"We know," Toby mutters.

I ignore his attitude and tell Sam.  "NaCl.  Natrium Chloride."  Toby's couch is damn comfortable.  I sink further into its depths.

"Yes," Sam nods, grinning a little.  He's still standing over near the bookshelves.  I think he's far too excited by the politicking he did earlier to sit down yet.  "Table salt."

I frown.  "Do you think other kinds of salt have different abbreviations?"

"There are other kinds of salt?" Sam asks.

"There could be."  I shrug.  "Where's Josh?"

Sam exchanges a look with Toby.  "He went back to his office."

"He's brooding," I surmise.

Toby groans.  "CJ, don't--"

"I wonder why he's brooding.  He kicked some ass on the Buckland thing."

Sam straightens a little bit.  "Not as much ass as we--"

"Sam."  Toby gives him a pained look.  He's sitting behind his desk scribbling on a yellow legal pad and trying to look like he's not damn proud of Sam for the ass-kicking.

I grin at him.  "You're just grumpy 'cause you didn't think of it yourself."

"I'm really not."

"Sure you are."

Toby glances over at me.  "Hey, CJ, what's the chemical abbreviation of Tin?"

Damn.  I hate that.  "You," I tell them, struggling upright, "are no fun."

Sam smiles at me, the full wattage, I-should-be-on-the-cover-of-Vanity-Fair version.  "So you're going to go brood with Josh?  Gee, that sounds fun."

I ignore him and sweep out of Toby's office.  Nodding to Bonnie and some guy whose name I think may be Fred, I weave my way to the Operations bullpen.  Carol is shrugging into her coat when I reach my office.

"CJ, Donna wanted to talk to you if you have a second."

"Sure.  Hey, Carol?"

She turns back, one hand resting on the doorframe.  "Yeah?"

"You wouldn't happen to know the chemical abbreviation of Tin, would you?"

Carol shrugs.  "Tn?"

"You're no help."

"Did the chemistry guy--"

"Dr. Kary B. Mullis?"

"Yes, Dr. Mullis.  Did he quiz you at dinner?"

"No," I frown.

"Toby quizzed you?" she guesses.  I just glare at her.  "Well," she grins, "let me just run home and grab my copy of the periodic table--"

"Good night, Carol." I wave her away.

"I'll send Donna in."

"Right," I answer, distractedly.  The late wires are in, and AP is reporting that Mossad agents quashed a haphazard plot to kill Abdul Mujeeb just after he was transferred into Israeli custody.  Damn.  I really don't want to call the press corps back.  I flip on the TVs, one to CNN, one to MSNBC, and one to BBC's satellite feed.

"CJ?"

I glance over.  Donna's standing in my doorway, her smile obviously forced.  I have a bad feeling about this.  "Come on in."

Donna edges into the office, softly closing the door behind her.  "I wanted to talk to you."

"Carol mentioned." I wave her towards the couch.  "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know the chemical abbreviation for Tin, would you?"

"No," Donna answers, frowning.  "I could find out, though."

"It's not important."  I settle next to her on the couch, leaning back.  God, it's been a long damn day.  "Look, Donna, I may have a thing--"

"I can go," she offers, moving to rise.

"No."  I touch her arm; her muscles are tense.  "Just--"  I grin.  "Could you make it the short version?"

"Sure."  She looks like she's going to be sick.  "The short version is that Ainsley set me up with a Republican lawyer who, as it turns out, just got transferred to Oversight."

Oh, shit.  I rub the pressure point between my thumb and first finger, which Ginger tells me is supposed to stave off headaches.  It doesn't seem to be working.

"CJ, I only saw him twice--"

"Does Josh know?"

Donna glances away.

"Donna, you have to--"

"I told him," she answers quietly.  "He knows."

The reason for Josh's brooding is suddenly very clear.  I make a mental note to talk to him before I leave which, at this point, may be tomorrow morning.  "What did he--"

"I'm not going to see him again," Donna snaps.

I abandon the pressure point and rub my temple directly.  "I'm sorry, Donna, but you really can't--"

"I know."

"At least not until--"

Donna slaps the armrest with her hand, and her voice is shaking with anger when she says, "I'm not going to see him again, CJ."

I stare at her, slightly shocked.  "Okay."

She lets her breath out slowly.  "I'm sorry.  It's just--"  She shrugs.  "We talked about books, CJ.  About how Fitzgerald rocks and how James Joyce is highly overrated.  He loves George Cukor movies.  It was just... refreshing to have this one thing that wasn't about politics and investigations and hearings and--"  She stops short and gives me a pleading look.  "It was just... an apolitical moment, you know?"

I raise an eyebrow.  "Well, yeah, because if you had discussed politics--"

"He's a Republican; he's not Jesse Helms," Donna interrupts, frustrated.

"Okay."

"Really," Donna insists.  "He's moderate."

I nod.  "Whatever.  But the important thing is--"

"He's on Oversight, I know."  Donna slumps into the couch.  "And I'm not going to see him again."

"Okay."  I watch her, letting the silence build a little.  I have a feeling Republican Lawyer Guy's excellent taste in movies isn't the only thing bothering her.

My queendom for a Tylenol with codeine.

Donna's hands twist together in her lap and she looks over at me.  "It's just Josh--"

A sharp knock on my door startles her, and she freezes, eyes wide.

Josh pokes his head in the door.  "CJ--"  He sees Donna and stops short, his expression hardening.

Donna stands and gives me a wobbly smile.  "I'm going."

Josh holds the door partially open, forcing her to squeeze past.  His gaze follows her until I stand, breaking his concentration.  He stares over at me for a moment, his brain shifting gears.  "There's a thing--"

"Mossad?" I ask, tilting my head towards the TV.

"Yeah."

I grab a notepad and pen from my desk.  "Leo's office?"

"Yeah."  Josh hesitates in the doorway, blocking my exit.  "Donna told you--"

"About the Republican?  Yeah."

His mouth tightens into a look of supreme distaste.  "I can't believe she--"

"Josh," I interrupt.  "You need to handle this as her boss."

His forehead crinkles.  "What's that supposed--"

"Josh."

"CJ, she--"

"Do not talk to me about this," I warn him.  "I know all I need to know if I get the question.  Beyond that..."

"Yeah," Josh mutters, stepping aside.  "Beyond that."

I head for Leo's office, Josh catching up quickly.  "You're her boss," I repeat.  "Act like it."

Before he can reply, I veer into Leo's office.  Sam and Toby are already there.  Josh wanders in after me, slipping into a seat at the small conference table.  I indicate the Oval Office.  "Is the President--"

"He's in the Residence with the First Lady," Leo answers, rising from his seat.

"Is she feeling better?"

Leo stares at me.

"I was just asking."

"Do I look like a doctor?"

"Not especially."

Rolling his eyes, Leo rounds the edge of his desk, joining us in the limited open space.  "AP's reporting that seven Mossad agents thwarted an attempt to kill Abdul Mujeeb as he was being handed over to the Israelis."

Toby frowns.  "Why would the Palestinian Freedom Front want to kill Abdul Mujeeb?"

Sam shrugs.  "Maybe because he authorized targeting American citizens.  That's not their usual M.O."

"True," I acknowledge.  "But there's no evidence he did authorize it.  The bomber couldn't have known for sure there'd be Americans at the café."

Toby glances over at Leo.  "Did the Prime Minister tell the President any details?"

"He hasn't called," Leo answers.

There's a shocked silence.

"The Prime Minister hasn't called?" I repeat.

Josh glances up; apparently he's done staring listlessly at the tabletop.  "Wait -- Mossad moved against the Palestinian Freedom Front on Palestinian soil and Levin didn't call?"

"Nope," Leo says.

We exchange uncomfortable looks.

"What do you think that means?" Toby asks.

"It could be an oversight," Sam suggests.

"An oversight?" Toby repeats.  "You really think Prime Minister Levin would forget to call the President?"

Sam looks offended.  "Well, he does have a bit of a crisis to handle."

"Regardless," Leo interrupts the burgeoning argument.  "Nancy's on her way, but for now--"

"We don't know anything," I guess.  "No official confirmation, and we can't speculate as to--"

"Right," Leo nods.  "I've got to talk to the President.  CJ--"

"The lid stays on unless and until the Prime Minister officially--"

"Good, Leo says, pushing away from his desk.  "Now go."

***

"Stannum."

I turn to find Donna shadowing my steps, notepad in hand.  I don't slow down, even though I'm walking sideways, which is not my strong suit.  "Excuse me?"

"Stannum," she repeats, pulling even with me so I no longer have to mince along in awkward, crab-like fashion.

I frown at her.  "Okay."

"It's Latin," she explains with an expectant look.

"That's nice," I decide.

"CJ, Sn, the abbreviation for tin?  It comes from the Latin word stannum."

"Ah," I say, reaching my office. "Stannum?"

"Yes."  She nods, hovering in the doorway.  "Also, tin's atomic number is fifty."

"Atomic number?" I ask absently, flipping through the stack of messages on my desk.  Steve from AP called for a comment on the thing in Palestine.  I rub half-heartedly at my throbbing head.

"The number of protons."

Blinking, I look over at Donna.  "What?"

"The atomic number of an element is the number of protons in its nucleus."

I consider that for a moment.  "Okay, so tin has fifty protons in its nucleus?"

"Yes.  Also, it has an atomic weight of one 118.71."

"118.71?"

Donna nods.

"118.71 what, exactly?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, it can't be 118 pounds, right?"

"Oh."  Donna squints down at her notepad.  "Um..."

"You know what?  I'm pretty sure I don't care about the unit of measurement for the atomic weight of tin."

"Angstroms, I think."

I think my eye is twitching.  "You did a little bit of research on this."

"A little."  Donna shrugs.

"See, but I don't think I'm really going to need to know anything else about tin."

"Fine," Donna sniffs.  "But I could also tell you the oxidation states, melting point, boiling point, sources--"

I hold up one hand just to make her stop.  "Did you somehow cram a semester of chemistry in while I was in Leo's office?  Because I could have sworn I was only gone a few minutes."

Donna smiles at me.  "Just a little bit of research."

Over her shoulder, Steve from AP appears, giving me a questioning look.  I glance at Donna and lift my chin slightly.

Donna nods, understanding.  "I'll go."

"Wait."  I stand up and hold out my hand.  "Can I see your notes?"

Donna grins outright.  "You're going to tell Toby the oxidation states, aren't you?"  She rips off the top sheet and hands it to me.  "I make no promises of legibility."

"Thanks," I call after her.

Steve indicates Donna with a tilt of his head.  "Oxidation states?"

"Yes," I tell him.  "The oxidation states for tin are +2 and +4."  I look a little more closely at the sheet of paper and frown.  "Unless those are little T's.  It's not possible that an oxidation state would be t4, is it?"

Steve shrugs.  "I really have no idea."

"Yeah, me neither."  I settle back into my chair, putting Donna's illegible chemistry notes aside.  This might get ugly, and I need to not be thinking about tin.

Steve looks almost bored as he launches into his question.  "CJ, I need the White House's response to--"

"We have no comment on the alleged incident in Palestine."

Well, that piqued his interest if the raised eyebrow is any indication.  "The President doesn't care that Israeli soldiers--"

"Don't even try it," I interrupt.  "When the White House has a comment, I'll let you know."

He stares at my desk for a moment, and I swear I can see the wheels turning in his head.  "When was the President informed of--"

"Steve."

"Levin didn't call?" he surmises, incredulous.

I just hold his gaze.

"Why not?"

"I don't have any information for you at this time."  I can tell just by looking at him that he's not going to let it go.

"Do you think that Prime Minister Levin didn't bother to call President Bartlet because the President's authority has been compromised by the Healthgate scandal?"

"That's an awfully large leap of illogic," I shoot back.

"Not really," he argues.  "Israel considers the U.S. to be a close friend, and they know the President wants the peace treaty upheld.  The least the Prime Minister could do is call the President before invading--"

"There's no evidence of any invasion."

"How would you know?" Steve fires back.  "Levin didn't bother to call."

"This happened twenty minutes ago, Steve.  It's a little too soon to be drawing any conclusions, don't you think?"

"Twenty minutes is long enough to place a phone call, CJ."

Shit.

I lean back in my chair, arms crossed in my best press-secretary-at-rest look.  "Steve, you know as well as I do that the Prime Minister is under no obligation to consult or inform the President before Israeli law enforcement picks up a suspect.  Further--"

"He really didn't call?" Steve can't seem to get past that.

"No, Prime Minister Levin hasn't yet contacted the President, and until he does, I can't comment on the incident."

Steve points at my TVs.  "CJ, it's on CNN, BBC--"

"I'm aware of that.  CNN, BBC, AP -- Hell, Fox News is free to speculate as wildly as it likes.  The President of the United States does not have that luxury.  Unless and until the President speaks with the Israeli Prime Minister, I'm not going to comment on the record."

"You're going to ignore--"

"Steve, seriously, go bother someone else.  I'll page you when we have a comment."

Steve and I engage in a little bit of a staring contest.  I win, of course.  Mostly because I'm too damn stubborn to blink.

Grudgingly, Steve leaves my office, nodding to Josh on his way past.

Josh ignores my irritated look and waltzes in, jabbing his thumb in Steve's direction.  "The Mossad thing?"

My office.  Union Station.  Some nights it's hard to tell the difference.

"Yeah," I tell him.  "He's curious why Levin didn't call."

Josh sighs.  "CJ, you told him--"

"Yes, Josh, as soon as he walked in I said 'Guess what! The Prime Minister of Israel didn't bother to--'"

"Okay, okay," he says, hands up in surrender.  "Whatever.  Just -- what'd you tell him?"

"Kicked his ass a little when he tried to connect it to the MS story."

Groaning, Josh leans heavily against the doorframe.  "He's suggesting that Levin didn't bother to call because the President's weak?"

"Pretty much."

"Great.  That's just want we need--"

"Did you come in here for a reason?" I interrupt.  I really can't listen to his bitching.  Not when his irritation with Donna and her Republican is being misdirected right at me.

Josh blinks.  "Yes.  Leo called; the President's on the phone with Levin right -- Ow!  What the hell was that for?"

"You stood here arguing with me for, like, ten minutes without telling me that?" I answer, pushing past him.

"Toby said he'd have something for you in a few minutes," Josh calls after me.

"Good, 'cause I've got some malleable white metal for him!"

"What?"

"Never mind," I mutter, reaching the door to the Communications bullpen, Donna's notes on tin clutched firmly in hand.

Toby's on the phone when I enter his office, occasionally scribbling notes on his ever-present legal pad.  Sam is standing serenely behind him, ignoring the glares and rude gestures from Toby.

"Is that Leo?" I ask.

Sam nods.  "Yeah, the President just spoke with Prime Minister Levin."

I make a "come on" motion with my hand.  "And?"

"Well, I'm not sure."  He reaches over Toby's shoulder, easing the notepad towards him.  "I can't quite read--"

Toby flips the legal pad so it's face down.  "I'll tell her," he says into the phone.  Then he disconnects and glares at Sam.  "Have I not told you about reading over someone's shoulder?"

"You do it to me," Sam answers, defensive.

"You're subordinate to me.  I can read over your shoulder if I damn well please."

"How is that fair?  I mean--"

"Guys," I interrupt.  "Mossad?  Levin?  Anyone remember that little issue?"

Toby focuses suddenly on me.  "What happened?"

"Steve's trying to link the lack of a phone call -- And before you ask, no, I didn't tell him; he figured it out all by himself -- to the President's MS."

"Dammit," Toby mutters.  "Can you convince him not to write it?"

"Yes, Toby, because reporters always seem to back off when I tell them not to write something."

"Right," he interrupts, waving me off.

"Perhaps the details of this particular incident would convince him not to write the MS angle," I point out.

Toby grins, that little smile he gets when he doesn't find the subject particularly amusing, and says, "It was an oversight."

I stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"Prime Minister Levin simply forgot to call the President, the events occurred quite rapidly, and his attention was on other matters."

I sigh.  "What happened?"

Toby shrugs.  "Pretty much what CNN reported:  Mossad reacted to an attempt on Abdul Mujeeb's life.  There was no incursion or invasion; a guy walked out of the crowd with a loaded Desert Eagle and started firing."

I flinch.  Sam looks a little pale.  Because, really, that situation is a little bit too familiar for us to be completely objective.  "Mossad got him?"

"Yeah, the shooter's in custody, as is Abdul Mujeeb.  Some injuries in the crowd, one Mossad agent got shot in the leg.  All in all, not a bad turnout, considering what could have happened."

Sam nods slowly.  "Is Israel going to retaliate?"

"Doubtful," Toby says, and I can feel a fraction of the tension in my body ease.  "If they'd lost any agents..."  He shrugs.

"Okay," I say, turning the situation over in my mind.  "This is workable.  I can get Steve off the MS thing with the details.  I'm going to give him the exclusive tonight."

Toby nods.  "The President commends Prime Minister Levin on the adept handling of such a delicate situation."

"Right," I say, picking up the thread.  "Mossad picked up a criminal and consequently defused a potentially explosive--"  I stop, flinching.  "Okay, poor choice of words.  Potentially..."

"Volatile," Sam suggests.

"Good," Toby answers.  "The President spoke briefly with Prime Minister Levin tonight to--"

"--offer his condolences on the lives lost in Israel, and his commendation on the speedy capture of Abdul Mujeeb," I finish.

"Perfect." Sam grins.

I glance at Toby, who gives a small nod.

"Okay," I say.  "I'm going to page Steve and see if I can't save this one."

When I reach the door, I turn back, my pose casual.  "Oh, and by the way, Toby, the abbreviation for Tin is 'Sn,' which is short for stannum.  Also?  Tin's atomic number is 50, its atomic weight is 118.71, and it's used in solder, bronze, pewter, and sometimes even in toothpaste."

"Toothpaste?" Sam asks, scrunching up his face in distaste.

"Yup," I tell him, sweeping out of the room.

Well, I think that last thing says toothpaste; Donna's writing really is illegible.

"Fix it," Toby calls after me.

"Tin's oxidation states are +2 and +4."

"Fix it, CJ," he yells.

"I've got it all under control," I shout back.  And surprisingly, I think maybe I do.

THE END

11.15.01