Sonata in C MaJor

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): CJ
Category(s): General
Rating: MATURE
Disclaimer: Warmest thanks to Aaron Sorkin, Warner Bros., NBC, et al for graciously allowing us to expand upon their patented creation at no extra charge.
Summary: CJ disappears without a trace...
Spoiler: After "Galileo".

***

Phase II: Allegro

Allegro (adj.): in a brisk tempo

The atmosphere in the Oval Office positively sizzled with tension. Not because people were running frantically to and fro – rather, those assembled on that famous blue carpet stood as still as possible, so as not to miss a word of the current discussion. One might think they also wanted to channel every atom of energy into mental focus rather than waste it pacing.

The pervading differences of opinion only ratcheted the air pressure even higher.

How these people had positioned themselves conveyed volumes about the sentiment behind each mind. Leo stood quite close to the right-hand corner of the President's desk, as the President's right-hand man should – almost literally guarding his boss's flank. Josh and Sam, known for being not only the highest-charged personalities around but also each other's best friend, stood shoulder to shoulder on Leo's left. Toby had selected a spot slightly further back, like an independent source of knowledge and decision.

Across the presidential seal was the Director of the CIA, the Director of the FBI, and the coordinator for White House security. They stood in a straight row, each one the exact same distance from that carved desk, each one clearly not about to accept placement by so much as an inch behind his fellows – which would imply that his role was of lesser importance.

With this configuration, one could draw a line right down the middle of the room and divide its occupants into two conflicting forces: those who saw this scenario as an operation involving citizens... and those who viewed it as a crisis involving a friend.

At the very end of that almost visible line stood the man who had to stay perfectly balanced between these two diametrically opposed poles.

Josiah Bartlet loomed behind his desk, both hands planted on its polished surface, leaning just a bit forward in the classic pose of an angry leader. "Angry," however, would not do his current mood justice.

Behind him, the window-framed image of a snow-bound Washington – his city – provided a fitting backdrop to the cold fire in his eyes.

"Reassure me. Now."

Ron Butterfield took the initiative. "I dispatched Secret Service agents to Ms. Cregg's home and to the gym as per your orders, sir. The gym appeared to be closed for the day – but one of our men heard a tapping on a window. When he attempted to investigate, another window opened and a handgun emerged. Our people at once fell back and secured the perimeter. Then they contacted the FBI and the DC police."

The Bureau Director spoke up next. "We've confirmed that an undetermined number of armed men are forted up inside with at least two dozen hostages. The local merchants have reported that no one went in or out of the gym since at least 6 AM. It's a popular place for highly-ranked government officials to exercise, and residents are used to seeing some well-known personalities about at that hour."

The President straightened and checked his watch in some disbelief. "You're telling me these gunmen stormed a public establishment barely a mile away from here, took a group of congressmen and women hostage at gun-point, and we're just learning about it four hours later?"

"Sir, we believe that the terrorists wanted to stay unnoticed until they were fully prepared to withstand a siege. Also, the extra time lag in which their prisoners didn't show up for work could have been a deliberate effort to unsettle the government even more, in the hopes that we would be more receptive to demands. This is a well-planned operation."

"I agree," the CIA Director put in. "They must've been aiming for congressmen and/or senators, and they chose a good location. That gym is like a neutral zone where members of opposing parties and affiliations can interact in relative peace. And the security has never been all that high."

"Any word on possible casualties?" Bartlet asked, steadily enough.

"None so far, sir," the Bureau Director admitted. "There's been no direct contact with the occupants at all. We first thought the phone lines were down due to the blizzard, but I have no doubt now that the gunmen are responsible for that. Naturally, they'd have confiscated every pager and cellular phone in the place."

"They're going to want to make their demands known at some point."

The President turned his back and stared out into the still-falling snow. Right this moment, almost due south of where he stood, just beyond his sight, the latest crop of deranged idealists was threatening human lives in order to blackmail a civilized society and achieve their warped vision of an unrealistic utopia. For all his professed authority of supreme worldly power, he could not reach out across the distance and pluck the prisoners to safety – even though his entire soul shouted for the ability to do so.

This sort of thing had happened often enough before, so that its familiar rhetoric tended to lose at least some impact after awhile. That, of course, did not make the danger to the hostages any less real. And just to sweeten the pot a bit more, one of those hostages was a friend.

No one interrupted this executive contemplation.

Finally he asked, "What steps have been taken so far?"

The Bureau Director drew himself up. "Sir, the FBI is coordinating with the DC police. That entire block has been evacuated and sealed off. The word is out, though; the media are present. All contact with the gunmen will be classified. We're arranging a negotiator right now. Maybe we can gain some concessions to whatever demands they make – and either way, it'll help provide a smokescreen in case more forceful steps are taken later."

Josh and Sam both shifted feet worriedly, but said nothing. It was too soon.

"Sir, I have here a list of members of Congress, the Senate and all other levels of federal government who did not report to work today and whose absence is not accounted for." The CIA Director extended a file. Bartlet accepted and perused it. "We're already tracking down those who can't be involved in this situation. The terrorists will probably release some of the names of their captives, but we'll know who they all are in just a little while."

"I know a lot of these people, at least casually." The President shook his head in a very depressed fashion. Then he handed the list to Leo, who surveyed its contents as well, his expression deteriorating.

Ron took his turn. "Sir, because of Ms. Cregg's direct involvement, the White House is now in lock-down. No one goes in or out."

Toby rolled his eyes, eloquently declaring how helpful he believed this measure to be.

Bartlet put that same opinion into words. "We don't want CJ's name linked to this at all if we can help it, Ron. So far as anyone else knows, we're not directly involved yet. Won't locking us down make some of the more perceptive minds wonder?"

"Well, Mr. President, they'll just have to take my word for it that this is a precautionary measure."

They would, too; despite his mild appearance, the Special Agent in Charge of the White House detail of the United States Secret Service possessed an iron core that defied challenge.

"They'd better," Bartlet ground out. "If it leaks that one of the hostages is the highest-ranking woman on my staff – "

Up until now the other members of his staff had said nothing. Their input would not be welcomed by the directors; that their viewpoints would conflict with the official approach was assured. In fact, Josh, Sam and Toby all felt more than a little lucky to be included in this meeting in the first place.

It was Leo who first chose to take part. "Actually, sir, the lock-down may work to our advantage. The press corps already knows that CJ was not available at nine-thirty. Now they'll assume that she's been locked out of the White House just as they've been locked in. No one will expect her back on the job until this whole thing is resolved."

Both the staff and the directors nodded, actually in consensus. Of course, everyone knew that happy state of affairs wouldn't last long.

"Let's just be grateful that this headline didn't break until after the press corps was already assembled," Sam commented. "Otherwise our first briefing of the day would have been even more lively."

The President rubbed absently at the base of his neck. "So – for the time being, until these soldiers of fortune make their wishes known, we've taken all suitable precautions. Am I right?"

"Yes, sir," the three officials rapped out in unison.

Bartlet gave a brisk nod. "All right. Now for strategy."

The Bureau Director straightened his posture even more. "Sir, the UN directive – "

"Don't say it."

He disobeyed a direct executive order and recited it anyway. "The United States does not negotiate with terrorists."

The CIA Director glanced at the ceiling expressively.

The President glared at being so summarily ignored; the man on the receiving end of that fiery eye actually leaned back a bit.

"Terence, I am well aware of what the UN, in its ivory tower of global perspective, has established as the only logical response to terrorism. Although this is the first time I've had to deal with such a dilemma directly, I am also well aware of just what is at stake. If I cave in to one group's pressure, then of course I'll be expected to cave in to every other group out there, and we'll have a plague of violence on our hands with a terrible cost in innocent lives. We might as well throw the Constitution out the window. The next decision I make could send civilization back to the Dark Ages." Bartlet paused for effect. "That is not acceptable."

Josh and Sam winced together. At this moment their usually compassionate, civic-minded Commander-in-Chief sounded like a powerful world leader and nothing else. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few... or the one...

"However..." Again a calculating pause. "There's another element to consider in this little equation: the voice of the people. No citizen likes to think that their government values their lives so cheaply that nullifying a terrorist threat takes precedence over the safety of the hostages. Whether or not I happen to know any of those unfortunate individuals, I have a responsibility to every single one of them."

The President paused yet again. No one stirred.

"And when I do know one or more of them, all that contributes is an extra element of anguish."

He was looking over their heads, staring into another dimension... where a rather unenviable choice awaited his verdict.

Sam released his held breath slowly; that was more like what the senior staff expected of their boss. By comparison, the three officials looked grim. Too much sentiment, by their way of thinking, would cripple this office in a heartbeat.

Bartlet came to himself after another moment, and shook his mind clear of the ugly images marching past. "Well, then. At the moment we have two options: to capitulate, or not. I want more to choose from than that."

"We'll get to work on it, Mr. President," Ron promised.

"Make it fast; no telling when those nuts are going to go public. Also, if anyone else has a suggestion, I want it considered as well. Anyone." Their Chief Executive sized up every person in the room. "There will be no power struggles between the various official organizations involved, and there will be no dismissing of ideas from outside those organizations either. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." This time the replies were not in chorus, and far less enthusiastic. The CIA Director's was the last of all; that organization especially hated to yield control of anything.

Bartlet did not comment. He had more important things to do right now than mediate that age-old dispute about whose turf was whose. "Leo?"

His Chief of Staff stepped in. Enough theory; it was time they dealt with practical issues. "This is going to require a careful balancing act with the press; we don't want to give the gunmen any more publicity than is absolutely necessary. Until and unless the terrorists petition the White House directly, we'll stay out of it as much as we can."

"I'll brief Carol," Josh offered.

"Do it."

"One problem," Sam offered unhappily. "These maniacs are going to want publicity. Just how far do you suppose they'll go to get it? Execution?"

Josh flinched.

"We'll deal with that when and if we have to," Leo told him firmly. "Until then, we don't feed the fire."

"Here's something else," Josh resumed. "Take a minute to think about just who they've got for their bargaining chips."

The others stared at him with varying levels of interest.

"A group of politicians and union members," Terence said, not quite managing to mask the caustic edge to his words.

"Probably felt that bureaucrats would put up less of a physical fight than some people," the CIA Director mused in much the same fashion. "They do battle with words, not blows." Both the FBI and the CIA were more action-oriented and naturally developed some contempt for people who never entered "the field" as they knew it.

"Well, this is an historic moment," Bartlet observed with an even more derisive tone. "You two actually agree on something." The two men traded an almost surprised expression. "You may be way out in left field, but you're learning to cooperate."

Both men frowned, looking totally insulted; only the office of the President caused them to choke back their words.

"My point," Josh persisted, "is that they're all people who work out. They keep in shape. They may not be security-trained, but they're not totally helpless either. And I know CJ – she's not going to just sit back and be dictated to. She's going to do something about this mess – from the inside."

Terence snorted. "Oh, terrific. Just what we need: a supply of dead heroes."

Sam cringed.

"Director..." Leo said with that note of warning that everyone here knew.

"If we move in on them, it'll be with trained professionals who know exactly what they're doing. Any bright ideas on the part of the captives could make matters worse."

"Do not think CJ reckless," Toby advised in that quiet voice of his. It was the first time he'd contributed to this entire discussion; heads promptly rotated his way. "Or any of the others. Every employee of this government has been briefed on how to conduct themselves in a terrorist situation. That includes how to prepare the way for their rescuers."

"Ms. Cregg is also familiar with Secret Service procedure," Ron volunteered.

The President nodded slowly. "Valid point, gentlemen. If an assault team is brought in, we'll make sure they know that the hostages will be organized and ready for them."

"God, I hope it doesn't come to that," Sam muttered.

"Only as a last ditch effort," Bartlet assured him. "CJ isn't the only life at stake here. Some are elected representatives of the people, and some are just hard-working staffers who never make the headlines. Well, it doesn't matter. I want every last one of them out safely."

Their leader swept the room, meeting each pair of eyes. "Okay. Start formulating our possible responses. Right now the ball is in their court; I want to be ready when they volley it toward us."

"Yes, sir," everyone responded.

"In the meantime there are other matters on my plate... which means I can put off this particular conundrum for a little while at least. That is all."

Josh, Sam and Toby all seemed a little taken aback at their leader's cool attitude toward such a delicate crisis involving such a close colleague. But they could hardly stand in the Oval Office and tell the U.S. President exactly what they thought of his impersonal stance, especially since it tailored with international policy. In silent reluctance they forced themselves to turn and leave. The three men opposite them looked somewhat more satisfied with the way things had gone as they followed; their views had been more obviously upheld.

Leo hesitated for one extra moment – and sure enough, Bartlet threw him a familiar glance. So he held his ground and watched as the others filed out, leaving the two most influential men in the country to confer in private.

*****

"Didn't that seem just a bit strange to you?" Sam queried as the four staffers marched down the hall together.

Josh threw him a hard look. "You mean how the President appeared almost detached from this whole issue? Yeah, I noticed."

"Remember this time last year when that military doctor of his got shot down? He was all set to pave Syria."

"Uh-huh. And his relationship with Tolliver was not even remotely comparable to his friendship with CJ." Josh's teeth were grinding as he led the way into the Communications area. At her desk, Carol promptly gave them her full attention. So did almost everyone else. "Damn it, she's been a vital part of our team since the campaign, that's ignoring the fact that she's one of our best friends, and he can't do better than wait and see?"

"I'd better not comment on that – not if I don't want to sound treasonous."

Carol glanced from one to the other in vivid concern. The loyalty of the entire staff to Jed Bartlet had never been in doubt before.

Clearly Josh agreed with Sam more than a little. "He's listening to the wrong people. Those guys treat hostages like numbers on paper, not human beings at all!"

"Leo will talk some sense into him."

"If he doesn't, I will." The Deputy Chief of Staff was seething. "I can't stand this waiting around. For my money, not knowing exactly what's happening in that gym is worse than hearing the bad news itself."

"On the other hand, so long as the outcome is in doubt we can still influence it," Sam pointed out soberly.

"Right now I don't put a lot of stock in the FBI's approach. Way too heavy-handed. What do they care about a congressman here, a senator there... A mere Press Secretary will merit even less of a nod from them – "

"If you have an alternative, the President has stated that he'll be pleased to entertain it." This counter from Toby swung the pair of them into an about-face. His posture was stiff. "Almost all of those people are public figures in DC, and none of them are on the Service's protection list. CJ in particular is a personal friend of the President, which makes her an even more effective tool for maximum news coverage and emotional blackmail. Once the gunmen realize that, you can bet they'll put her center stage. So if we can come up with any ideas of our own, we'd better do it fast. We were complaining earlier about not knowing where she was or what we should do; now at least we have a concrete focus for our anxiety. Let's use it."

The two men stood there for a moment, well-chastised and thinking furiously. The rest of the Communications staff maintained their distance and as much of a quiet as they could. Carol alone did not pretend to ignore them, knowing that she'd be dragged straight into this in one more minute, and her nervous expression advertised just how out of place she felt witnessing what amounted to a war council.

Sam rubbed the knuckles of one hand under his chin in a thoughtful manner. "Josh, I'm sure you were right about the hostages working together. Hell, by now CJ's probably taken the lead and started a plan of her own."

"Yeah, but there's an added complication to that." Josh sounded rather less optimistic. "Even if the gunmen do intend to eventually free their prisoners, I doubt they'll use kid gloves in the meantime – for sure not with anyone who shows resistance. Also, the women are almost always victimized more than the men."

Carol inhaled sharply and raised her hand to her mouth at the hideous thoughts spawned by that cold fact.

"And CJ is not the type to sit down and obey – not without putting up a fight," Toby muttered, not to add to the others' demons, but to give voice to his own. His gaze swept blindly across the room, his hands coming up to hold his head together.

Sam whirled and slammed his fist into the nearest wall. Several people in the area around them jumped visibly.

Josh's fists were flexing, as though in search of some object to squeeze – like a human throat. "If they do anything to her..."

"Don't even put it into words," Sam said, with a combination of fear and fury.

"If only we could get a message through to her!"

"If only."

Toby's dark eyes were like bullets, but otherwise he'd gotten himself back under control. "Well, the moment either of you comes up with a stroke of genius I want to hear it. I have some steps of my own to take." So saying, he marched off towards his office.

Carol looked at his retreating back, then at his deputy in unadulterated fear.

Sam noticed her at last, and managed a bit of a smile somehow. "Don't worry; we'll help you prep. There's enough time to do it right."

She did not appear all that reassured at the prospect of facing the press corps again, but she scrounged up a nod. "Okay." Somewhat resignedly, she returned to her work.

By now Josh's own rage had faded into pure guilt.

"And to think that we were taking bets about the reason CJ was late," he almost whispered, unable to meet his best friend's eye.

"Yeah." Sam slumped against the wall he'd assaulted, in equal regret. Then, "I just had a horrible thought."

"Add it to the pile; one more can hardly matter at this stage."

"Oh, I think this one will matter quite a bit." He took a deep breath. "At some point, someone is going to have to inform her family."

Josh stiffened at that, teeth clenched.

Sam scratched his head. "So here's the question: do we tell them now, or later?"

Pause.

"Well, since she hasn't yet been publicly associated with this thing yet, we can't say a word. If there's even a chance that CJ has managed to remain anonymous, then we can't do anything that might put her further in danger."

"And if the names of the hostages are broadcast over every radio station in town? It'll be across the whole country five minutes later."

Josh closed his eyes and let his head fall back as far as it would go.

What would be worse? Being told by your daughter's employer that she is a hostage in a terrorist drama, and no one knows if she's dead or alive? Finding out over the airwaves with the life-and-death tension at its height, because no one wanted to worry you? Learning only when it's all over that she didn't survive, and you never even knew she was in danger?

"Suddenly gives you a better feel for the President's situation, doesn't it?"

"Sam, you are entirely too good at complicating issues even further."

"At the moment I'm hating myself for it. Listen, I'm going to help Carol. She's more than a little overwhelmed right now."

Josh grunted. "She's not the only one. It's always at the least convenient moment that we truly grasp just how dependent we can be on one person."

"No kidding." The Deputy Communications Director pushed himself upright... and paused. "Do you have anything you can't cancel today?"

"You mean, do I have any impending policy discussions that are more important than the welfare of a best friend?"

"Exactly."

Josh considered. "I couldn't focus on anything else if my life depended on it."

Then he stopped – too late. The obvious connection had been made.

Sam went ahead and said it anyway. "And someone else's might."

*****

The President of the United States and the White House Chief of Staff stood side by side, staring through the ceiling-high windows of the Oval Office, watching the snow continue to descend upon their capital city.

One might think that in private these two old friends – best friends for more than forty years – could forget, at least temporarily, about their not-unimpressive titles and their considerable responsibilities. That they could lay aside the tremendous burden of running the strongest nation on earth for a few minutes at least, and enjoy a brief, well-deserved moment of personal agony... that they could be just Jed and Leo again.

"I'll bet the guys are not too pleased with me right now," Bartlet muttered.

Leo sighed, not looking at him. "They understand, don't worry."

"From the looks they gave me, I seriously wonder."

Leo inclined his head in agreement with that observation, but he didn't back down. "You did what you had to do."

"Oh, sure. I acted like the President. I consulted all the officials, I heard all the arguments, and I agreed to all the reasoning that insists we cannot negotiate with terrorism. I did exactly what my official position demands: I put the well-being of America first." Bartlet's tone grew more bitter by the moment. "I even did my duty by the hostages, acknowledging their importance as citizens and, in some cases, fellow leaders of this country. I made it clear that their safety is paramount – just so long as we don't give in. And throughout all of this, I didn't let my personal feelings distract me from the harsh reality of this dilemma."

"You have to face the worst-case scenario; there's no hiding from it."

"Meaning that I must consider where and when I may have to make sacrifices, even if it potentially costs innocent lives." The President turned away with a jerk and started to pace. Leo followed him with his eyes.

"Members of Congress are replaceable. So are administrators. So are Press Secretaries." He halted very briefly, then forced himself onward. "Hell, so are Presidents. But human lives AREN'T!" The walls vibrated that time.

Bartlet spun back to face his old friend, as if wise and steady Leo McGarry had all the answers. "How? How can anyone value life so cheaply that they will blow up planes with medical personnel, or shoot at people in a crowd, or threaten to murder someone in cold blood, just so that they can get what they want?"

Leo turned this speech over in his mind. "Because they can."

The President looked away, unsatisfied with that evaluation. "Well, right now part of me is screaming that this must not be tolerated. We have to crush any effort to undermine democratic authority and endanger those who abide by that authority. We have to prove that they can't!"

Leo said nothing, a silent observer to executive turmoil.

Bartlet came to a stop directly over the presidential seal. He studied its intricate stitching for several seconds... and his official role slowly, reluctantly, visibly reasserted itself.

"Meanwhile, I'm thinking about people who have been selected by their constituents to improve their lives. I'm thinking about people who have volunteered to do the drab and tedious work behind that political front, without which this government can't possibly function. And I'm thinking about one person – who helps keep me on an even keel, who is an indispensable member of our administration, who isn't afraid to look her President in the eye and tell him what she knows is right..."

His voice dropped again.

"And I'm thinking about all their families, too."

Leo waited for a heartbeat or so, and then moved around the desk and crossed the carpet to stand on the other side of that seal. Looking at his leader. Being there.

After what felt like an hour, his old friend straightened again.

"You don't know how many times I've faced this nightmare in my dreams, with my own family members. I hate all the security around us, but I know how necessary it is. Each time I think about making these very decisions, I shudder. I completely recoil from being forced to choose between one of my loved ones and the policies of this nation."

His voice began to rise again. "Leo, you're my family as well. You, Josh, Toby, Sam and CJ. All of you! And I will not permit my family to be harmed."

*****

Like everyone else in the White House, Danny Concannon was locked indoors and forbidden to leave. Unlike almost everyone else, he knew the real reason why.

And like most of those privileged few also in the know, he understood the full meaning of helplessness. There was virtually nothing to do except wait... and trust that the right steps were being taken by others.

So he waited. He had forced himself to return to the White House Press Corps office area. He stayed in his cubicle, blocked out everything else, and vented his frustration and worries by pounding his laptop – the only weapon and form of mobility left him.

"Danny?"

His head bobbed up at once. So much for ignoring the world.

"Carol!"

CJ's assistant stood a few feet off, as though afraid to come too close. She fiddled with both hands, apparently not quite sure where to put them. From her tense expression, she was hanging onto her composure by all ten fingernails.

"Any news?" But as soon as he asked, he could read the answer in her depressed headshake.

When she hesitated again, he decided that perhaps she needed him to take the initiative. "Listen, I'm sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"It's okay." Carol managed a tiny shrug. "You're as worried as the rest of us."

He looked down. "Yeah."

Several seconds ticked past, while his mind filled with torturous thoughts about a certain Press Secretary in dire peril, before he realized that Carol was still standing there, watching him. He looked up again, trying to decipher the angst in her eyes.

"Danny..." she began with an effort, "is this a bad time for me to speak to you?"

He blinked in surprise. She had sought him out any number of times before... but always at CJ's request, he realized. Suddenly, he saw in Carol a companion in his powerlessness and fear. His compassionate nature reached out to the forlorn young woman before him.

"Nah. I was just trying to distract myself. Here, let me get you a chair."

The fact that she didn't wave away the offer indicated that she wanted to say something neither unimportant nor brief. He swiped a chair from a nearby vacant desk and moved it over so that she could sit comfortably close and appreciate at least the illusion of privacy.

"Thanks." Carol sat. Danny sat. The silence lengthened between them, even with the constant background hum of printers, photocopiers, movement and muted conversation.

He waited patiently; she had to decide when and where to begin.

She glanced around in an attempt at relaxing small talk. "It's a lot less hectic here than in Communications right now."

"Really? This place can get pretty crazy, too."

"Yeah... I suppose it can."

Silence descended again, the tension unrelieved, as he watched her grapple with her demons.

"Danny... about CJ's disappearance – "

He raised both hands at once. "Hey, you don't need to ask; mum's the word. I haven't spoken to anyone. I know I'm sitting on a major angle to the hostage story that would blow this whole thing wide open, and the public has the right to hear about it – but I also know that making it general knowledge could put her at an even greater risk than she is already. There's no problem holding back for now."

Carol nodded jerkily. "Uh, thanks. That does make me feel better, and I'm sure others will, too. We all knew you could be trusted with this. But... that's not exactly what I was getting at."

"It's not?" Now she really had his attention.

"No." She fidgeted. "It's just that I'm, well, kind of left holding the bag here. And I don't mind admitting that it scares me. I was wondering if... if I could ask you for some – you know, some business advice."

Danny considered this, an extraordinary request indeed from a White House employee to a journalist, then gave her an understanding smile. "Sure. Anything I can do to help."

Now that she'd started, Carol couldn't hold herself in. "Until CJ comes back, they want me to keep up the front. And I'm not looking forward to the next briefing."

"I can't say I blame you – but it won't be that bad."

"You don't think so? I'm far more terrified of thinking on my feet during the Q&A than the actual briefing. I broke last time, and they all saw it; they'll be dying to break me again so that I spill more information than I'm supposed to!"

"Sure, it's nerve-racking. You're certainly bright, but it takes years of experience, natural grace, and courage beyond measure to handle the press as deftly as CJ does. No one expects you to do as good a job in a single day."

"But the whole White House is counting on me!" Carol cried out, her volume rising in near-panic. "They need someone who can tell the truth in one sentence and hide it in the next, someone who won't give away their plans to the whole world – to the terrorists as well! I feel like I'm holding CJ's life in my hands, never mind all the others!"

Danny reached out a comforting hand between them. "Calm down. It's not fair for you to take that burden upon yourself. We're all doing the best we can in a difficult situation. This is a united effort, you know."

Carol paused, fighting her fear. "You're right. I'm just having a lot of trouble convincing myself of that." She exhaled. "Thanks for listening. I really needed to talk to someone – someone who's not debating plans of attack with the FBI. Someone who really cares."

"No problem. But don't sell the other guys short. They care a whole lot, too – they just have something concrete to do right now, and I don't."

They fell silent again... perhaps remembering a certain confrontation in Communications earlier that day.

Then Danny perked up. "Say, how about if I give you a few pointers? You know, what questions you'll probably get, and how to handle them?"

Her brows pinched. "Well, Sam's been coaching me on the side, when he has time. We already went through several..."

"Then let's go through them again so you know you've got it down. Besides, I might be able to come up with a few that he missed." Danny grinned proudly.

Carol picked up on that, and her own spirits rose a bit. "Okay. I can use the practice, and I'd rather be doing something proactive anyway."

"That goes for me, too."

He began slowly, gently asking some questions that were sure to come up and rehearsing her on the responses. It was a delicate balancing act to judge which ones should be answered frankly, which should be put off, and which required certain levels of vagueness. But between Danny's experience on the other side of the coin and the number of times both had seen CJ at work before, they made good progress. Gradually, Carol's answers grew more confident, and her anxiety diminished. Just as gradually, Danny picked up the pace and his challenges became more biting.

"How far will the White House go to protect this privileged group of hostages?" he demanded at one point, in the sharp tone that a no-nonsense reporter would certainly use.

Carol paused to give this question the thought it needed before she formed a reply, just as he'd taught her... and her new assurance fell away.

"How far will the White House go?" she repeated tentatively – and now she was putting the question to him.

Danny stopped as well, his didactic role evaporating as he really considered the question, no longer an exercise.

Neither of them had the answer. Both of them knew it.

They sat there, in the new and unhappy quiet, taking a moment to silently comfort each other in their mutual fear, giving both something to carry them a little further into the nightmare.

*****

"Sir, I think that a bit more clarification as to why this shift in economic trends will benefit the medical system would be appreciated by most of your listeners. It makes sense to us, but they won't have the numbers right in front of..." Pause. "Mr. President?"

The young man looked over his clipboard at the occupant of the high-backed leather chair in the Oval Office. Said occupant was staring vacantly into space.

A full three seconds elapsed before Bartlet registered on the address, the silence, or both, and turned back to his advisor. "Huh?"

The young man politely did not comment.

"Oh – I'm sorry, Malcolm. You were saying?"

"It's okay, sir."

"No, it's not. I'm having a hard day, but that's no excuse." The President glanced down at the report before him. "Where were we? That bit about funneling some new money into Medicare, right?"

Malcolm managed not to sigh. "Yes, sir. I was saying – "

A knock on the door to the Oval Office interrupted him. Both men turned as Leo let himself inside.

He didn't have to say anything. The dark expression on his face spoke volumes.

Bartlet straightened in his seat. "The hostages?"

His old friend responded with the barest nod.

"Damn. I don't think one thing has been timed right today. Malcolm, I'll have to get back to you later."

The young man resignedly gathered up his notes. "Of course, sir."

"No, I'm not brushing you off. Let me resolve this national crisis first, and then we'll be free to tackle the medical crisis. I promise you that." Trying not to look eager at ending this discussion, the President rose and shook his advisor's hand.

"Sure thing. Thank you, sir."

The leader of the free world and his right-hand man did not move, watching Malcolm's exit as silently and carefully as though they were both very reluctant to see him go. The instant the door clicked shut behind him, though, Bartlet spun around.

"Well?"

"We've heard from the terrorists," Leo informed him in a low tone.

The President braced himself. "CJ?"

His Chief of Staff's head moved slightly to either side, just once. "Nothing."

Bartlet exhaled. "Well, now we know that they weren't after her specifically, rather than whatever officials just happened to be there. Otherwise, they'd be proclaiming her name right and left."

Leo nodded. "Yep. They did release a few other names, just to prove their point. Of course, CJ knows to keep a low profile, what with her direct link to you."

"That 'direct link' is a real curse to her right now." The President turned back to the window, again wishing he could see through the buildings and trees and the very walls of the besieged gym itself. "I'm having the devil's own time concentrating on anything else today."

"I know how you feel," Leo commented softly.

A pause settled between them.

"So who are these idiots anyway, and what do they want?"

"Well, they haven't broadcast a name per se, but it looks like we lucked out at least a bit: they're not the fanatics everyone hears about and dreads the most. Apparently they chose to target wealthy congressmen since they feel Congress has done nothing to combat poverty in DC, let alone elsewhere in the country. All things considered, their cause is noble enough."

Bartlet let out a deep breath that sounded more like a growl. "Oh, sure. I'll compliment them on their dedication to the betterment of society, regardless of their chosen method to advertise it. I presume they're threatening to either harm or kill their wealthy and high-profile prisoners unless the United States government finally takes concrete action against poverty, and unless whatever other demands they have are not met, et cetera, et cetera. Right?"

"Right." Leo shifted. "And unfortunately, they're still capable of planning this strategically despite their benevolent intentions. They chose today on purpose, knowing that the blizzard would work to their advantage. The police can't maintain a long-term stakeout in sub-zero weather. And one of their other demands is for a chopper, so that they can make a fast getaway despite the road conditions."

"Wonderful. Principled terrorism. I'd rather deal with these guys than the type that wants to start a holy war, but that doesn't make them any less of a threat to their hostages, and it doesn't make my final decision any easier." The President revolved. "Quite the contrary: now I have to take their humanity into account as well."

His Chief of Staff mirrored that taut stance. "Perhaps not just yet."

Bartlet heard the note of warning, and clenched his teeth. "What?"

"There... may have already been casualties among the hostages." This time Leo had to pause. "We've got an unconfirmed report of shots having been fired inside the gym."

One heartbeat thudded past... and then another... each man alone with his tortured thoughts.

"Any word on a real plan of attack yet?" the President inquired at last, forcing himself not to ask the real question on his mind.

"They're still assimilating this new info. At least our chances of negotiation – or appearing to negotiate – have increased a lot," Leo pointed out with the first hint of optimism. "These people aren't just operating on rage and injustice. They seem to be genuinely concerned for the welfare of this country. We believe they will respond to negotiation."

"Thank God for small mercies." Bartlet lifted his gaze upward, as though appealing directly to heaven for guidance. Then he sighed. "I still can't capitulate, but I can stall. Whatever it takes to get CJ – and the others – out safely. Keep me informed, Leo."

His old friend stood at attention. "Yes, sir."

The President turned back to his southern view. Countless unrelated duties still confronted him, decisions and appearances that not even a hostage situation could completely overshadow. But right now he did not want to be distracted from this concern at all.

He realized that Leo had not left the Oval Office when a supporting hand descended upon his shoulder. Neither man looked at the other. They just stood there together, in the silence, staring out into the snow, sharing the burden of democracy and the price of friendship.

*****

The door to Josh's office was closed, muffling voices both inside and out. Any casual passerby glancing through the glass panes on either side would have naturally assumed that the two men inside were concentrating on their work, to the exclusion of all else.

Actually, their focus was elsewhere this afternoon... and had such a passerby ventured to intrude, the sheer potency of helplessness, rage and fear within – and the silence – would have removed all doubt as to where.

Sam sat in the guest chair with a pad and pen on his knee. He'd been making a valiant attempt at official business for some time now. Finally, though, he hit his limit and tossed the file onto the nearby table with a dispirited sigh.

Josh had already abandoned any pretense at concentration. He turned from the opposite wall and looked across his desk at his friend. "I second that motion."

Silence.

They were thinking about the very same things and both knew it, yet neither had the first idea how to address them. Their eyes met briefly, then looked away again.

Josh broke first. This silence was worse than the previous kind. "They've made their demands?"

Sam didn't glance his way. "Yep."

"Nothing we're about to give them?"

Sam continued to study the floor. "Yep."

"So an assault is imminent?"

And still Sam gave no obvious sign. "Yep."

Josh massaged his forehead, but no amount of physical therapy could relieve his pain. "They'll wait for full dark – and then..."

He couldn't continue.

Now Sam shifted, desperate to fill the void before it engulfed him.

"Didn't you ever want to be a superhero? When you were little, I mean?"

Josh stopped rubbing his temple and peered through his fingers at that apparent non sequitur. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

"You know – a hero. A crimefighter. Superman, Batman, et cetera." Sam's hands made aimless patterns in the air. "Saving the world from certain disaster, rescuing damsels in distress..." He trailed off weakly at the expression of both wonder and discomfort he was getting, then attempted to regroup. "No? Me, neither."

Josh sat back, and deliberately thought about it. "Yeah... I did. I guess I still do. Look at what I do for a living."

For one instant that might have been the merest hint of a grin on Sam's boyish face. "Good one."

Josh aimed his gaze at the small window. "Man, I could sure use some abilities like that right now." His eyes began to film over, entering another dimension. "But in real life, sometimes the heroes don't show up at all. Or sometimes they're just too late... The damsels are already hurt... or dead."

Silence.

It was right in the middle of that awful quiet when Toby decided to barge in. Only Sam turned his way. Josh didn't even appear to notice, his head tilted back and his focus distant.

The Communications Director surveyed this motionless pair for a moment, and his habitual scowl deepened. "Well, I really hate to interrupt your séance here, but this government does need to project some illusion of productivity."

Sam considered this leisurely. He'd built up quite a tolerance to his boss's caustic tone over the past two years. "Now that you mention it, a little assistance from the paranormal would be welcome right about now..."

"Sure – let's scare the bad guys and their prisoners to death. Break out your crystal ball." Toby adopted a defensive stance near the doorway, hands in pockets. "For all we know, this whole hostage thing might be some kind of political smokescreen to force the President's hand on a totally unrelated issue. So, we keep going. Even the lock-down won't get you out of your six o'clock with McWilliams; they're setting up the teleconference in the Roosevelt."

After a moment to digest this, Sam's shoulders slumped in a weary exhalation. "Fine. It's not like anything important demands my time right now," he muttered sourly.

Toby ignored that; he rarely if ever expended time and energy on his deputy's feelings about such assignments. "Just wake up the Dreamweaver there before you take him along."

Slouched in his desk chair, Josh had taken no notice of this entire discussion. His eyes remained fastened on something neither of his colleagues could see. Now, suddenly, he spoke up.

"You know, I bet they just walked into the gym like anyone else. There's no security guard or anything." His tone was low and thoughtful... and strained. Both men turned to him. "But the moment they showed their guns, people would've tried to run. A couple of gunmen must've barred the main entrance at once while a few others went off to secure the other exits. Then they would've tracked down all the cell phones and cut the main line so no one could call out."

"Josh..." Toby warned him quietly.

The Deputy Chief of Staff gave no indication he'd heard. His eyes wandered around the room, but saw nothing in it.

"And then they'd want to bring all their prisoners together in one place. This means, of course, that they raided the men's and women's locker rooms and showers."

Sam grimaced in acute discomfort. "But there have to be some spots where people could hide in that place... provided they had enough warning – "

"The terrorists struck just after six. CJ would've finished her workout at about that time. Which means she was almost certainly changing."

"Josh – " Toby tried again, with a bit more inflection.

Josh paid no mind whatsoever to either of his companions; he was in his own tormented world, and talking himself into a frenzy.

"What state of dress or undress would she have been in when they blew through those locker-room doors?"

"Josh." That was Toby's dangerous voice, entirely too soft for safety's sake. He still didn't move, but his face was getting redder and redder.

By contrast, Josh's was getting paler and paler as vivid images assaulted his mind. "And what would they do to her if she gave them the slightest trouble? Besides, just the sight of a half-naked woman – "

With no warning, Toby erupted. In one motion he seized the coat-rack and flung it against the chalkboard so hard that a chip fell out of the black graphite surface and one of the steel hooks bent almost double. Josh and Sam both shot out of their chairs, and together they watched in shock as the rack skittered along the board and bumped its way down to a resting-place on the floor.

Then, slowly, they looked up. Toby's fists were clenched, his chest heaving.

"It's not going to happen," he gasped out at last, in a level enough tone, yet deep and hard – changed almost beyond recognition. "She's going to be fine."

Then, twisting away from the disbelief before him, he stalked out of the office.

Josh and Sam stood alone, staring after him. Motionless and silent outside, the entire Communications staff stared back at them in equal wonder.

It seemed ages before Josh could pull himself together enough to meet Sam's gaze.

"She's the closest thing I have to a sister now."

It was horrible enough to threaten her life; for some reason that none of the men could quite grasp, the notion of threatening her body derailed their composure completely. Somehow, that idea was more unnerving even than the thought of her being killed outright.

Sam understood his buddy like almost no one else did. He reached over and gripped him by the upper arm, one pal to another.

"We'll love her no matter what happens," he promised.

*****

Again, the defining image was of an Oval Office sparsely populated, yet packed to its ornate plaster ceiling with suspense.

Outside, nightfall had long since descended over the New World... a fitting backdrop to the prevalent mood. Not even the sight of Washington's downtown glory outlined in pinpoints of silver brilliance could help. Naturally, no one present had been permitted to leave the White House, much less go to the gym in person – so instead they came to the place where the merest whisper of news would be received first.

The President paced constantly, not fast but without pause, back and forth, hands clasped behind, eyes dark and brooding, worry etching its way deeper and deeper into his face. He couldn't bear to move more than a few feet from the phone on that one-hundred-and-eighteen-year-old carved desk... nor could he bear to sit still and placidly let the news come to him.

Everyone else present did stay relatively still, though not out of deference alone; no one dared to get in his way. However, several expressions proclaimed the desire that their leader would take his seat so they could leap up and expend their own nervous energy in the same manner, rather than just sit. And fidget.

Each person dealt with the forced inaction in his own way. Now and then Leo would leave his armchair and step into his own office right next door as though overseeing other matters as well, only to return within minutes; this was his version of pacing. Sam sat stiffly on one of the sofas, jotting down notes to himself and studiously refraining from so much as a glance up. Josh slumped on the other couch, his hair, shirt and tie all rumpled; his eyes were bloodshot, roaming the chamber ceaselessly. Toby, ever the loner, maintained his trademark motionlessness as he stood staring out one of the tall windows... gazing south. Towards the gym, and the dire events unfolding at this very moment.

"The waiting is always the worst." Bartlet kept his voice down, all too conscious of the mood, but in this nerve-racking quiet his words seemed to ring out. He was checking his watch twice a minute, almost, as though he couldn't remember what time it displayed mere seconds after looking – or as though he expected time to leap forward at any moment. Now he forced himself to stop for a moment and take in his surroundings: this historic chamber, the ultimate source of raw power in the entire world... and its occupants. Employees, colleagues... friends... whose number was reduced by one.

Leo and Josh met that grave executive eye, one supportive, one barely under control. Sam raised his head as well, in the most elemental sign of respect. Only Toby refused to turn and acknowledge their leader.

Bartlet did not call him on that. He studied the other three, exhaled, and resumed his efforts to wear a path in the rich blue carpet.

"How many hours does an operation like this take, anyway?" he ground out. "It's almost midnight."

This was not the first time he'd asked that... and no one had an answer any more now than before. Sam returned despondently to his notes; Josh reclined his head and closed his eyes in the perfect exhaustion of the soul.

The President reached the end of his self-appointed beat and revolved. "Are we sure the SWAT team knows how to treat the hostages?"

Leo managed not to groan. This was not the first time for that question, either. "Yes, sir, they were all fully briefed. They'll be ready for any assistance on the inside. And they won't run any risks that aren't absolutely necessary."

There was some comfort in the reiteration, like a familiar litany. After all, they had little else for now. Bartlet simply nodded. He slowly strode the width of his office yet again, pivoted, and strode back. "Still, all the things that can go wrong..."

Josh could not prevent a groan. Clearly he was holding himself together with baling twine and prayer. Then words burst from him. "How can the FBI deny CJ a simple phone call to her boss, of all people?" He was not looking at the President; he'd resumed that spaced-out attitude that all of them had come to recognize today.

"They have to look to all the prisoners," Leo pointed out softly, liking it no more. "They can't afford to play favorites in a – "

Josh didn't even hear him. "Is she still trapped in the gym somewhere? Is she in the hospital? Did the terrorists do something to her? She hasn't escaped, or else she'd hit a pay phone at the very least!"

Toby still didn't tear himself away from the window, but his eyes closed in voiceless pain.

"Easy, Josh," Sam advised. His tone was so low that it's doubtful it could have drifted across the four short feet between them; he might have been speaking for his private benefit alone.

Bitter silence re-established its hold on the five minds present – until a knock on the door leading to reception outside shattered the spell. Five heads whipped around as though yanked by a common cord, and five hearts leaped together.

It was not, however, the long-hoped-for arrival of a rescued Press Secretary... or even a member of the strategic force that planned her liberation. Five postures sagged in eloquent disappointment as Mrs. Landingham and Margaret entered.

If they noticed such a lack of enthusiasm on their behalf, neither woman reacted to it. They both knew the constant strain of a long and fruitless wait themselves, and they knew more than a few methods to alleviate the worst of it. The presidential secretary carried a tray piled high with sandwiches; the secretary to the White House Chief of Staff followed with coffee, cream, sugar, mugs and spoons.

No one spoke as they moved quietly into the middle of the room.

"Um... we thought you might like some kind of break," Margaret volunteered. She hesitated, a bit flustered at the persistent stillness, then set her tray down carefully on a side table.

She straightened, to confront five strangely inarticulate men. All of them were staring at the food in mute confusion, as if they had no idea at all what to do with it – or else at the two secretaries, as if they had no idea what to do with them.

"I mean, you've all been waiting here for hours, and there's no telling when..." She fumbled for a moment, then swerved off that distressing track. "And I know Leo didn't stop for supper tonight, so it occurred to me that maybe..."

Margaret's words died yet again; she was perplexed by this total lack of appreciation for or even reaction to her thoughtful initiative. However overworked and frazzled by the demands of the job, usually their bosses and their closest subordinates remembered the more basic manners. This almost creepy silence, and these blank looks, came close to unnerving her.

A light touch on one arm made her turn; a grim-faced Mrs. Landingham shook her head slightly. At this stage the mere concept of food was beyond the consciousness of these five individuals so anxiously awaiting such vital news.

Leo's assistant got the message. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to close in on her, too. She retreated a step, as though having made an offering to a hungry lion – or a hard-to-please deity – and now wanting only to get away intact. "Anyway..." She raised both now-empty hands as an encouragement to take the gifts, not her, and backed faster. "Here's some food."

Still no one moved. The two women took this blatant hint and hurried out the same way they came in, unable to disguise their eagerness to leave, not even waiting for the President to dismiss them. The door closed softly behind.

No one made any attempt to reach for the stacked sandwiches or the steaming coffeepot. A light snack in pleasant company had no place in their small, worried world.

The President shrugged, and started pacing all over again.

After a few more beats Leo rose with a shake of his head, murmured "Excuse me," and stepped out himself, in the opposite direction from which the food had been delivered.

Josh raised his bleary vision from the proffered meal... and fastened on Sam, who was likewise devoid of any appetite and had resumed his unknown jottings.

"Sam, what are you doing?" Technically that was an interrogative, but from Josh's flat tone the sentence could have ended with a period rather than a question mark.

His friend didn't glance up or, apparently, pause in his flow. "Preparing a statement, for when this is over," he stated levelly. It was, after all, his job... under both normal and abnormal circumstances.

Josh's emotions just couldn't handle any efforts at distraction, productivity or foresight right now. "We don't know how this is gonna turn out yet! How the hell can you write about it?"

His demand went even deeper, in fact: How can you sit there so quietly and work, while CJ may be dying at this very moment?

Sam still didn't look at him. "I'm being optimistic." He dashed off a few more words, seeming not the least bit doubtful that his optimism would eventually be rewarded. But then he ruined the image by adding, "And if I finish this before we do know, I can always work on..." Now his pen did pause. "...Other possible results."

Josh's features went slack, then scarlet, at the very thought of Sam drafting what would amount to CJ's epitaph. But before he could explode, the President cut in.

"Sam?" Both young men turned to where their boss stood, right in front of the presidential seal and directly between them. "Just so you know... I have no intention whatsoever of reading a negative statement, from you or anyone else."

They picked up on the subtext: Bartlet, too, was clinging to at least the illusion of a positive outlook.

Josh gradually sat back, wrestling with the pressure trapped inside his chest.

Sam almost – almost – smiled. "Mr. President, you can only surmise how much I'm looking forward to tearing such a statement up."

"Good." It never failed to impress people how much import their Chief Executive could pack into a single word.

Another pause elapsed as Sam returned to his writing... then he seemed to sense something else and raised his head again, eyebrows canted. Bartlet was still watching him, with a curiously calculating expression indeed.

"Sir?"

The President snapped back into himself. "Oh, never mind me. I'm just trying not to be too envious right now. My efforts at diversion today were... less than successful."

He wandered away from bothering his staff further, his purposeless course eventually taking him behind the desk. For several seconds he gazed upon the photo frames that adorned its polished surface... and then lifted his head decisively.

"Charlie!"

Josh and Sam both twitched in their seats. Josh recovered and half-rose in the new hope that some action was about to be taken; Sam looked just a bit resentful of this sudden intrusion into his creative process.

That bellow was heard through the door and out into the office area beyond; moments later the President's personal aide stepped inside. "Sir?"

"You're sure that the Service has Zoey secured in her dorm?"

"Yes, sir. She'll be back in the Residence as soon as the lock-down is over."

Josh collapsed back down in his seat and buried his haggard face in both hands. Obviously this was not the subject he so wanted to hear discussed.

Bartlet released a deep breath of resignation. "As long as she's safe." He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling in silent, almost despairing supplication. "Thanks, Charlie."

His body man nodded and exited at once. He had no desire at all to remain in this steam bath of torturous emotion.

Leo reappeared and reclaimed his seat without any change to his resigned attitude, or any explanation to his President.

Bartlet halted to stare at him. "Leo, it never fails to amaze me how you can still manage to get things done even in the very worst of times." He spoke mostly in earnest, but with just the slightest lilt, a teasing nuance founded on forty years of friendship.

"Oh, I'm just trying to maintain that illusion," the Chief of Staff deadpanned perfectly. "Besides, Margaret can get entirely too organized. Every now and then I like to move things around, unfile papers and unorganize things in general, just to keep her happy. And busy."

His leader snorted.

The advantage to small talk was that while it lasted it kept the silence at bay and the visions out of their heads... but no one had the energy required to drag out aimless conversation for hours on end. Now that ominous void roared back around them, as tangible as a genuine presence in the room. Pacing didn't help; there was simply no escape.

The President's next breath hissed out like a kettle boiling over – an apt comparison. "I should call Abbey."

Elbow on knees and hands running constantly through his tousled hair, Josh kept his eyes closed this time in pure frustration. "Well, sir, you could do that... except that you've called her three times so far this evening, and where she is it's three in the morning."

There had been no deference in either the words or the inflection. Everyone else took note of that uncharacteristic fact.

Bartlet drew himself up and drew his brows down. He'd made a point of hiring people who weren't afraid to disagree with him; yes-men had no place in effective national politics. Josh was a first-rate scrapper. For once, however, he'd crossed the line. "Well, she's my source of support, and if I want to call on that support – even while it's at thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic – I know she won't begrudge me."

Josh glowered right back at him, enraged to the point of heedlessness, and accepted the call to battle. His voice sharpened to a razor's edge. "Well, I sure wish I had that kind of support. But the person who supports me is unable to come to the phone right now – she's either a hostage, or dead."

"That's enough," Leo interrupted decisively, before things could degenerate any further. With feelings this strained, a fistfight in the Oval Office was not beyond the realm of possibility. He glared at his deputy until sure the message had penetrated, and then leveled that very same look at his boss. "From both of you."

Few people indeed would dare sit in this chamber and tell the President of the United States to back off. Even fewer would live to tell of it. Leo McGarry well knew his unique place among that privileged number, and he never hesitated to exploit it when necessary.

For several seconds, both men on the receiving end of that cold eye looked like two fractious kids hauled before the principal, rather than the second-highest-ranking staffer in the White House and the leader of the free world.

Bartlet nodded first, accepting the justice behind that reprimand. "You're right, Leo. As usual. I'm sorry, Josh."

Josh hung his head. "No, sir, I'm the one who should apologize," he barely managed to whisper. "I had no right to speak to you that way."

"Sure you did. I know – I mean, I can't really know, but I have a good idea what CJ means to you."

"Thank you, sir, but that's still no excuse for my behavior." Josh's head sank lower, and his eyes squeezed shut tight against the threat of tears. "I just... can't bear to think that she may be..."

"She's not dead."

Four heads rotated. That was the first time Toby had uttered a word since this nightmare vigil began so many hours ago. He still faced the window, but clearly he had not divorced himself so completely from the others as they thought.

His simple statement embodied the quiet force of absolute conviction. In fact, he could have addressed the terrorists themselves and proclaimed "Thou shalt not kill" with the very same solemn authority.

No one asked him aloud just how he could be so sure... although their vivid expressions did pose much the same question.

He did not choose to enlighten them. Even now, having brought himself to the center of attention at last, he refrained from any motion at all. Was he perhaps afraid that if he did move, something inside of him would snap?

"She can't be."

The soft buzz of the desk phone seemed as loud and jarring as the clang of a fire alarm. Every spine stiffened at once; every head spun around. Only a very few people possessed that direct number, and many of them were present at that moment.

The President moved immediately to pick up, but he forced himself to take one deep, stabilizing breath first. This call could be totally unconnected to the matter that was consuming them, but if it merited his personal attention, he'd have to deal with it.

"Yes."

No one moved – waiting, wondering, fearing.

Bartlet straightened promptly and shot his companions a fast look. "Yes, Ron."

One of those very few individuals was, of course, the Secret Service coordinator working on the hostage crisis and the threatened White House Press Secretary.

Leo and Josh rose in unison; Sam shoved his work aside to stand with them. Even Toby left his isolated pose by the window and joined this half-circle around the executive desk. All four faces were taut. Ron was calling because he had all the information needed to make his report to his leader. Events had occurred and been resolved. This call held the news they so desired, complete and unabridged.

"You did?" The President's face lit up. He looked around eagerly. "Guys, they nailed them! The terrorists are in custody!"

Four chests heaved an enormous sigh. Still, they didn't dare celebrate just yet.

"Any casualties?"

Four pairs of fists clenched. Here it came...

"Oh, that's fantastic! Way to go!"

Josh weakly closed his eyes. Sam rolled his head sideways and then down. Toby ran a palm over his forehead. Leo nodded his approval at the successful operation. It was too soon for any of them to smile; the overriding relief was just too great.

"Well done, Ron. My personal gratitude to all involved. Good job!" Their Commander-in-Chief paused again. This situation had not been exclusively a White House matter; the welfare of everyone involved had to be considered equally. But he couldn't resist the driving need to ask one more thing: "So where's CJ Cregg right now?"

The four observers could picture Ron on the other end glancing around, and figured that if CJ weren't standing right next to him, she sure couldn't be far away.

And yet, the quiet lengthened...

The four listeners watched their boss's face like so many hawks, as the lingering tension – almost banished for good – crept back around their hearts again...

"What?" The President tensed as well, his eyes narrowing.

"What?" This time his eyes widened.

Four jaws tightened.

Slowly, Bartlet lowered the receiver. Not to hang up, but because the latest information drained his arm of strength.

Even more slowly, he turned to his friends.

They stared back, gripped by near-terror. Where was she? Ron said there were no injuries. What had happened?

"All of the hostages are safe."

For some inexplicable reason, the President's voice was quiet and utterly devoid of triumph. Four men traded glances of confusion, and rising fear.

"Sir?" Leo finally pressed.

Bartlet shook his head, just once. "CJ's not among them."

Shocked silence.

"What?" Josh cried first.

Their leader looked back at the phone in his hand, as though it was at fault for this news. No doubt Ron was still there, picking up the gist of this moment in the Oval Office, however faintly.

"The former prisoners have all been questioned. All of them know CJ, at least on sight. And all insist they never saw her anytime today."

Another silence, even more shocked than the last.

Leo got the point first. "My God..."

Sam was right behind him. "She was never there in the first place."

"Where is she?" Josh came very close to screaming that time.

Five heads rotated from face to face, only slowly grasping what this meant. They were back to square one, and had no idea what to do now.

Toby put it into words. Quietly, horribly, finally. "So she's been missing for at least twenty hours."

~*~*~*~*~

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

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