rallying with their usual rapid precision, agents converging from all directions. The alarm, however, must have been caused by a sentry some distance from the situation, or else it would already be under control. Had an intruder met a bodyguard face to face, everything would have ended there and then. Instead, agents had to close in on the threat before they could eliminate it. As a result, precious seconds were still flying past unresolved. And that unresolved threat was closest to the First Lady. Despite his own frantically pounding footfalls, Bartlet noticed dimly that other feet were now following at a similar pace. They only served to spur him onward even faster. Shouts of "Sir!" and "Don't!" made no impression at all. When one agent appeared right in his path and, seeing him, naturally tried to prevent their Commander-in-Chief from endangering himself, the President slammed this obstruction aside just like a linebacker blitzing the scrimmage line, without sparing a word or cutting his speed. Nothing was going to come between him and his wife. Nothing. And if anyone even considered harming her - Chest heaving, heart hammering - not entirely from the high-speed marathon he'd just run - he wrenched open the suite's main door, the last inanimate barrier, and blasted inside without pause even for a deep breath. Abbey - She was there. So was the intruder. The scene had an air of unreality: two people seated in antique armchairs facing each other, exactly as though this were some kind of tea party. Not at all as though she were the wife of the U.S. President and he the target of a full-scale Secret Service offensive. Jed Bartlet did not check at all. Did not take the measure of the situation before acting. Did not glance around for any other adversaries in the room. Did not pause to confirm that his wife was unhurt. Did not ascertain that she or any other possible hostage would not be further endangered by any move on his part. Did not look for explosives, obstacles or potential sources of cover. Did not anticipate hidden dangers or concealed weapons. Did not follow any of the procedures drummed into each bodyguard and (supposedly) each public figure they were trained to protect. It was as if his path at this moment had been laid out well in advance and rehearsed to the point of utter familiarity, requiring no conscious thought and now proceeding on its own inexorable momentum. Even as both heads turned towards his explosive entrance, he charged those four strides to the unidentified man's seat and wrenched him completely out of his chair, almost ripping the pullover right off in the process. The stranger, somewhere in his twenties and dressed casually, though without the streamlined black attire of a second-storey man - or assassin - yelped in shock as he found himself so abruptly accosted. And not by any faceless and fearsome Secret Service agent, either, but by the President of the United States himself. Looking as scary as any professional killer in his own employ. Abigail Bartlet leaped from her own seat in equal astonishment, if less terror. "Jed - " Hair disheveled, tie blown back over one shoulder, perspiration standing out on his forehead, breathing heavily in equal parts exertion and rage, her husband dragged his captive a few more paces away from her by sheer strength, doubled fists stretching that sweater painfully tight, and impaled him with furious eyes. "What do you think you're doing?" The man was too stunned by this physical assault and that seething, teeth-clenched demand to even move. His mouth gaped without benefit of speech. Not a very confident lawbreaker . . . but that didn't mean he was harmless. Well, neither was the man who had, in essence, just arrested him. And as if it wasn't bad enough that this guy could penetrate such security and get close enough to his wife to kill her with ease, now he didn't even have the grace to answer a direct question from his President. Fast. "Jed, don't!" DON'T?! The loud, ominous staccato of several automatic pistols coming to full c--- not at all far away punctuated that sense of disbelief. "NO!" Abbey's command was directed at all of them this time. And she didn't sound the least bit hysterical or unsure about her stance on this issue. The Secret Service agents in the doorway, firearms level at arm's length, had exactly three options: pile in and wrestle the two men apart at once, placing their own bodies between death and their President if need be; open fire and drop the intruder now before he could inflict any possible harm, trusting that their professional aim would not deviate by more than an inch; or pray that sheer intimidation would be enough to freeze the scene a bit longer, giving their boss time to come to his senses and step back. They held their position. Not wanting to kill this intruder if he could be taken alive for interrogation, not wanting to instigate a firefight sooner than they must for fear that it precipitate said intruder into action, and certainly not wanting to increase the risk to their presidential charges with flying bullets in the first place. They waited, tense as piano wire, for the right moment to move in, or the first hint of retaliation . . . and, meanwhile, watching in silence as the man they were supposed to protect essentially did their job for them. As efficiently as any of them. The young man was trembling despite his effort to keep still, and gasping for air - mostly from fear, since that iron grasp wasn't on his throat. Yet. He held both hands at shoulder height and in full view, empty. Not about to resist in any way. The President didn't loosen his grip, hard eyes unblinking under lowered brows, still consumed with the desire to ensure his wife was safe. Not caring that he'd placed himself within range of a direct physical assault, so long as no such assault reached her. Nor did he show any current interest in handing the prisoner - his prisoner - over to the people who should have made the arrest in the first place. Abbey's concern penetrated vaguely, adding to the inner turmoil. Was it meant for this invader, or was it for whatever damage this invader could do if given the slightest chance? Better to not let down his guard just yet. Cautiously, as though she feared to upset a delicate balance, the First Lady raised both palms to the aimed arsenal on the suite's threshold in a pacifying gesture. Then, she touched her husband's arm just as gently. "Jed. It's all right." He didn't quite dare look away, just in case their trespasser still had it in mind to try something, but the presidential glower eased slightly. In considerable confusion. "'All right'? This guy just breezes through the toughest security cordon around and waltzes into your room, and you say it's all right?" "It is," Abbey insisted quietly. "He just wants to talk." The five Secret Service agents, silent and motionless, framed like a corporate firing squad, did not move. Neither did their target, still pinned in place by the immovable hold on his clothes and the ominous expression so close to his frightened one. Neither did Charlie Young, peering in from the hall, determined to help his President any way he could. If he was needed. Which, it appeared, he wasn't. Gradually, by visible degrees, Bartlet's stern features shifted from aggression to skepticism. "Talk, huh?" The visitor managed a jerky nod, despite the fact that he was trembling unashamedly and had paled to a desperate degree. "Uh - uh . . . y - yeah. Yeah. Talk. Just talk. Honest." The words came out with great effort, and without any attempt at recovering self-possession. If he wasn't panic-stricken for a fact, he had to an Academy-level actor. Still the President hesitated. So did his employees, who had effectively been commanded to stand down, yet ached to stop any perceived threat before it showed itself. Abbey broke the deadlock by placing her hand on her husband's shoulder in a casual yet personal manner. "Come on, Jed. This is no way to treat a guest." He couldn't prevent a fleeting grin. Trust her to flip the right switch. Slowly and deliberately, not entirely convinced just yet but willing to trust her if no one else, Bartlet relaxed his fingers and settled back a single step. Keeping himself between his wife and the slightest chance of danger until he was convinced. Getting his image, his respirations and his rage back under control. Breathing just as hard from his own emotions, the young man lowered his hands inch by inch, as though expecting to be ordered not to lower them, and seemed genuinely surprised when no such order came. The only reason such an order did not come was because the Secret Service, too, understood that this was a time to defer to the First Lady's judgment. For the moment, at least. Finally, the President nodded. "Well, then, son, I suppose I should say something like 'Good evening'. I didn't realize before this that you were a guest. It's just that . . . we don't get many unexpected visitors." Statements don't come much more obvious than that. Anyone who knows the first thing about the Presidency should realize why. This blatant intruder just hung his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean nothin'. Honest." Sounding far more scared than respectful. As though the import of the presidential office meant less to him than the fact that he'd been nearly throttled for no apparent wrongdoing. "I just wanted to . . . to . . . like, you know . . . " The first suspicion of mental deficiency reared its head. Bartlet shot a puzzled glance at his wife in mute question, and she gave him a confirming nod. The President exhaled, releasing much of his tension. "Talk. I get the idea." Should that apparent psychological weakness be mentioned, as evidence that he wasn't a threat? No, the Secret Service wouldn't be inclined to cut any extra slack for a nutcase; a mind that doesn't adhere to the standard principles of logic is impossible to predict. Abbey made the final decision, well aware of what everyone else was thinking. Even if security rules could be bent enough to let this slightly slow and plainly friendly youngster stay awhile, they'd never exempt him from the trauma of a weapons search first. The Bartlets' safety had to take precedence over an ordinary citizen's mental stability. "Lawrence, I'm a doctor. Can I give you a quick check-up? You know . . . just to make sure you're all right, after all this - excitement." Their visitor hesitated, but her gentle tone and kind features finally won him over. The President grinned, knowing full well what she had in mind, and glanced at his protectors with their still-drawn pistols to see if they appreciated the sight of his wife conducting a brief and compassionate surface medical examination that included all pockets and other potential hiding places. And she knew what to look for, too. Once she'd proved to everyone present that "Lawrence" had no nefarious intentions, the First Lady took him by the hand. "You're just fine. Come on, let's sit down and have our conversation. What do you say?" He looked at her anxiously, at her husband even more anxiously, and at the armed contingent with frank confusion. And followed her. As trusting as a puppy would follow its mother anywhere. Feeling somewhat off-balance himself, and a little foolish to boot, Bartlet ended the standoff with a weary nod towards the doorway. "Thank you, gentlemen. I believe we have everything under control." Although not absolutely sure of that himself, he was willing to take it on faith. Which meant that everyone else had to play along. Almost reluctantly, the brace of pistols lowered and the army of business suits drew apart. Now that the hair-trigger had been defused, Ron pushed forward. "Mr. President?" It sounded more like a demand for an explanation than an offer to help. His boss shrugged, stabbing one hand into a pocket and scrubbing the other over his sweated face. And conceded at last, quietly so as not to be overheard, "He looks harmless enough." "Sir - " The President straightened. "He's unarmed, Ron. What - you don't think I can handle him myself if he gets out of line?" "Not after that demonstration, sir," the security coordinator assured him, deadpan. "Why, thank you. Nice to be appreciated for one's skills." Ron suppressed his amusement. "But, sir . . . " "Oh, relax. My wife always knows what she's doing, and she's a better judge of character than anyone else I know. Including myself." Bartlet sighed, almost in envy. "Let's grant them both a moment, okay? When it's time for him to leave, I'll call you." Clearly Ron didn't like it, but he knew how to take orders. "Yes, sir. I'll be right outside." "Fine." The President was turning away when Charlie managed to worm his path through retreating security personnel. "Mr. President?" "Oh, yeah, Charlie. You're too quiet; I didn't even know you were there. And I doubt the Secret Service did either." He accepted this rebuke for putting himself at risk, but didn't regret his decision. "I was staying out of the way, sir. Uh, can I get you anything?" Bartlet considered. "A cold drink." Charlie grinned. "Right away, sir." He headed for the small but well-stocked bar to one side. "I daresay you earned one." That last line was purely automatic, born of sheer admiration. The President read into it, and he couldn't let such an opportunity pass unchallenged. "Oh? Since when do I have to earn my right to a beer?" This time his aide stumbled badly. "Sir, I just mean that . . . well, may I say I thought that was really impressive of you, sir - " "It was? Hmm, maybe I should try a few moves like that in the next campaign." And he actually seemed to consider it. "Or better yet, I might just go knock some sense into Congress. Talk about a hands-on approach, right?" Charlie couldn't hide his grin at this apparent show of enthusiasm. "That may not be such a bad idea, sir." "Don't tempt me. I'd just as soon this didn't get out . . . " Then Bartlet shrugged. "Aw, what the hell. It'll be in the official report, anyway. No doubt I'm going to get it from the Security Council soon enough. I must've broken every rule in the book." He accepted the foaming beer mug, dropping that issue and, as a result, essentially giving his aide virtual carte blanche to tell all. And considered again. "Hey, does anyone else want something?" Abbey had taken Lawrence over towards the window, where several straight-backed chairs huddled around a polished dining table, as much removed from the scene of action as they could get in this mid-sized sitting-room. Both looked around when the President spoke. At the sight of recurring panic on their guest's open features, he didn't come any closer. "Lawrence?" Abbey drew the young man's attention back from her husband, whom he obviously feared - a lot. "Would you like a drink?" "Uh . . . " Lawrence cast another apprehensive glance aside, then over at the silent Charlie. Apparently comforted by the fact that someone even younger than himself had survived conversation with The Man, he finally nodded. "Okay. Sure." "All right. And what would you like?" the First Lady probed patiently. "Um . . . um . . . ginger ale?" he finally asked, as though that would be the dearest boon anyone could give him at this moment. "Of course. One for me too, please, Charlie." "Yes, ma'am." Charlie obeyed with alacrity. Abbey made another effort to lighten the underlying uneasiness. "Lawrence, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Lawrence. He just dropped in to say hello." The personal assistant to the President was learning to rise to almost any occasion with fair speed. He gave a friendly nod as he brought two glasses over to the table. "Hi, Lawrence. Good to meet you." The former security risk took an extra moment to respond, but clearly this normal dialogue calmed his nerves a bit more. As planned. "Uh, hi." "Thanks, Charlie." Bartlet used the precise tone that passed for a dismissal. His aide got the message and headed for the door. "Yes, sir. I'll be outside if you need me." "Appreciated." The click of the door's latch sounded strangely loud in the silence. The President still stood a few paces off, saying nothing. This was his wife's call. She promptly made a show of relaxing, as if all preceding events had never happened. "Well! It feels good to sit down, doesn't it? Enjoy your drink, Lawrence. There's more if you want it." A calculating pause. "Why don't you join us, Jed?" Lawrence stiffened, his eyes staring again. Bartlet brought his own considerable skill at personal relations into play, spiced with his usual good humor. "That okay with you, Larry? I promise I'll behave myself from now on." And he waited for permission. This was a lark: the President of the United States requiring an invitation to be seated - and in his own suite, too. The young man hesitated, got a reassuring nod from the First Lady, then slowly nodded as well. And scooted his chair a few extra inches further away, as Bartlet took a seat across the table and tried to act as non-threatening as possible. "Thanks." He leaned back and had a sip of his own drink. So did his wife. And so, after a long pause, did Lawrence. Again, Abbey set the tone. Doctor's degree aside, she had an uncanny sense of how to reach people, and how to earn their trust. "Well, Jed?" Her husband moved only his eyes. He could just see what was coming. Lawrence turned to watch him, still wary of any further violence. She smiled pointedly. "Aren't you going to apologize?" The President flashed a knowing grin of his own, then grew more serious. Lawrence looked like a rabbit about to bolt. "Of course I am. Larry, I owe you an apology at the least, and probably a new sweater in the bargain." The young man looked down at his rumpled pullover for the first time. Tugged it into slightly better shape. "I think it's all right." "Good. I didn't really want to damage it." Pause. "Look, Larry, I want you to know that I'm not mad at you anymore. Okay? That's a promise." Lawrence thought about it, until more of the apprehension finally faded. "Okay." "That's great." Bartlet paused, searching for a simple enough explanation. "I was just really worried about my wife for a moment there." "You were?" Their guest looked puzzled. And stared at Abbey in concern. "Why?" She smiled at both of them, for almost the same reason. "Lawrence, you do understand why we have security around here, right?" He looked even more puzzled. "Security? Why?" "Because," the President persevered gamely, "the last time we had an unexpected visitor, he wasn't a friend." Lawrence's face was a study in incomprehension. "I'm a friend." "I know that now. But I didn't know it before. And I didn't want anything to happen to my wife. When I heard that someone had just . . . dropped by, I was afraid that it might be someone who's not a friend." Abbey put a hand over her eyes, her smile widening. Lawrence turned to her. "I'd never hurt you." She reached over and took his hand. "We know. And we're glad you dropped by." Her quick glance sideways dared her husband to contradict that statement. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you certainly livened up our evening. Say, how did you get in here?" Struggling to keep the urgency out of his tone. This was information the Secret Service needed badly, Lawrence's established harmlessness notwithstanding. The young man livened up with boyish pleasure. "Oh, I climbed up the drainpipe." President and First Lady traded stares of amazement. "The drainpipe," Abbey repeated, trying not to stifle her new friend's revelation with her own wonder. "Yeah! I used to do that all the time at home. I lived upstairs there, too, and we had a drainpipe a lot like yours. Only yours doesn't sway as much as ours did. You see, that way I could sneak out whenever I wanted to look at the stars. My parents didn't like me being out late at night, but I love to look at the stars." His words tumbled out excitedly. "And when I heard you were coming to town, I really, really wanted to say hello. So, I walked around the block until I saw you in the window, and then I walked across the lawn and . . . climbed up." As nonchalant as could be. "Good thing your window was open, huh? I always left mine open, too." Abbey's mouth twitched. "Yeah, good thing." Bartlet choked down a laugh of incredulity that anyone could stroll through a Secret Service perimeter, shinny two extra-tall stories straight up and climb through a window into the presidential suite just like that, and without any understanding at all of the considerable danger he himself was in the whole time. No less aware of these circumstances, the First Lady chose not to dwell on them now. "I must say," she said at last, her tone forcibly cheerful, "I'm very impressed. You're quite an acrobat." Pause. "So, now that we're all here, what is it you wanted to say?" The familiar confusion crossed their guest's youthful face once again. "I . . . wanted to tell you that I wanted to say hello." As if that wasn't self-evident. The best part of all of this was that he hadn't even glanced at the President when he unveiled that master plan. "Me?" Abbey could hardly believe it herself. "Yeah. Of course." As natural as could be. It was, after all, an honor to meet her. "Absolutely!" Bartlet agreed at once, startling her anew. "Why spend time on a President when you can speak to the First Lady? Right, Larry?" That wasn't quite sarcasm; besides, clearly Lawrence wouldn't have recognized it as a joke anyway. In fact, he looked pleased that someone else understood how he felt. "Yeah. I've really wanted to say hello." For another moment Abbey was decidedly nonplussed. Her husband's smirk indicated he was enjoying this to the hilt. A small payback for his "apology" earlier. "Well," she managed after a moment, "I'm glad you did say hello. Otherwise we wouldn't have met you." And scrabbled for further conversation. "Uh, you live here in New York?" "Yeah, at the Elmwood Shelter. It's not too far away, and I like to walk. Hey, did you know that it used to be an old jail? The bars are still on the windows. Neat, huh?" She couldn't quite hide the flash of pain. The President nodded solemnly in full agreement, all humor gone. This was the side of life that most political leaders rarely saw. Didn't want to see. It could make a person feel decidedly helpless to improve the world. Oblivious of their joint reaction, Lawrence went on. "Yeah, it's not bad. Except in winter, of course. Then it gets kind of cold on the south side." Swallowing, Abbey recomposed herself. "Well, it feels rather cold out tonight. Why don't you stay here for a while? We can take you home tomorrow. Sound good?" He exhibited mild surprise. Probably he'd never been offered any kind of assistance anytime recently and no longer knew it for what it was. "Uh . . . well . . . sure. Okay. If you want." "I do. And that means we can talk some more." He smiled shyly at that. The President was on the very same wavelength as his wife. He rose. "Excuse me, Larry. I'll be right back." He went to the suite's door and stepped outside. Ron and Charlie both stood there, silently on duty and obviously relieved that he was still in one piece. Upon his return some moments later, Bartlet just stood and listened as Abbey and Lawrence talked quietly about nonessentials. Not until the First Lady noticed him and broke off did he advance. "Larry, this is Ron." The security coordinator made a fair effort at being pleasant, despite what their new acquaintance had recently put him and his people through. "He works for us. He's got a room where you can sleep tonight, and he'll see to anything else you might need." The old fear crossed that simple face. "Take it easy. I don't like it when people are afraid of me." That was certainly true. "And Ron doesn't, either." That was certainly not true, but Ron just raised a silent eyebrow, while Abbey turned aside to hide her broad smile at least a little. "Besides," the President went on grandly, "you're under the personal protection of the First Lady, you know." This time the stoic Secret Service agent couldn't disguise his wonder, especially when the young man's features lit up like a beacon. "So! No hard feelings, right?" Bartlet extended his hand. Lawrence didn't take long this time to accept; he stood and shook hands with the President. "No hard feelings," he repeated, even if he wasn't quite sure what was meant. Abbey gave his arm in a friendly squeeze. "We've got some things to do now, but I'll see you in the morning. Right?" "Oh. Okay. In the morning." "Sure. Good night, now. Sleep tight." "Yeah!" Lawrence smiled happily down at her. "Good night, First Lady." And turned back around. "Good night, Jed." Their chuckles meant little to him; clearly he had no idea how else to address either of them. And, waving, he then allowed the slightly mortified Ron to escort him out. In the sudden silence after the door closed, husband and wife looked at each other. And sighed in unison. Exhausted by the extreme mental, emotional, and in some cases physical, calisthenics of this evening. Bartlet spoke first. "Ron's got the whole story; he'll take care of everything. Even he doesn't want to drag the kid through the wringer." Abbey's eyebrows lifted. "Well, well. Maybe the Secret Service can be humane after all." He snorted. "Actually, I think they're more than happy to bend over backwards for us right now, as a sort of oblique apology for not securing the windows or the grounds." "Ah; the real reason emerges. Don't want a public furore over how well the world's elite security force does its job, do we?" She rose and moved a few steps away, gazing out through the glass. "He gave me quite a start, blithely letting himself in like that. But how can you blame someone who has no clue of right and wrong? I thought I might as well let him sit down, in the hope that he wouldn't seem too threatening when security inevitably arrived." She sighed again. "He's luckier to be alive than he'll ever know, never mind the laws he's broken. I guess ignorance is bliss." "And then some." The President didn't move, content just to watch her. "One of the ground patrols spotted him just as he slipped inside. Any other moment and he'd have been either tackled or shot down." Pause. "He's also lucky I beat the Secret Service here in the first place - even though he may not think so himself." Abbey threw an enigmatic glance over one shoulder. "So I gathered." Enough of that particular topic. "Our guys still can't get over not spotting him sooner, but then no one in their right mind would launch such a brazen approach. Straight up a drainpipe and in plain sight, too. They're calling this a 'useful exercise'." Bartlet shook his head. He seemed to be doing that a lot this evening. "Quite a euphemism for what could all too easily have been a terrorist strike - and a successful one." Few others could have detected the undercurrent of alarm. His wife did. And she knew that alarm was for her. She also knew when her husband was being demonstrative . . . and when he was not. Sometimes, the best way to deal with such a terrifying thought was to internalize it silently. Discussion often just wrung the nerves even tighter. All public figures had to confront this dilemma. She bowed her head, eyes closed. "You know, I almost envy that boy. The world must seem so much simpler to him. Less confusing, less demanding, less unhappy. And a lot safer." Quietly, "I know what you mean." None better than the President. Silence fell. Bartlet shifted feet. "You know, the best may be yet to come. If he goes and tells all his friends about his wonderful visit with the First Lady - never mind me - I don't know how we're going to prevent a veritable stampede to your door." And there was no amusement in his voice at that thought. Abbey rotated back with her own smile. "Feeling under-appreciated, are you?" Then she waved a dismissing hand. "Don't worry; Lawrence and I will talk it over. I should be able to do something." "I won't be the only one to thank you." The President paused again, switching mental gears. "I passed a few things on to Charlie. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to do something about that shelter. And any others I find around here." She folded her arms. "You know, that sounds suspiciously like a vow." "Probably because it is. We've turned a blind eye far too long. I'm considering this a very opportune wake-up call." His features softened, studying her fondly. "You were good with him. Just as well he didn't want to see me at all." Abbey laughed. "I daresay, after the reception you gave him." And moved closer, her eyes dancing. "You're positively dangerous. You know that?" He scowled, resisting their pull a bit longer. "Unannounced visitors in your vicinity bring out the worst in me." And glanced up at the ceiling in supplication. "Just wait until the word gets out. The Secret Service will think that we think we can do without them. Next thing you know, we'll have a strike on our hands." She reached up to straighten his hair. Expressing a heartfelt Thank you very articulately without any words at all. "Oh, I'm not worried." The collar came next. "I've got my number one protector right here." Her ministrations were finally rewarded by that rakish grin of his. The tie, now in hopeless disarray, she slid free and tossed onto the table. "And from what I saw this evening, no one can possibly be safer than I am right now." Husband and wife shared a smile that spanned the years together. And moved into each other's arms for a heart-to-heart embrace. |
Get your own FREE Home Page
