"The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (4/13) by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com) See part 1 for disclaimers, etc.
Flushing, Queens New York City November 25, 1996 3:07 AM ************ As Scully Saw It ************ I don't know what I found more unbelievable -- that I'd started out this day after midnight, standing inside a shipping container, dressed in full SWAT gear when I should have been asleep in my bed, or that Mulder seemed finally to have turned his considerable deductive powers to something resembling a normal FBI case. I had never doubted him, you understand; it was he who had doubted himself. Over the past four years I had seen all the proof I needed of his skill as a profiler and the accuracy of his instincts. If Mulder thought something was going down, something was going down, and anyone with good sense would listen to what he had to say. It's just that -- well, neither of us was exactly trained for this kind of thing, and it's been a few years since either of us was in the Academy, which was the last time I'd had to fire the MP5. I'm a lot more used to my own service weapon, but a handgun isn't much use in the kind of firefight we were in tonight. Now that it was over, I could finally admit to myself how nervous I'd been before it started. All right, to be perfectly frank, I was scared. All I wanted was to get it over with as soon as humanly possible. Mulder had noticed how antsy I was getting. "We can't go in too soon," he'd said. "We have to be patient, it'll happen." "What makes you so sure?" I'd asked him. He'd told me, of course, while we were on our way here from D.C., but I needed to hear it just once more. Or maybe ... maybe I just wanted to give him one more chance to say, "Okay, Scully, what do _you_ think?" Or, "Gosh, Scully, I'm sorry; I didn't realize I'd been leaving you out of this case. I won't do it again." He didn't, of course. Patiently, as though we hadn't already been through all this, he'd gone over it again: the receipts he'd been sent for detonation cord, fuel and ammonium nitrate, for the storage space and the truck. He'd told me he thought we might be looking at the next Oklahoma City. I didn't disagree with him. With evidence like that, it didn't take a profiler to put it together. The only question was who'd sent those receipts and why, because the conclusion suggested by the evidence wasn't just obvious; it was so obvious it smelled of a very dangerous trap. I got my answer in very short order. "We got traffic," a SWAT agent said, and it all began. I don't remember many details of what happened next. Everything is a blur of bullets and tear gas, of running, booted feet, of truck tires scrabbling on the gravel that littered the parking lot. It was truly terrifying, even though I stuck close to Mulder and covered his wing, so to speak. And then, when it all seemed to be over, we found out where those receipts had come from: Alex Krycek, the world's greatest rat bastard. Mulder no sooner saw him than he decked him, and I didn't blame him. I didn't try to stop him, either. I didn't want to. I didn't let him shoot Krycek, though; I still won't do that, not unless there's some excellent provocation. If I act, it's only to protect Mulder from a murder charge, because personally, I don't care whether Alex Krycek lives or dies. Actually, that's not true: I'd rather he died. But I don't especially want Mulder to be the one who sends him to his maker. Mulder wants to. Mulder doesn't just hate Krycek; he hates Krycek with a passion. My hatred is to Mulder's what a kitchen match is to a multiple warhead H-bomb. Krycek, of course, was full of righteous indignation as always, claiming he'd handed Mulder the bust. Mulder didn't believe him at first. With his usual felicity of expression, he called Alex an "invertebrate scum-sucker whose moral dipstick is about two drops short of bone dry." He does have a way with words. I was tired, and so was Mulder, and I think we were both about ready to put Krycek in the back of a New York squad car and head home to bed when Krycek stopped us cold by insinuating that there was another bomb somewhere. God, if only we'd gone ahead and put him in jail. We might have avoided so much trouble in the days and weeks and years to come. ************ As Krycek saw it ************ "We can't help you, Krycek," Mulder said, with that cold, nasty smile he seems to save just for me. God, sometimes this job is just too fucking easy. There are times it presents a real challenge; not many, but some. Dealing with that cigarette-smoking bastard is never easy. My consolation comes in knowing that he finds me no easier to deal with. After you've sharpened your claws on that nicotine-stained freak, getting a death grip on Fox Mulder is no challenge at all. I know exactly how to stalk him, how to lure him in, how to play him along until I reach the exact right moment and I spring. This time was no different. Send him a few receipts for diesel fuel, ammonium nitrate and truck rentals, and he's convinced he's got the next Oklahoma City bombing developing. In he comes with the FBI SWAT team in full battle gear, automatic weapons at the ready. Tear gas grenades fly, tires are shot out and Fox Mulder is the hero once more. Oklahoma City, my ass. That was never going to happen. In the unlikely event that Mulder hadn't taken the bait, I'd have stopped the whole thing. Bombing a public building is just way too far above ground for someone at my level of operations. No real revolutionary puts his faith in paranoid militia groups -- those idiot children who congregate in the dusty and decadent West, believing in the law as they interpret it, invoking that law to justify their pointless exercises in bigotry and random violence. Idiots. There is no power in any law or any constitution, no power in Mulder's precious "truth." They're just words, and words are meaningless without the power to enforce them. Real power, my friends, lies in military strength -- or in holding power over those who can command that strength. That's why I have the real power. I know what these men want, these polite, urbane traitors to the human race -- and I know how to give it to them and save their miserable lives. I also know how to withhold it and ensure their deaths. Mulder, for all his many strengths, still believes in Camelot. He still believes there is a Holy Grail, that finding it will bring true power, that virtue and truth will win out in the end. He thinks he understands how this game is played. That's why he never suspected that I was in league with these would-be bombers. They believe in their cause. Mulder believes in causes, too. The only cause I believe in is my own. I gotta tell you, though, seeing the look on Mulder's face when he recognized me tonight was almost worth getting the shit beat out of me. Anyway, I've had far worse beatings than he'll ever give me. And he won't kill me, either, because Milady Scully does not want me killed. That's what really frustrates him, and what will defeat him in the end: Her. She's his fatal weakness, whether he admits it or not. Oh, he's got other vulnerabilities -- his boundless credulity, his almost insane drive to find out what happened to his sister -- and a few other things. Like, for instance, his Navy doctor boyfriend. I can't tell you how triumphant I was when I found out that Mulder had a lover. I gotta admit, my admiration for Mulder went up a notch or two when I realized he'd been in a relationship for two years without my knowing it. Like everyone else, I'd fallen for the story that Sailor Boy was Scully's squeeze. Once I knew what was really up, though, figuring out how to use that relationship to manipulate Mulder was easy enough for a backward kindergarten child. It wasn't news that he was gay. I already knew that. The entire consortium knew it: That's why they sent me to deal with the Scully problem. They know that I don't really give a damn who I'm fucking, as long as fucking them will help me achieve my goals. Sex is a tool for me, not a desire. That makes me the perfect lure for a man like Mulder, the perfect weapon against a woman like Scully. And I did take care of the problem -- much more thoroughly than either of them yet knows. I still have so many ways of breaking them -- including about a hundred photographs that Mulder would kill me for if he knew they existed. Shit, he'd kill himself before he'd let her see them. He can't tell her, because he doesn't know himself, how I engineered that whole event. Yeah, he knows I helped them take her. But that's not the only reason he hates me. He doesn't hate me for what they did to her, because he doesn't know and she can't remember. There's a much more mundane explanation for his hatred. He remembers. He remembers what we did together, what he said to me, how he opened himself up to me body and soul that afternoon, how he gave me everything he had and begged me to take more. He remembers. And he'd kill me for it if he could, but he can't. Once my plans are put into action, he's going to remember it all so much more clearly. He'll ... relive it, you might say. And he will hate every minute of it, even as he's moaning and crying out for more. I'll make certain of it. Starting now. "Mulder," I said, and -- against his will, I'm certain -- he looked at me again. "This is just one bomb I'm sitting on here," I said, as casually as I could. "You didn't ask me how many more I know about." ************ 11:42 p.m. Alexandria, Va. ************ As Mulder Saw It ************ God damn me right to hell for listening to that rat bastard. "It's in a diplomatic pouch," he says. "People would kill to have it." I spent almost an entire day questioning Krycek and then had to drive back to the District, take turns guarding the slimeball while Scully and I changed clothes, then run my ass off through the fucking airport to come up with what? A rock. A fucking rock. "What is it?" he said, just as if he didn't know. "Expose it for him, Scully," I said. What I really wanted to do, of course, was to grab the goddamn thing and bash Krycek right on top of his fucking skinhead 'do. He just stood there staring at it, like he didn't get why I was so upset. So I made some stupid crack about Charlie Brown and stalked off. Why the fuck won't Scully let me kill him? I'd be doing the world a favor, and it'd almost be worth doing life without parole to watch that motherfucker hit the ground bleeding. When we got to Georgetown, I made him lie down on the floor and drove about 10 blocks out of my way before I dropped her off. Not that I don't know he can get to her apartment anytime he likes, but why the hell should I make it any easier for him? I may have cuffed him just a shade too tightly for the trip ... maybe. I know Scully unlocked the cuffs and relocked them about a click more loosely. She didn't look too pleased with me, either. Sorry, Scully. I just can't always do things as perfectly as you do. Christ. Now he's got me angry at her, and she sure as hell doesn't deserve it. She came out in the middle of the night to help me with this bust, she didn't narc on me for beating the crap out of Ratboy and she hasn't said one harsh word to me even though she's now gone close to 36 hours without sleeping. That's me, Fox Fuckhead Mulder, lashing out at everyone whether they deserve it or not. First Daniel, then Scully ... I hope my mom doesn't call me. Speaking of calling, I ought to call Daniel. I told him I'd be home before breakfast and it's nearly midnight, but I need to find a landline. Too damn many people in this town get their rocks off scanning other people's cell calls -- and those are just the ones who do it as a hobby. I don't especially want anyone listening in on my calls to my lover, for reasons that should be obvious. Anyway, Daniel won't be all that worried. He knows someone would get word to him if anything bad happened to me. I made damn sure of that after the fiasco when he got shot. The Gunmen will be told and they'll know where to find him -- and why. My love life is getting to be a bigger open secret around D.C. than the president's. God, I'm tired. I want to go home. ************ X Files office November 26, 1996 Tuesday 11:17 a.m. ************ As Scully Saw It ************ I am not sure I have ever seen anyone make such a complete turnaround as Mulder has made this morning. And it only took one word: Mars. That was yesterday, when we were at NASA Goddard talking to Dr. Sacks. The whole conversation was like the dialogue in a low-budget, 1950s science-fiction film; way too much like it for me to take very seriously. Electricity won't stop the Martians, sir. We'll have to use... the atom bomb. My God, man, are you mad? That's what unleashed these creatures in the first place. "What you are looking at," Dr. Sacks said, practically quivering, "is quite possibly from Mars." As he spoke, I had the oddest feeling that everything would soon turn to grainy black and white. Mulder, however, was drinking it all in avidly. The game was afoot and Mulder was on the trail. I suppose his dear friend Phoebe would call it a "three-pipe problem." And now all I could do was stand and listen, unbelieving, as he spun his usual conspiracy theories even further out in the ozone than he usually does. Incredibly, he seemed to want to trust Alex Krycek. Alex, he claimed, had given us "the pivotal piece to an even larger plot." "What he's given us, Mulder, is a rock," I said. "Alex Krycek is a liar, and a murderer." I didn't think I needed to add the obvious -- that Krycek's victims included Mulder's father and my sister. Or maybe I did. "Who wants to expose the same men that we do and will go to any lengths to succeed," he said, sounding so sure of himself. My God, was it only two years ago that I had to shoot Mulder to keep him from killing this man? From the looks of things, I'd have to shoot him again if I meant to keep him from following Krycek into God-only-knows-what. "What I'm worried about is you, Mulder, and how far you'll go," I said. "And how far I can follow you." I thought surely he'd respond to that, say something to let me know that he heard me and that my concerns mattered to him, but no. He didn't say a word. He just walked out and left me standing there, feeling invisible. I'm doing everything I can to keep this investigation moving forward in some logical, sensible fashion, and he's behaving as though Alex Krycek, the lowest form of life on earth, is the new Messiah, sent to save us from the conspirators. I suppose in Mulder's case that's the original Messiah. I keep forgetting he's Jewish, possibly because he seems to have forgotten it himself. He's forgotten so many things that used to mean something to him. I'm so afraid that I'm about to be added to that list. ************ New York City Upper West Side November 27, 1996 Midnight ************ As Marita Saw It ************ "What are you doing here?" I asked, although I'd already been warned that he was en route to my apartment. "I need your help," he said, just as I'd known he would. "How do you know where I live?" I responded, hoping I'd put just the right tone of curiosity-plus-irritation in my voice. "FBI database," he said. "I'm sorry, it's a matter of extreme urgency. A diplomatic pouch left Russia and arrived here in the U.S. Two men are dead. I need to know why." I unchained the door and let him in. "Is that all you came for?" I said, gesturing toward the easy chair. "I promise you, I have no ulterior motives," he said as he sat down; he rather collapsed, as a matter of fact. I could see in his eyes, in every line of his body, that he was bone weary, as though he hadn't slept for days. He probably hadn't, but that was all right. A man starved for sleep is a man susceptible to suggestion, but it was still going to take marvelous finesse to get Fox Mulder to the place we needed him to go ... and with the person we needed him to go with. I nodded, careful to let my face betray none of my thoughts. "I'll need to make some phone calls," I said. "I'll be in the bedroom. You can wait here ... or if you'd like, you can come lie down for a few minutes." He looked up quickly at that. Clearly, he'd caught the faint air of suggestion in my statement, the invitation worded so carefully that it could be accepted or rejected without loss of face for either of us. "If you don't mind," he said, slowly, "I'll wait here. I hate to eavesdrop." Rejected. Interesting. Not that it hasn't happened to me before, but this wasn't what I'd expected from him. He certainly looked like a normal, hot-blooded male in his mid-30s, and he couldn't have missed what I was suggesting to him. Perhaps he really was sleeping with his partner, as all the gossip in our little community had it. Quite interesting, and possibly useful. "Wherever you're more comfortable," I said, as coolly as I could manage. "I shouldn't be long." ************ Four hours later, I had his answer for him. I could have gotten it more quickly, but that might well have left him with enough time to meet with his partner and tell her where he was going. That could have ruined everything. He'd fallen asleep, of course, but those few hours of sleep weren't going to be enough to clear his mind. That was quite apparent. For a moment, though, as I knelt beside the chair, I almost felt guilty about what I was doing to him. He was such an attractive man, so dedicated to his fool's errand, a modern-day Don Quixote with a red-headed Sancho Panza riding at his heels ... I genuinely felt sorry for him. But I brushed that aside, as I always do, and concentrated on my part in this little drama. The matter was far too serious for me to indulge in sentimentality. Time to wake him, and send him on toward the giants he was so sure were over the next hill. "Agent Mulder?" I said, and he woke instantly. There was a moment of confusion on his face, but it was quickly gone. He was in command of himself. Too bad. I would have loved a chance to make him lose that iron control, but it was not to be. Not this time. "The diplomatic pouch traveled an apex route to the Russian province of Krasnoyarsk," I said. "Krasnoyarsk?" he repeated, in a far better Russian accent than I would have expected. Yet another interesting fact about Fox Mulder to be stored away and brought out when needed. "The point of entry," I said, returning to my task, "was the city of Norilsk." "That's just north of Tunguska," he said, with a hint of wonder in his voice, as he got up and began looking through the pockets of his jacket. "Tunguska?" I said, as though I'd never heard of it. "Yeah," he said, continuing to rummage around in his pockets. "What are you looking for?" I asked. "My cell phone," he said. "I gotta book myself on a flight to Krasnoyarsk, Russia." Ah, there it was ... that lovely little tug at the end of the line when the fish leaps toward the bait, when the gentlest, yet most precise motion sets the hook firmly in its doomed mouth ... there's always a thrill of success, coupled with an equal thrill of fear, when that moment arrives. But there was no time to revel in it now. I had more important work to do. "I can help you, Agent Mulder," I said. "Find my cell phone?" he said, but without smiling. "No," I said, moving toward him. "With cover credentials. A diplomatic passport and visa." "Why?" he said, clearly puzzled. "Why are you helping me?" "Because I can," I said, and that at least was the truth. It needed a lie to make it complete, though, so I went on. "Because there are those of us who believe in you ... believe in your search for the truth." "How long will it take?" he said. "How long do you have?" I asked in return ... just my little effort to let him know the invitation was still open. He still wasn't going to accept. I could see that right away; a man who's planning to bed a woman generally does not look at his watch first to see what time it is. Not, that is, unless someone's waiting for him at home. Oh, yes, I do wonder ... ************ Washington, D.C. ************ As Scully Saw It ************ I don't know if Skinner saw in my eyes just how alarmed I was at the news he brought me, but I have seldom been more frightened. Dr. Bonita Charne-Sayre, possibly the world's foremost virologist, was the intended recipient of that rock ... and now she, too, was dead. That meant Mulder and I were among the very few people left alive who knew what was in that pouch; and there were powerful men -- very powerful men -- who very much wanted to know where Mulder was now. I was reasonably sure that I knew why, too. We were all in danger. When I got inside my apartment, I barely made it to the couch. My legs didn't want to hold me up. I needed to tell Mulder what was happening, but I didn't know where Mulder was. God damn him for putting me in this position. I'm alone and there's no one I can talk to. Skinner may be asking me a lot of questions, but he does not want to carry the burden of knowing what I know, pitifully little as it is. Daniel is on the Vineyard with his family, and Mulder... oh, God, I wish I knew. What's almost worse than being alone is the thought of going hat in hand to Marita Covarrubias and asking her nicely -- or even not nicely -- where my partner is. I know it's petty, and I shouldn't care, but I do. It humiliates me to have to confess to anyone, let alone that woman, that Mulder doesn't actually tell me everything he's doing. I can just see the look of triumph in her eyes as she realizes that he's confided to her matters that he will not confide to me. That, gentlemen, is the female equivalent of an unassisted triple-play in the male-attention game. I know you can't read that look in women's eyes, but trust me: We can. I wish Daniel were here. I can't tell him much, but I would try to reassure him, and he'd try to pretend that it was working, and we'd both know just what big liars we really are... and then he'd take me in his arms and hold me and for just a moment, we could both forget how afraid we are, for Mulder and for ourselves. What's happened between Mulder and me lately is something I could never have imagined, could never have dreamed in the worst of times... but it's true. He doesn't trust me. He not only doesn't trust me, but he's decided to trust Alex Krycek, and I just don't understand how he can do that. I only know it hurts. It hurts so much. ************ As Mulder Saw It ************ I stopped only once on the way to the airport -- at a pay phone, where I called and left a message on Daniel's answering machine. There was no landline at the Vineyard house, but I knew he'd use his cell phone to check his messages at least once a day. I left Krycek cuffed to the steering wheel, with the windows up, and walked the 10 feet or so to the phone. I hoped that was enough to keep him from overhearing me. "Daniel," I said, after the beep, "I've got to go away for a day or two. It's something to do with the case I told you about. I just wanted to let you know, and I'll tell you more about it when I get back. Talk to Scully if you really need to find me. I'll talk to you soon." God, I hoped that was the truth. ************ As Scully Saw It ************ I keep thinking I'm going to wake up soon ... real life couldn't possibly be this bizarre. Mulder is God knows where and I'm in jail for contempt of Congress -- and not just in jail, but in jail for at least the next four days, because tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and Congress is in recess. I have plenty to read, but nothing to do but wait, hope and pray that I'm doing the right thing. I am still wearing my own clothes; it's rather pathetic, but I am immensely comforted by that, although I may have to sleep in this suit. No one seems inclined to bring me a jail uniform, at any rate.
END "The Seventh Side of the Triangle" (4/13) by Susan Jameson(DrBarnBarn@aol.com)