From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: 15 Jan 2006 14:17:02 -0000 Subject: Exercises in Realpolitik (5 things that never happened in New England) S,A, mytharc, c/d - pts 3,5 (R) by David Stoddard-Hunt Source: direct Reply To: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com TITLE: Exercises in Realpolitik AUTHOR: David Stoddard-Hunt SUMMARY: Five things that never happened in New England KEYWORDS: S, A; mytharc, alt reality, cd (3, 5) SPOILERS: Anasazi, Talitha Cumi, Herrenvolk, Musings of a Cigarette Smoking Man ADVISORY: Adult situations, violence DISCLAIMER: Characters borrowed from CC, 1013, Fox FEEDBACK: dmstoddardhunt@yahoo.com WEBSITE: "Matters of Belief" http://www.iwtbxf.com/paige NOTES: Part 1 was a birthday present for uber-reader, Sdani. As always, even though she's moved on from fic, this is for Paige. I. "Stratego" 42 Hegal Place Alexandria, VA The apartment is dark, but for jaundiced light seeping in uninvited from the street outside. The rooms may be generously described as 'unkempt,' though there is evidence of fine things, value and care, just under the top layer of dust and disorder. On one shelf, a game board sits; its red pieces bleached burnt orange in the sodium vapor light, its blue pieces black and almost invisible against the darkened corner of the room. Forces have long been mustered and the game played half-through. The board is quiet, not in truce, but awaiting the opponent's next move. It could be like chess in that way, the match strung through time, careful in its plotting, and patient in its execution. It is not chess, however, and the opponent's next move seems more and more unlikely with each passing year. In the apartment, as in the world at large, it is November of 1995. But for the occupant of the place, asleep on the black leather sofa and locked in a nightmare, it is twenty years earlier, and the game is in progress. Chilmark, MA 27 November, 1973 8:53 P.M. It is dark inside the dream, too. The living room of their parents' house, lit only by the blue-white glow of the t.v., is in casual disarray, childrens' things strewn atop, around and about finer, older ones. "Aw, come on, Samantha!" he is protesting. "You're not even trying." "Am too," she replies, "Phlox!" punctuating the intended insult by sticking out her tongue. It's her newest epithet, discovered only this summer, digging in the garden with their mother. He thinks about retaliating, but stops himself. Whether she realizes it or not, his sister knows far worse, more hurtful things to say. "You keep doing the same things all the time. The trick to this game is to keep your opponent guessing about where your traps are. You want to lead him into your traps, and away from your flag. It's all about misdirection." Misdirection is his new word. He tells himself that he overheard his parents using it while playing bridge, but that isn't strictly true. "See, lookit," he says, nodding toward pieces nearest her side of the board, "you always put your flag on the back line, surrounded with a triangle of bombs. I just look for that shape, and I know where your flag is." He scans the board, finds the desired configuration, and points. He expects her to react angrily and topple the board in a fit of pique. He's been looking too intently at the board, and not well enough at his sister. He fails to notice the way she idolizes her older brother and takes in everything he says - everything - like a sponge. "To win, you've got to make the unexpected happen." "Stop jawin'." This is something she's heard her father repeat, on the rare occasions when he's been home for any length of time. "Just play." He looks across at her, sighs, then smiles. "Okay. Your funeral." Another of her father's expressions. Her brother moves with confidence. She struggles to keep the delight from her face as he advances. For the first time, she's going to spring the unexpected upon him. He reaches out to make a decisive move, and is annoyed when she squeals with excitement. Then, in the house, above, outside, all around them, the unexpected happens. Noise, confusion and light, and then, the surreal: dead quiet and paralysis. At the last, he is shouting her name, she is crying his, and her voice hangs in the air long after it is over. 42 Hegal Place Alexandria, VA The sleeping form stirs, though not with a start. The nightmare is too familiar. Sitting on the edge of the leather sofa, head in hands, as always it isn't the big thing that stands out, but the little details - the way the board shook, pieces moving about of their own accord helter-skelter, like the players on an electronic, vibrating football game. "Always hated that game. Not realistic at all." Stratego, on the other hand, as the years have made clear, is an almost frighteningly instructive lesson in realpolitik. It's virtually impossible to know your opponent's board, so it is imperative to get a feel for your opponent. Is he cautious, even timid? If so, he'll array his players in such a manner to afford himself the greatest protection. Is he daring? Then it's more dangerous perhaps, but just as predictable: that which is most vulnerable will be laid bare, tempting you in, only to have his reserves hammer down upon you from either side. If he's cagey, then, of course, it's dicey. You can't really be sure what's a feint, and what's not, making any offensive against him a win-big, lose-big proposition. In any event, perhaps the game's most important real-world lesson is that, with the right information, the lowliest spy - say, for example, one exiled to the basement of the F.B.I. - can blow an opponent's plans to Kingdom Come. "I'm the laughing stock of the Bureau, now. Can't get much more lowly than that. It's been good cover. I've had time to gauge my opponent. He's a crafty, devilish bastard with his fingers in almost every pie in the federal district. He was the one who had a partner assigned to me, to keep tabs on my every thought, I'm sure of it. Little does he know how badly that's backfiring, and I aim to keep it that way. I'm little more than a gnat to him. His arrogance is my weapon. "He's to blame. I feel it now. I've spent nearly my entire life blaming anyone and everyone for your abduction: God; fate; Dad, who should have protected you; Mom, who was too weak to do so in his stead. They've spent the ensuing years bickering constantly about who was right and who was wrong, blaming each other outwardly, and blaming themselves privately. And I? Well, of course, I blamed myself. So unproductive, even destructive. I see that now. "I was young, then. That's my excuse. I don't know what theirs were. Well, I've learned from my mistakes, grown, prepared. I've massed my resources like players on the board, and have devoted myself to learning my opponent's moves. I have his scent, so to speak: smoky and acrid. "I have the truth: I know now that he is responsible for your abduction. And, I promise, big brother, I will not rest until I find you." ******* II: "Separate and Apart" Quonochontaug, R.I. December, 1963 She loves this house, with its airy spaces, and crisp, clean furnishings. Yes, there's no denying that. Still, as many hours as she's spent sweating the details in putting their summer place together, so much love and care poured into it, it has never quite risen to the equal of her mother's house in Amangansett, has it? An ungrateful creature, this house, and faithless in its affection, but she loves it anyway. Nonetheless, for her son, and for their future, she will leave it in a heartbeat, never look back, happily ever after. On second glance, through no fault of its own, the decor looks suddenly, terribly dated. Elegant, unfussy style died of natural causes - heartbreak - recently, along with everything and everyone else, at Dealey Plaza. Upstairs, there is a closetful of Oleg Cassini suits that she may never again be able to bring herself to wear. No matter. Fashions change with time, as must all things eventually. So, in the closet they will stay. Teena fishes a cigarette from her clutch but forgets to light it, losing her way wondering whatever will become of Camelot now. Poor Mrs. Kennedy. How awful for her to step aside and have to watch while the wife of that boorish Texan undoes all her hard work. After a bit, Teena hauls her gaze back from the sea, clucks her tongue in self-reproach - now is not the time for woolgathering - and fiddles with the cigarette for a moment before returning it to the pack in her purse. It's not that anything here needs to be sorted out. She hashed through those details with Bill long ago, as diplomats would, on a purely geographical basis. Everything east and north of Fall River is his domain; hers, everything west and south. It is an exercise in marital realpolitik, lowering their own peculiar Iron Curtain. In the deal, Boston is lost to her, falling on the wrong side of the checkpoint, but her family's houses in Greenwich and on the island are securely on this side of the frontier. The pact has kept the peace, yet failed to save the marriage. Just before their agreement, the - what was his word? - rapprochement, certain pieces from the Chilmark house managed to find their way to her side of the border, defected to the west, one might say. Teena locates certain among those refugees in her line of sight, and smiles. Bill had been too wrapped up in his affair to notice or care. She feels the least little stab of embarrassment that, for a time, she actually believed he'd been unfaithful, so that she'd been justified in embarking on an affair of her own in retaliation. Only afterward had she discovered her mistake: Bill's mistress flowed from a bottle. He hadn't truly left her; he'd just been swimming his way home at night. She doesn't regret the affair, only that she made it so personal. Bill knows of it, he must, though he's never actually confronted her with it. Still, that hasn't stopped her from playing it through in her mind. "Aw, damnit, Teena!" Bill, spitting words from some wittily acid caption to a New Yorker cartoon, "With my best friend? My dog? My baseball glove?" "Yes, dear," she imagines herself bloodless and cool, "with your best friend." Now, Teena retrieves that cigarette and lights it, taking a long, satisfying drag. "You took your lover, and I took mine," she says, exhaling. "Even Steven." He must have had his suspicions, just as she had hers. Propriety spared each the indignity of a knockdown, drag-out over something as ephemeral as fidelity. There had been a price for this, of course. There always was. Anger grew within her, burning and leaping yet bottled up, corrosive within her chest. Propriety demanded it. Still, within the rules of their set, there were other, indirect ways to lash out, and Teena Mulder had found one. She'd cuckolded Bill with vigor and zest. Now, thank goodness, all that messiness is over. There is a buffer of many sea-miles in place between them, which has calmed the waters, though not her soul. Teena stares out across Block Island Sound to the south, and then easterly, toward the Vineyard, and Bill. The rolling expanse of whitecaps is their Wall, sure enough. But, she has determined it is not a safe distance, not nearly enough so to suit her. Merely by looking in his direction, she can feel chilling wisps from the secret crevices of Bill's other life cresting the horizon, seeping under door frames and around the window sashes of the Quonochontaug house, and seeking their way, curling around her ankles and up the stairs, toward Fox. No. Rapprochement will not do. So. What, then? Divorce is for Other People. It just isn't done, in their circle. Other People try to make the best of things, plead fault with a wink, and move on. She is not Other People. Those in their circle, in her circle, would know. Then too, there is another marriage to consider here, though it has its flaws, as well. 'No matter how difficult things may seem, there are always options.' She's heard that often, though never from Bill. Finally, Teena has narrowed her options to two. The luggage lined up by the door is pre-war, and very expensive, save for a child's garishly hued valise, red cowboys and Indians galloping after each other across a yellow vinyl field. The bags will serve in any event, whichever option she chooses. Of the two, there is an obvious choice, safe in its familiarity. True, both husband and lover share the same career and attendant pressures, and heed the same call to duty. That her husband bears this call as an albatross around his neck conjures pangs of pity within her, something a spouse simply should not be made to feel. Her lover, on the other hand, bears the weight defiantly, proudly. Not that he would ever pressure her into leaving Bill. No, much the opposite, he's been every inch the gentleman, adamant through late night talks at this very kitchen table with Bill passed out upstairs, insisting that Teena put her own needs, and those of her son, over all else. Damn his own desires all to hell, he has said, whenever she's broached that subject. She must do what is right for her family, of course. He's honored simply to have earned a place in her heart. And that is almost enough. She knows full well that it is not, cannot be, everything. "I can't leave Cassandra," he admitted one rich, summer night, "I owe her that much." At that moment, through the veil of smoke drifting over the table, she couldn't see him clearly, but the pain in his voice was all too evident. Cassandra, his wife, confined to an institution outside Washington, unable to bear the stresses and strains inherent in a life such as theirs. Teena understood, all too well. Bill and Cassandra were like two peas in a pod in this way, and each their spouse's cross to bear. He was grateful for her understanding, truly, cherished her for it, in his way. He tried, bless him, really did try to find a satisfactory solution to their dilemma, going so far even as to rent a pied-a-terre for her in the District. "I'd gladly have you both come live with me, but for the boy." Jeffrey, his son, about Fox' age, sent away to California to live with Cassandra's parents when she became ill, unable even to take care of herself, let alone a child. Teena sensed the desire within him, sharing it whole-heartedly that, one day, the boy would come to live with and know his father. So, then: an apartment in Washington for her and Fox, to which he would be a visitor but never a resident, and to her, a lover but never a husband. It would be half a life, a very exciting half-life to be sure, but half a life nonetheless. And that, she has been surprised to learn, is very nearly enough. She's told him that she's ready to make her decision. Convinced, not without precedent, this means she's decided in his favor, he's cut short business at the naval base in New London and is presently headed their way, to share in the glad news. "Fox?" Teena's call is answered shortly by a quiet young boy at the top of the stairs, still in his all-in-one pajamas. "Go and get dressed, dear! It's almost time for us to go." Her son isn't happy with the decision to leave this house, but he's a good little boy, and obedient to a fault. For this, she's thankful. As cut-and-dried as her options would seem to be, the choice itself has been a very difficult one to make. As she looks around her, Teena is mildly surprised at how little there is here she will miss, not even the memories. One glance at her wristwatch informs her that time is running short. She can practically feel the cold pressing in on the house from all sides, seeking a weak spot through which it can enter and envelop them. Where they are going, the cold may follow, or it may not. She only knows for certain that it has found them here. From outside in the drive, a car horn sounds, startling the air in her throat. Only after she has identified the vehicle, peering out between slats of the Venetian blinds, does she relax into her next breath. "Fox? Hurry and come down. It's time to go!" Shortly, her little boy comes running down the stairs, fully dressed, his pajamas balled in one hand and two favorite toys clutched in the other. He stuffs them into his red and yellow bag and opens the door, pausing when he sees a taxicab out front only to look to his mother for confirmation. At her smile and nod, he runs out the door and piles into the back. She overpays the driver in advance, for which he tips his cap and begins loading her bags into the trunk. She takes one last look around to make sure that nothing of the two of them remains. At the point of leaving, she turns and walks to a nearby end table. Working quickly, she disassembles the finial, shade, bulb and socket from the lamp there. By the time she leaves, all is as it ever was. During the ride to the small public airfield in Westerly, she holds Fox close to her side, clutching the horrific security of the smooth metal cylinder from the lamp in her other hand. With every car that approaches from the opposite direction, Teena burrows back against the seat as far as possible, away from the window, sinking into the gloom. ***** III. Photo/Shoot Quonochontaug, R.I. September 1996 X marks the spot. From here, he thinks it probable his surveillance will go undetected, though one never knows. He kneels by the tripod and gently affixes the camera, accounting for the extra weight of the telephoto lens with surprising grace. Small, handheld meters give him precise measurements for light and distance, adjustments are made accordingly, and the devices quickly stowed away. There is still time, he expects, before the show starts, but no time to relax. X practices working the quick-release mechanism on the tripod, determining the fewest number of turns of the clamp needed to remove the camera plate and refit its alternate into the shoe, tightening the clamp and taking aim without ever taking his eye off the subjects. After several tries without error, X rocks back on his heels to wait, confident in his preparations. Still, one never knows. Of the subjects, the one familiar to X - vastly the more dangerous of the two - is already in place, perched uncomfortably on the edge of an outdoor lounge chair. He of all people, X permits himself a thin smile at the thought, is the least likely to 'lounge,' and even if he might once try, would never do so out-of-doors. The awkwardness of the setting is, for a man who prides himself on the innate ability to discomfit others, a delicious little irony. As if in wry retort, a pale plume of smoke rises from just over the subject's shoulder. X's brief is terse: observe. Under no circumstance, his orders cannot have been more explicit, is he to intercede, only to watch and report on the man's movements. His superiors fear the Smoker, with good reason, as X well knows. Indeed, from almost the very day of his recruitment into the Project, X has been especially well-situated to appreciate the Smoker's position. As with any clandestine operation, the Project is, of necessity, a compartmentalized affair. Each of its several branches, scientific, military, and political, has little or no knowledge of the workings of its fellows, true into its highest echelon. The Elders, of course, as the body entrusted with strategic planning, must be the exception to this measure. Yet, even the Elders have oversight only of the whole, and little in the way of actual first-hand operational experience. Over the years, the Elders have designated certain individuals to work outside the normal chain of command, their eyes and ears among the branches, free radicals whose job it is to move between the various compartments ensuring that, blindly, each serves the others, and the Project over all. X is among these privileged few, having inherited his late, laconic superior's reservations about the Project, as well as his position within it. Even among the chosen few, as head of Project security, the Smoker stands apart. He alone has intimate knowledge of all strata within each compartment. He alone has the capacity to influence the daily operation or impact the organizational structure of the Project in an immediate way. The broad swath of the Smoker's authority has, at times, made him a lightning rod for the Elders' impatience, and for the envy, hatred and fear of almost anyone else who has earned the misfortune of his acquaintance. In short, the very element that has given the Smoker such power has also made him a target. Yet, against the odds, he has survived. This is why the Elders fear the Cancer Man - for his skill in the art of maneuver. It is that very skill, over time, which has fostered in X a grudging respect, an appreciation, for the man, if not his method. And, finally, that is why he has been chosen for this particular assignment. As well as anyone can, X knows the inner labyrinth of the Smoker's mind, can assess his motivations, predict his actions and, so the Elders hope, exploit his weaknesses. Weaknesses? X knows of one only, rooted - perhaps predictably - in the Cancer Man's arrogant sense of control over events, the Project, the Elders, even, at times, over nature itself. When, as it has been in recent days, this sense of control is shaken, the Smoker can be stirred to rare anger, letting emotion dictate his actions. It is, X knows, as close as the man gets to panic. As weaknesses go, it isn't much. But, to the Elders, it is a rare opportunity to gauge the threat the man poses, and to rein him in, if necessary. As for X's role here, however, simply observe and report. It's just a way to kill time, yet pleasant enough in its own right. X enjoys the effort of keeping the back of Cancer Man's neck squarely in the crosshairs. More to the point, from long experience, X finds this potentially lethal game a comfort while in that man's presence. From the forecourt, the crunch of gravel under tires announces the arrival of the house's rightful owner. In his mind, X follows her progress, punctuated by the sounds of the actual event: the solid chunk of a car door slamming; the flimsier squeak and clatter of a screen door. Through his viewfinder, X sees Cancer Man react to the same sequence, relaxing into the lounge chair, and into his role. X can make out only a small percentage of the conversation, but it is enough. The Smoker's congenial facade dissolves at Teena Mulder's refusal to walk hand in hand down memory lane. Soon enough, anger and panic grips him. She is his one sure way to regain some measure of control over events, a source of information he cannot afford to waste. Her failure of memory seems genuine enough at first, though X can see her attitude hardening along with the Smoker's. By the time Cancer Man issues an ultimatum, his hands are clenched round her arms, his face menacingly close to hers. Even so, X hears her last words quite distinctly, and is just far enough from the heat of the moment to grasp the enormity of her confession. It isn't that she can't remember the information he needs, but that she won't. At this, the Cancer Man's hands fly to her throat. X reacts just as quickly, releasing the catch and removing the camera, and seating the rifle in its place. His aim is just as quick, and true. X is relieved to find Mrs. Mulder coughing, gasping for breath, but otherwise unharmed. He tells her that she should seek medical attention, and offers to call for an ambulance. When he assures her that he will take care of the mess, it is the first time she notices the body, and begins to retch. When he asks her where the device is hidden, she looks at him in alarm, until he tells her that it is Fox who needs it, Fox to whom he will deliver it. After the ambulance leaves, X retrieves the device from the lamp, and waits. He has exceeded his brief. Under the circumstances, however, at least under those he will report, X believes the Elders will understand. **** IV. Single Lens/Reflex Quonochontaug, R.I. September, 1996 X marks the spot with his knee, pausing to observe his colleague unaided. X admits freely to a less- than-benign interest in this proceeding, and set-up can wait. The other party to this conclave has not yet arrived. Both of X's masters have expressed their concerns about his colleague and the purpose of this meeting. The Elder fears the man is going "off the reservation," that is to say, taking matters into his own hands and out of those who direct the Project. The concerns of X's other master are more personal - his mother is the other participant, after all - though X harbors no doubts that the man would ever permit such emotions to intrude on his quest. Of this assignment, X himself has formed no opinion, adopting instead a wait-and-see attitude. An amusing position, if he may say so himself, for a surveillance job. His grin, however, conveys no amusement at all. By the time he has finished setting up his equipment, X hears the crunch of tires over gravel, heralding the other party's arrival. Through his headset, he can hear every nuance of her entry into the house: keys, useless for opening a front door that had already been unlocked, dropped onto the table just inside; a pause while she stares through the living room and out the sliding glass doors to the sloping backyard, sizing up just what and whom it is that awaits her. Can she see anything of her visitor, even the smallest clue? From X's vantage, he is plainly visible, sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, personal poison in hand. But, from hers? His shoes, perhaps, glimpsed just at the bottom right through the glass door, expensive when new, now scuffed from too much wear and a financial inability to replace them, a midlevel bureaucrat's footwear. Maybe his hands - to X, a dead giveaway of the man attached. X looks up from his blind. This house has a superb view of the sea. He wonders whether that even registers with its owner any longer. The owner finishes her threat assessment and walks briskly, purposefully through the house and into the back yard, rounding on her visitor immediately, wresting the initiative from him. It takes X only a second or two to crouch at the camera's viewfinder and refocus the frame. If she has expressed any surprise at all at her visitor's identity, it is gone, quite literally, in the blink of an eye. X does not know this woman personally, but, based on what the son has told him and from what he has just witnessed, he is impressed. X regrets that he cannot see his colleague's face from this angle, missing a rare opportunity to have seen him caught off-guard, if even for a moment. As X would expect, his colleague's recovery is swift, and smooth. "It struck me as I was sitting here." His primary assignment is to capture an audio recording of the exchange; a photographic record is secondary. Still, something moves X to focus the lens on the woman's eyes, as grey as distant rain and hard and glittering as a winter sun. His colleague tires of waiting for her to pick up his cue and continues with the banter he hopes will ease them toward the heart of the matter. "Everything changes but the sea." "What is it that you want from me?" She, obviously, has no patience with prepared scripts. "I thought we might at least allow ourselves to reminisce." "I have nothing to say to you." "Really?" In the treacle of that single word, X sniffs his colleague's trademark sarcasm. "We used to have so much to say to each other, so many good times at the old summer house. Our kids, so young and energetic." X has never suffered the sharp edge of his colleague's mordant wit, but can appreciate its use from afar. In a way, it's much like the scotch his colleague so favors, a smooth and honeyed tone easing its way past a subject's reserve and, once through, burning its way into the gut. Effective, even if the hangover is often brutal. His colleague rises, armed with scotch and sarcasm, and draws nearer to the woman. "I remember water skiing right down there with your husband. He used to be such a good water skier. Not as good as I was, of course, but then, that could be said about so many things, couldn't it?" The proximity of man and woman, the secluded setting, the tumbler held low and close to her belly might lead a lesser, more emotional person to accept the intended innuendo as genuine. X is not such a person. Nor, it appears, is she. "I've repressed it all." "I find that hard to believe." She looks down between them, though not at the scotch, and smirks, shaking her head. "Particularly," his colleague continues just a shade too loudly, "since I came here today to ask you to remember something, something I'm going to have to ask to try very hard to recollect." He's trying to project a quiet menace, something in which the man is well practiced, X knows. For the first time in his acquaintance, however, X recognizes something else in his colleague's tone - uncertainty. She appears to hear it, too, and smiles coldly. Yes, X thinks, quite impressive. X had thought himself beyond shock, if not completely beyond surprise. As he watches his colleague's renowned control disintegrate upon the shoals of her resolute opposition, X realizes he will have to re-evaluate that assessment. "You want to walk down memory lane? That's fine with me. Let's start with a toast, something appropriate, shall we?" X smiles when she grabs the glass from his colleague's hand, leaving him grasping the air behind it, like an infant after its bottle. "Here's one: to absent friends and family, sacrificed at the altar of your goddamn Project!" X gasps as the crystal tumbler shatters against the side of the house. Beyond surprise? Not even close. His colleague tries to hold fast, to weather the outburst by staying his tongue until her bravado burns out. Fat chance of that happening any time soon, X thinks. In this new assessment, he has every confidence. "How many have been taken? To what end?" "You know full well to what end! I negotiated that bargain to gain us time." "Time," said as if she had taken the word, thrown it into the dust and spat upon it. "To develop a vaccine. To secure our very survival. Damnit! Why are you forcing me to waste my breath, stating the obvious? We were defenseless! It was all we could do to stave off what is to come, to give us the least chance of changing the inevitable." "You sacrificed your child, and your wife in the bargain." His colleague has no reaction at all to this. In his mind, X knows, even this biblical sacrifice is nothing more than the cold calculus of waging war against a vastly superior foe; a son just one more life among the many who cannot be saved. In this struggle, the survival of a handful is as great a victory as can be hoped. Such sacrifice is simply the realpolitik of an all-too crowded universe. "Her breakdown was unforeseen, not intentional. You know all this. What is the point of raging against it now?" His sang-froid finally triggers the long-simmering rage within her. At this, X's attention becomes acute. "You would have sacrificed my son - our child - if I hadn't stopped you!" X's colleague is taken aback by this, but briefly. "Ultimately, your family made the same sacrifice as everyone else." "Yes, you saw to that, didn't you? I just fixed it so that you would feel the same hurt, the same devastation as everyone else." "By offering up your own husband? My friend?" From his blind, X's eyes are opened to a hidden chapter in the history of the Project. It's true, then. She's the one who stood up to the Project's enforcer, and refused to give up her child. Her husband's career suffered because of it, so badly, in fact, that, within several years, he was merely a shell of his former self. When he was among those taken in the early Seventies, consensus was that it was mercy. "You will tell me what I want to know." His colleague steps forward so that he and the woman are almost nose to nose though he is nearly a head taller. X reaches out to his right, groping for his 'insurance.' He prefers not to use Russian hardware as a rule, but the Dragunov is the world's most accurate sniper's weapon and is nearly untraceable. X hopes he will not have to use it. "Not on your life." She pauses, then smiles. "You really are a bastard, you know that, Bill? You never gave a rat's ass for my husband. Isn't it a little late to go to pieces over him now?" She leaves his colleague standing there, and returns to the house, locking the doors behind her. He stands bewildered, looking around as if waiting for the cavalry to show up. Though X listens intently, in spite of his sensitive equipment, he can't hear so much as the creak of a floorboard. Only when his colleague leaves empty- handed, does X hear her footfalls going up the stairs to rest. He imagines her then, Cassandra Spender, standing just behind the sliding glass doors, cross-armed, daring Bill Mulder to try something, anything further. X will deliver the photographs and audiotape of this encounter to the Elders on his way back to Washington. But, it is his second contact he relishes most. He will report to young Mr. Spender that he, X, has held up his end of the bargain. His mother is quite all right. And she is that, and more. Quite formidable, in fact. X smirks. Extraordinary. ****** V. Fathers and Sons West Tisbury, MA Martha's Vineyard Winter, 1995 "I work with your son. May I come in?" Just that easy, to start. The old man's intelligence had proven accurate. As soon as it begins to grow dark, the target will start drinking. And in this part of New England, it gets dark early. "I, uh, I don't know how to say this." The Smoker had been specific about my target, but vague on specifics, as usual. Fine with me. After just a few, halting words, I'd been offered a seat and a drink. Took the one, refused the other. "More of a feeling, really. I think Mulder, uh, Fox may have gotten involved with - I don't know how I can say this without sounding melodramatic. I think your son might be involved with certain, dangerous elements working toward their own interests from within the federal government." I wasn't surprised to get the call on this job. Like most North Americans, the Smoker has no real stomach for 'mokrie dela,' wet work. "That, Alex, is why we use you." Yeah, no shit. Nor was I surprised to see my target rise, go over to the hutch and pour another measure of scotch into his tumbler, offering me the same kindness. Again, I refused. Soon, when sufficiently soused, he would stop offering. That would be my sign. "One of your former colleagues, I think. A chain- smoker. Real bastard. Sorry, was he a friend of yours?" Recognition, I could see it in his eyes. Just that one mention was good for two quick slugs of scotch and a refill. Yes, yes, I had to assure him, I'd seen Fox several times with this man, he'd tried to ditch me to go meet the bastard. It was the truth, too. Sort of. After he'd had a chance to digest both the information and the scotch, I played my ace. Had Fox called, made some excuse to come for a visit? I'd witnessed this very call from outside the house just hours before, so both my question and my reaction to his answer may have been less than genuine. Told him I thought I'd overheard Fox mention his name in conversation with that smoking son-of-a-bitch. That last bit just for verisimilitude, sure. "It's just bits and pieces, really. As I say, more of a feeling, a suspicion, than anything substantive." As I say, the Smoker hadn't been long on specifics, left things loose, except for the end result, naturally. I saw a way to achieve that, and more. The look on Bill Mulder's face told me I was almost all the way there. "Look, I'm sorry to have bothered you. It may be nothing. But, forewarned, and all that." He looked startled when I got up to leave. He needn't have worried. I wasn't going far. From an outdoor bivouac about fifty yards away, I had a warm coat and an unobstructed view of the house. Mulder-the-elder walked back to the hutch, withdrew an entire bottle of scotch, and what appeared to be an old but, hopefully, serviceable revolver. Each fortified in his own way, we both sat down to wait. One of us was hoping Mulder would never show, and the other hoping he'd be early, for once. Eight hours from the Capital to the Cape. Turns out, Mulder was right on time, and the visit was short and anything but sweet. Fathers and sons, a setting for tragedy that is ages-old. The Elder tried to prevent the inevitable by holding the family reunion at the door. The Younger had no patience for this, and forced his way in. Voices raised, things escalated, exploded and grew quiet just as suddenly. By the time I got back to the house and knelt down, the last moments of a young man's life was pulsing through his carotid artery. I shook my head, and looked up into his father's ashen face. There was no reason to coddle Bill Mulder now. Quite the opposite, in fact. "Well," I told him, "if it's any consolation, at least you haven't murdered your own son." I took the gun from his hand, checked the chamber, spun it and handed the gun back to him. His grip was so weak, for a moment I feared he'd drop the damn thing. I don't know what he was expecting from me, a shoulder to cry on, legal advice, help with disposing the body? Something, certainly, something other than what happened. I was only twenty yards or so from the open front door when the report from the second shot out of Bill Mulder's revolver reached me. I dialed a number and, shortly, relayed the good news. -End-