After the commercials, it's Tuesday. Toby's lurking around the lobby. He greets a guard: "Good morning, Janice." She greets him as "Mr. Ziegler." He thinks it time she called him Toby. She agrees. It's clearly all the same to her. Coffee in hand, Toby leans on the machine that people put their ID cards into. I have no idea what it would be called. I'm more interested in Toby's attempts at casualness and small talk. He ventures, "That's a nice uniform." It's really not. Janice gives him a "where is this going?" look. Toby asks, "How long have you guys had that uniform?" Janice, dryly: "About a thousand years." Just then, C.J. arrives, and goes through her card-validation procedure. Toby excuses himself and follows C.J., saying he's got to tell her something, asking if she's ready. Apparently, he's got nothing to do. C.J. doesn't understand. Toby explains that he got there at six, got everything done within an hour and half, and there's nothing else on his calendar. "So I'm just out here walking around, you know, just being in the world." C.J.: "In the hallways." Toby admits this. C.J. says she's going to change all that, and asks him to meet with a Russian reporter named Ludmilla Koss, who's the Washington correspondent for the Novaya Gazeta: "She wants credentials and a seat on the press charter." Toby wonders why she's asking them. C.J. explains that the Russians have banned her from the summit for having supported the other guy in the election. Toby: "A-ha. Time to teach these Stoli-drinking Tchaikovskys a thing or two about free press, American-style! You don't ban those who supported your opponent, you make them wallow in their loserdom by covering your victory. You...you sit 'em in the front row! You give them a hat! I will save Ludmilla Koss, for I am Toby, and in so doing...why am I going on like this?" C.J. doesn't know, nor do I. ["What's wrong with Tchaikovsky?" -- Wing Chun] Toby tells her to set up the meeting; obviously, he has time. She thanks him and heads toward her office.
As C.J. approaches, she sees that someone is standing there waiting for her; it's Ron Butterfield. You remember Ron, head of the Secret Service. He tells C.J. he spoke with Frank Tenney this morning. C.J. says that she met with Frank yesterday at Josh's behest, and that Frank filed all the appropriate paperwork. Ron wants to see the message. C.J. sits down and types in her password. Ron asks whether she's checked her email yet today; C.J. says she just got there. Ron looks over her shoulder and sees that the threat-maker sent another one early that morning. He asks if she's had cyber-threats before. C.J. replies, "Not explicitly." Frank told Ron that C.J. didn't recognize the sender's address. Ron diplomatically asks, "Have you had a...bad breakup with a boyfriend lately?" I thought C.J. would snort quite loudly at this. She just chuffs a little bit of air out of her nose and says, "God, Ron, I haven't had a boyfriend in...I get a lot of hate mail. After the President, I'm the single most visible person in the federal government. Every day I'm on TV, and every day, exactly half the people are going to disagree with you, and some of those people are going to hate you, and some of those people are going to write letters." Ron reminds her that this isn't hate mail, it's a death threat, and asks if he could use her computer. As he sits down, he puts his right hand under his left arm, I suppose to keep his weapon from being exposed in case his jacket flaps open a bit, although I wouldn't have thought that Secret Service agents wore their guns closer to their waists than their armpits. What I first thought was that it looked as if it's slightly painful for him to move in certain ways, and I wondered if that was related to being shot in Rosslyn. I can't remember where he took it; I thought it was his hand. Maybe it's nothing, just a tic. Ron goes all Frinkatronic with the traceroute tools and announces that he'll have to take C.J.'s hard drive. He's seen that the server and the IP address of the threat-maker don't match, indicating a forged address. C.J. says that she may have gone too far with her remarks about Saudi Arabia, and that she was thinking of apologizing. Ron says that this doesn't have anything to do with that. C.J.'s confused. Ron states, "Muslim extremists don't get personal. They don't know your name; they don't care. They don't want one person; they want dozens or hundreds. That's why they don't use bullets. Killing one person is a waste of a bomb. He wants you. Why doesn't he want me? Someone will be by in a few minutes to get your hard drive, and we're intercepting all your emails from the address. Thank you." He leaves C.J. looking worried.