Title: Rongbuk(2/3)
Author: Ravenscion
E-mail: ravenscion@hotmail.com
Rating: R (language, violence, sex)
Category: XR
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, some angst
Spoilers: possible for seasons 1-5 and the movie.
Date of First Posting: 29 August 1998
Author's website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/6767/
Archiving: Please archive at Gossamer. Others, please email for
permission.

Summary and notes: see chapter 1.

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, and all of the other characters
and situations related to the X-Files, belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and the FOX network. I am using them without permission
but intend no copyright infringement.

[begin part 5 of 11]
************************************************************************

Book II -- The Operative

Arlington, Virginia
Saturday, 19 September, 12:14 a.m.

Within the confines of the surveillance van, two Consortium operatives
sat in bored misery. Their target had taken a brief stroll around the
neighborhood once a day, every day since they had been there, and that
had been all they had seen of him for the duration of the stakeout.
They were plenty tired of sitting in a cramped space, for twelve-hour
shifts, listening to hours of silence broken only by the sound of
Florescu's toilet flushing or the occasional opening and closing of a
door.

Consequently, the order to take out the target had come as a welcome
diversion to the men, who had, somewhat unreasonably, come to blame the
object of their surveillance for the tedium they had endured.

In fact, they counted themselves lucky to be the ones on duty when the
order had come to kill him.

Jack Bowers checked his weapon, making sure that a round was chambered
and the safety off, then turned to his partner, who was taking his turn
on the earphones.

"Where is he?"

"Inside."

"Alright, I'll get him."

"Want back-up?"

Bowers thought about it. He was sure he could handle the job himself,
but their briefing on Florescu had painted him as an experienced
operative. Two men on the hit might be better than one, in this case.

"Yeah, best be certain," he said. "Come on."

His partner got up, checking his own weapon, and together they made
their way across the street, heading for the darkened apartment
building.

Behind them, in the van, the surveillance gear dutifully recorded the
sound of a door quietly opening and closing, though there was no one
there to hear it.

* * *

Florescu saw the pair leave the van and head for his apartment building,
and by the furtive character of their movements, he knew that the game
was up.

He hastily gathered a few tools and then slipped out into the hallway,
heading down the corridor to the fire escape at the end window. The two
coming for him appeared to be professionals, and if that were the case,
they would clear his rooms quickly, and then would probably split up.
One would follow him down the fire escape, while the other went back out
the front, intending to cut off his escape route in the alley below.
Florescu hoped that they were confident in their work. In fact, he was
counting on it.

* * *

"Shit!" Bowers cursed sotto voce, sweeping his eyes one last time
around the empty apartment, then turned and hurried back into the hall.
Somehow, the target had known they were coming and slipped out. He
hadn't gone far though -- Bowers could sense it.

He signaled his partner, pointing to the front of the building and then
motioning downward and around. Next, he indicated himself, and then
pointed to the window that led to the fire escape. His partner nodded
acknowledgment and moved toward the stairs at the front of the
building.

Bowers slunk down to the end of the hall, noting with grim satisfaction
that the window was part-way open. Fled down the chute, eh? he thought.
He lifted the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, searching the
alley below for some sign of his quarry.

He felt the platform shake under his feet as something heavy landed on
it behind him. Before he could turn, a wire looped over his head and
around his neck in one swift, fluid motion, and for an instant he felt
its bite as it tightened around his windpipe. Then a knee was driven
hard into his back and his neck snapped, his last conscious thought the
fleeting realization that he had begun to wet himself.

* * *

Florescu dropped the corpse and hurried down the fire escape, knowing
that speed counted for more than stealth now. He had to reach the
ground before the assassin's partner came far enough into the alley to
see what had happened, otherwise, gunfire would ensue, and that would
turn a bad situation into a complete fiasco.

He rounded the last turn and slung himself down from the lowest level of
the fire escape, bending his knees to absorb the shock of the fall. He
sprang up at once, tearing down the alley and meeting the other assassin
just as he rounded the corner. Florescu did not hesitate. He set his
feet and drove his fist into the man's throat with every ounce of
strength in his frame, crushing his larynx and silencing the surprised
squeak the man had been about to utter. His next blow, delivered with
his four fingers spread in a vee, burst both of his victims eyeballs and
would have provoked a scream if the man had had any way to force air
through his ruined windpipe.

Florescu paused a split second and then delivered his last strike, a
lethal chop to the back of the neck that dropped the man where he stood.

The encounter had lasted less than two seconds.

Florescu's eyes darted back and forth, seeking any sign of danger, but
the alley remained empty. He stepped back and relaxed a bit, keeping
alert, then made his way cautiously around the building and back up to
his room. He made quick work of dismantling his surveillance equipment
and getting out of the place permanently.

His movements were calm and unhurried, but within, his anger burned like
a magnesium fuse. He had not worked with Alex Krycek for very long, and
though he had thought him a sound tactical commander, he had begun to
think that this type of operation was not his specialty. Yes, Krycek
had a few powerful friends in the Russian Government, and yes, he had
access to surprising resources, but if he planned to continue throwing
together operations haphazardly and on short notice, he might have to do
it on his own.

Nothing irritated Florescu more than having to leave a trail or corpses
behind him -- one attracted far too much attention that way, and
attention tended to call a halt to stake-outs of the sort he had been
asked to execute.

Still, he took pride in his work. Although his listening post was no
longer a safe base of operations, his transmitter in the offices of 'The
Lone Gunman' continued to function undetected. If he could manage it,
and it wouldn't be easy, Florescu would find a new vantage point and
continue his surveillance.

In the meantime, Krycek would have to wait for his next report.

************************************************************************

Alexandria, Virginia
9:30 a.m.

Dana Scully snuggled deeper into her pillow and did her best to ignore
the sound that had intruded on her rest, but to no avail. The bright
morning light pouring in through the open window conspired with the
noise to drag her grudgingly from a deep, contented sleep. Coming
awake, she realized that someone was knocking on the door to Mulder's
apartment.

Next to her, the man himself slept on, oblivious.

Scully smiled slightly and shook her head, gratified to see the original
poster-boy for insomnia lost in slumber for a change. She briefly
entertained the hope that their unexpected visitor would give up,
allowing her to rejoin her partner in sleep.

The knocking continued unabated. Scully sighed and drowsily grabbed one
of Mulder's T-shirts, covering herself with it as she slipped out of the
bedroom and crossed to the door of the apartment.

Only after she had actually begun to turn the doorknob did her she
belatedly realize that, in her sleep-befuddled state, she had neglected
to look through the peep-hole first.

The site that greeted her shocked her into instantaneous wakefulness.
Standing outside of Mulder's apartment was his erstwhile partner, Diana
Fowley. Watching the array of emotions -- shock, confusion, anger, and
then reserve -- that manifested in turn on Diana's countenance, Scully
had a few seconds to wonder which of them was the more surprised.

She decided that it was Diana. Scully concealed the mild sensation of
guilty pleasure that arose in her, in spite of her better nature.
Whatever her intentions toward Mulder had been when she had re-entered
his life during the Gibson Praise case, Diana had done nothing to earn
mockery. Still, Scully was only human, and could not help but enjoy
her victory just a little bit.

She cocked an eyebrow at her would-be rival. "Can I help you?" Behind
her, within the apartment, the phone rang once and then cut off.

To her credit, Fowley kept her emotions under a tight reign, but Scully
could sense an undercurrent of antipathy in her tone. "I'm here to see
Fox."

"We were in bed." Scully felt a little ashamed -- she really was
enjoying this more than she should.

"I need to talk to him," Diana persisted.

Scully hesitated. "Alright, come in. I'll get him up." She made way
for Fowley to enter. "Have a seat."

Diana moved stiffly to a chair in the living room as Scully made her
way back to the bedroom. She leaned through the door and found Mulder
sitting on the edge of the bed, the phone in his hand.

"Are you serious?" he was saying. A paused followed.

"Jesus," he said. "Okay, give me a few, we'll get over there..."

Another pause.

"Alright...will do. Half an hour, okay? Bye." He hung up, glanced up
at Scully, a puzzled look on his face. "You're not going to believe
this..." he began.

"Diana is here," Scully said, without preamble.

"What?" Mulder's expression shifted from surprised to incredulous.
"What in the hell is she doing here?"

"I think she's wondering the same thing about me." Scully slipped into
the room and donned a light robe that she had stored in Mulder's closet
for the summer.

Mulder appeared amused by her remark. "I'll bet," he said. He affected
a long-suffering expression. "Christ, all this before coffee?"

"Sorry, lover, but it's time to face the music." Scully gave him her
sweetest smile.

Mulder rolled his eyes and reached for a pair of shorts, as Scully
turned and walked back to the living room. She nodded to Diana and
stepped into the kitchen to put a pot of coffee on.

A few moments later, Mulder joined them in the living room. He spoke
to Diana, a bit brusquely. "Well, this is a surprise."

Her voice was bitter. "I couldn't have put it better myself, Fox.
Always getting into the henhou--"

"Enough." Mulder cut her off. "You must have some reason for being
here. What is it?"

"I hear you're planning a trip to Rongbuk."

Her statement hung in the air for a long moment, a verbal 'Le Chateau
des Pyrenees.' Finally, Mulder said "How did you find out about that?"
In the kitchen, searching for a third coffee cup, Scully felt a touch of
surprise herself. Her partner hadn't said anything about actually
traveling to Tibet.

"Word gets around, Fox. You know I take an interest in these things."

Mulder said nothing for a while, then "What are you doing here, Diana?"

"I want to go with you...and Agent Scully...when you go."

Mulder shook his head. "I don't think that's necessarily a good idea,"
he began.

"No, Fox, that's not fair." Urgency raised Diana's voice slightly. "I
have a stake in your work. I was shot protecting that boy!" She
paused, controlling herself. "What Rongbuk represents is important to
me. I want to be part of the X-Files again."

"And I want to know how you know what we're investigating," Mulder
persisted.

"Oh, come on," said Diana, snorting. "It's not like it's a big secret.
You two have been turning over every rock within reach for days." She
shrugged. "Like I said, word gets around."

"So who says we're going to Rongbuk?" Mulder held his ground, but his
voice had softened somewhat.

"No one, Fox. I know you, remember?"

Mulder seemed to accept that. He sat in thought for a moment. Fowley
waited for him to speak.

Scully poured coffee and carried a cup to Mulder, then offered one to
Fowley, who accepted it with a nod. Scully retrieved her own cup then
and rejoined them in the living room, sitting next to Mulder on the
couch.

"What do you know about Rongbuk, Agent Fowley?" she asked. She wanted
to put a halt to Mulder's fencing with Diana and get her talking
instead.

Fowley studied Scully a moment, then said "I'm sure Fox has already
told you all about it."

"No," said Scully, "that's not what I meant. I want to know *your*
opinion."

Diana seemed surprised at Scully's interest. "Rongbuk has always
been...controversial," she said. "A lot of people in the field consider
the reports of extraterrestrial phenomena there to be unsubstantiated."

"But..."

"The stories always seemed too similar to accepted reports to be
coincidental, in my opinion."

Scully sipped her coffee. "What do you think about the disappearance
of John Leslie?"

Diana made a non-committal gesture. "It could be an abduction case.
There isn't much data." Her eyes narrowed. "So, why are you two
investigating him now?"

Scully glanced at Mulder, who said "there have been reports that he
may have returned. Or been returned."

Diana raised her eyebrows. "I see."

Scully spoke again. "Leslie had a partner, didn't he?" She waited to
see how Diana would react to that, but her expression betrayed nothing
in particular.

"Yes, a man named Sellers, or something like that. Do you remember,
Fox?"

"Sales," said Mulder.

"His writings were lost, I think" said Fowley. "What about him?"

Scully shook her head. "Just asking," she said. She was certainly not
ready to confide in Agent Fowley about what Byers, Langly, and Frohike
had come up with.

Something about Agent Fowley was bothering her, but Scully couldn't
quite figure out what it was. Diana had assisted her and Mulder in good
faith when they had worked together months before, and had supported
them in their attempts to keep the X-Files open, as much as she could
while recovering from the gunshot wound she had suffered. Still,
something imperceptible had given Scully pause. She couldn't tell
whether her reaction was merely personal.

Working with Diana now would be a challenge, under the best of
circumstances.

The silence dragged out awkwardly. Finally, Diana said "so, what do
you think?"

Scully let Mulder answer. "I want time to consider it." Fowley began
to say something more, but Mulder raised a hand, cutting her off. Her
jaw snapped shut in irritation.

"I think I'd better go," she said, setting down her half-finished cup of
coffee.

Mulder showed her to the door. "We'll be in touch," he said. Diana
left without further comment.

After she had gone, Scully stood and met Mulder in the center of the
room. He kissed her on the cheek. "Thanks for the coffee," he said.

A pleasant warmth suffused her. "Sure, 'Fox'" she teased.

He shook his head. "I like the way you say 'Mulder.' It sounds...
right. 'Fox' doesn't sound good coming from anybody."

"Mulder," she said, smiling, tangling her fingers with his.

Scully turned then and gestured after Agent Fowley. "What do you make
of all that?"

"I don't know. She was telling the truth -- I remember her mentioning
Rongbuk back when she and I...worked together." A brief moment of
discomfort showed on his face.

Scully gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Are we going to Rongbuk?"

"Maybe." He looked at her hopefully. Will you come with me?

"Should we take her with us?" Yes, of course.

"She could be of use. Whatever else you might think of her, she is
skilled in our line of work."

Scully knew what he meant. Diana Fowley had sailed back into Mulder's
life, and into hers as well, months before, when they had first learned
about Gibson Praise. Her arrival, her certainty of her status with
Mulder, had bothered Scully more than she had cared to admit. Looking
back, her inquietude seemed baseless, foolish even. But it had been
there, all the same.

Now, a new uneasiness had replaced it. "Mulder, why did she come here
like that? Why wouldn't she have called?"

He looked uncomfortable. "I wondered that myself." He looked her in
the eye. "Scully, I'd be a liar if I said I didn't think she still had
an...interest. Working with her could be awkward."

Scully looked down, then raised her eyes to meet her partner's gaze
once more. "Mulder, I hope it's not personal, but I don't entirely
trust her. I'm not sure why."

His expression softened. "Maybe it's just part of how you feel about
this case in general?"

"Maybe. It's a hunch, you know?"

He placed his hands on her arms. "You have nothing to worry about. You
know that."

"I know. It's not that." Scully found herself still unable to pin down
what was troubling her. "After five years, I guess it's no surprise
that you've begun to rub off on me."

He gave her a rueful grin. "I suppose I'm the one who should be
suspicious. Like I said, we won't take any chances in this case." He
paused. "But I think we can trust Diana."

"Alright," Scully said. A sudden thought tickled the back of her mind.
"So, what was that phone call about?"

Mulder was thunderstruck. "Oh, shit!" he exclaimed. "Frohike!"

************************************************************************

Arlington, Virginia
10:48 a.m.

Radu Florescu parked the van he had rented that morning as far from the
offices of 'The Lone Gunman' as he could without losing the signal from
the remote transmitter he had placed there. He slipped into the back of
the vehicle and began monitoring once more, but he knew that he would
have to find a better arrangement and soon, or his entire effort would
have been wasted. There was no way that he could continue surveillance
from the van for any length of time -- not alone, at any rate. And the
rather substantial police presence in the area -- no doubt the result of
his handiwork from the small hours of that morning -- would not make his
position any more secure.

He would have to move after a couple of hours, and that meant he might
miss a critical bit of information. Florescu clenched his fist in
frustration and cursed his overeager employer once more.

He planned to reevaluate his relationship with Krycek once he had
completed the operation. His employer needed to take a different
approach to this sort of thing.

* * *

11:15 a.m.

Mulder parked beneath the entrance to the offices of 'The Lone Gunman'
and jumped out, hurrying toward the stairs that led to the third-story
entrance. Scully followed after him. They had just set their feet on
the first bare metal step when a familiar, unwelcome voice called from
behind them.

"Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. I wonder if I might have a word."

Mulder's hand had actually begun a reach for his weapon before he
mastered the instinctive fury that welled in him. He faced the smoking
man, grateful for Scully's supportive presence by his side.

When he found his voice, it came out like acid. "What in the hell are
you doing here?" he snapped.

The smoking man savored a long drag on his cigarette and stepped toward
them, exhaling. "Really, Agent Mulder," he said evenly. "There's no
need for unpleasantness." He moved one hand in an expansive gesture.
"I should congratulate you. You've become...a player."

Mulder felt himself sicken at the notion. His father had been a
'player.' He had no interest in being one himself.

"Don't give me that crap," he said. "What do you want?"

The smoking man ignored Mulder's hostility. He turned to Scully. "Ms.
Scully, I trust your recent misadventure has not caused you any
permanent harm." He gave her an odious smile.

Mulder felt Scully stiffen beside him, but she remained silent. After a
moment, the smoking man addressed Mulder again.

"I have information for you," he said. "About someone you've been
looking for."

"Whom?"

"Come now, Mr. Mulder. No need to be coy. Doesn't the name 'Leslie'
have any significance for you?"

Scully stiffened even more, if that were possible. "You're behind all
of this, aren't you?" Her voice was a near whisper.

The smoking man indulged in another long drag. "On the contrary, Ms.
Scully. I'm on the outside, just as you and Agent Mulder are." He
indicated the door above. "Perhaps we should go up?"

As if the 'Gunmen' would even let him past the threshold, Mulder
thought. He indicated the run-down neighborhood around them, its
ugliness thrown into sharp relief by the bright sunlight, and let
derision color his tone. "I was just thinking how well the setting
suited the conversation. Why spoil the moment?"

A police cruiser passed by then. The smoking man's eyes tracked it.
"You arrived late, Agent Mulder," he said. "You missed all of the...
intrigue."

Scully spoke up again. "What happened here?" Mulder had related to her
the gist of Frohike's call regarding the dead bodies found in their
neighborhood that morning, but he had not been able to provide many
details.

"Two men died this morning -- two good men." The smoking man looked
back at them. "The person who killed them, he's another reason I came
to speak to you."

Mulder found that he couldn't resist another gibe. "Oh, come on, let's
not get bogged down talking about who killed whom." The quote wasn't
quite right, but it was close enough.

The smoking man either didn't get the reference or refused to rise to
the bait. "This is serious, Agent Mulder," he said. "You and the
lovely Agent Scully are in more danger than you realize. The men who
died here this morning were well trained, well armed, and highly
motivated. Their killer took them out as easily as if they'd been Boy
Scouts."

The smoking man gestured upward again. "He's been watching your
friends, here, for some time. My men were watching him. I suppose he
objected to their...company."

They tried to kill him, Mulder realized. And he surprised them.

"Florescu," Scully said. It wasn't a question. "Who is he working
for?"

The smoking man nodded. "Very good, Agent Scully. Radu Florescu is
something of a mercenary. We believe he once worked for the Romanian
government, in a, shall we say, sensitive capacity. After the fall of
Communism, he...went into business for himself."

He paused, casting aside the butt of his cigarette and lighting another.
He returned his gaze to Mulder. "Lately, he's been keeping company with
a mutual acquaintance of ours. You remember Alex, of course."

Anger flared in Mulder again at the thought of Krycek, but he clamped
down on himself, realizing he couldn't afford to indulge in the emotion.

Just what in the hell did Krycek have to do with all of this, anyway?

A silence hung among them until Scully broke it. "Where is Krycek now?"
she asked.

"I'm not certain," said the smoking man. "St. Petersburg? London?
Hong Kong?"

Oh, hell, thought Mulder, Scully had been right all along. They were
being set up.

"You two have to get to Rongbuk," said the smoking man. "Before Alex
does."

"Why?" If the smoking man wanted him to do it, Mulder thought he most
likely would be better off staying home.

"Agent Mulder, Rongbuk represents a certain...problem...for me and my
organization. No one really knows what is up there, though I don't have
to tell you what some of the theories are. We've never dealt with the
problem because, to be honest, we haven't had a way to do so. The
Chinese are not very cooperative in such matters, and it's always been
easier just to ignore the whole affair."

"So what happened?" asked Mulder.

"John Leslie happened, of course. He came back from Tibet."

"You're lying," said Scully.

"I assure you, I am not. At this very moment, Leslie is resting in the
Arkham Mental Health Center, in Massachusetts."

Mulder shook his head. Next to him, Scully positively radiated
disbelief. "After all you've done to us," she said, "give us one reason
we should take your word in this."

The smoking man smiled unctuously at her. "It's nothing personal, Agent
Scully. There will be times when our purposes are in conflict, but
right now, I can help you. And you can help me. My people cannot go to
Rongbuk -- not without complications -- but you and Agent Mulder can. I
need you to go before Alex Krycek and his associates do. I need you to
prevent them from discovering whatever it is that is hidden near
Rongbuk."

And suddenly it all made sense. Mulder decided he probably wanted to go
to Tibet after all. Of course, the smoking man hadn't told them
everything -- he always had a hidden agenda -- but Mulder sensed that at
last they were close to the essence of the case that had frustrated them
all week.

Once again, he felt the excitement of the chase welling up in him.

"Arkham," he said. "Leslie is there, now?"

The smoking man nodded. "You'll want to get to him as soon as possible.
Tibet is a long way off, and Alex may already have a head start." He
tossed aside the remainder of his cigarette and began to walk away.

"Wait!" Scully called after him.

The smoking man turned, gave her a questioning stare.

"What happened to Florescu? After last night, I mean."

The smoking man lit another cigarette, prompting Mulder to wonder idly
whether he should buy stock in Morley's parent company.

"I'd like to know that myself, but I'm afraid he's long gone by now."
He flicked ashes onto the ground. "I'll find him, though. Never doubt
it."

The smoking man gestured northward. "Arkham, Agent Scully. That's your
concern now." He turned and strode away, turning up an alley and
vanishing from sight.

Mulder turned to his partner. "Scully..." he began.

"Mulder, no," she said.

Oh, damn, he thought. She's not getting it. He looked upstairs.
"Let's go see how the guys are doing, shall we?"

"Mulder..."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "Come on," he said. "We can talk about
this later. After we've had time to think about it."

Scully gave him a long look, then acquiesced and followed him up to the
door of 'The Lone Gunman.'

* * *

12:20 p.m.

Radu Florescu put the rented van in gear and pulled out into traffic,
following the quickest route that would put him on the Capital Beltway.

He had a long drive in front of him, but that didn't trouble him. At
last, after days of frustration and moments of near disaster, Krycek's
project had begun to come together.

While he might have missed many of the nuances in the conversation
Agents Mulder and Scully had just had with their 'Lone Gunman' friends,
he had understood enough to know what he had to do next. After all,
Krycek's principal focus ever since he had first heard the news of
Leslie's return from Rongbuk had been on finding the man and his
surveys, because he was the only man living who had actually been to the
rumored site north of the Tibetan monastery. Sales had died years
before, and his journals, which the Organization had passed to Florescu
at Krycek's suggestion, shed little enough light on what the site near
Rongbuk actually was, never mind how to get to it.

However, Florescu now knew where to find Leslie. Upon entering the
rooms shared by his friends, Mulder had revealed that someone known
as 'the smoking man' had said that Leslie was staying in a mental
hospital in Arkham, Massachusetts. That meant several hours on the road
for Florescu, but when he got there, he would have access to Leslie and,
quite possibly, his personal journals as well.

And then Krycek would have his roadmap to Rongbuk.

Of course, it wouldn't be quite that simple. When he got to Arkham,
Florescu would have to take great care. This 'smoking man,' whoever he
was, evidently had been the one who had sent the assassins to kill him
early that morning, or so the woman, Scully, had mentioned. And that
meant that the facility in Massachusetts would be watched, or guarded in
some way.

But Florescu could handle that when he got there. They key would be to
get there before Mulder did.

He grinned wolfishly to himself. Mulder's partner seemed to be his ally
in that regard. Based on what he had heard, Florescu was convinced that
Mulder would have climbed on a plane for the northeast that very
afternoon, but his partner had argued energetically that the 'smoking
man' had lied, that he could not be trusted, and that Mulder would be a
fool to walk into so obvious a trap.

That was all fine with Florescu. With Scully holding Mulder back, he
would have the time he needed to get what he had come for and then
join Krycek in Hong Kong, where even the long arm of the FBI would never
reach him.

If he had time, he would even work in a report to Krycek in the midst of
all of that. So doing would set his employer's mind at ease, if nothing
else.

Upon reaching the highway, Florescu relaxed at the wheel, set the van's
cruise control, and tuned in a country-western station, enjoying what he
considered America's only contribution to human civilization. Yes,
things were definitely looking up. Perhaps he would not have to be too
hard on Krycek after all.

One of his favorite American sayings came to him: nothing succeeds like
success.

************************************************************************

Marriott Hotel, Hong Kong
19 September, 11:58 p.m.

Alex Krycek plugged his laptop into the courtesy phone line provided by
the hotel and linked up to his email account, checking one last time
for a report from Florescu before he turned in for the night. He felt a
moment of satisfaction when, sure enough, he found a message waiting for
him.

The contents of the message made him want to whoop with exhilaration.

Florescu had located Leslie.

Krycek congratulated himself on his cleverness. He had guessed that
Leslie, an American lost in inner Asia, would most likely flee for home,
and he had known too that it would take the FBI -- Mulder, in fact -- to
actually pin down Leslie's location once he got there. Mulder had come
through, and, as Krycek had anticipated and even arranged, he had told
his friends at 'The Lone Gunman' -- as motley a bunch of fools as Krycek
had ever heard of -- all about it. Florescu's listening device had thus
transmitted the information he needed.

Now, all he had to do was wait for the directions to the site near
Rongbuk to be delivered to him. Then, he could be the first there,
ready to exploit whatever advantage priority might bring him.

For now, while he waited, Krycek could make secondary plans. He powered
down his laptop and settled into bed, contemplating various attractive
possibilities. He could, for example, have Florescu take out Mulder.
Now that the FBI agent had served his purpose, Krycek did not see much
reason to leave him alive.

On the other hand, it never paid to make an irreversible mistake, so he
would have to carefully consider all of the possible ramifications of
having Mulder killed. At times, he could be useful, even if his
effectiveness was limited by his timidity. Krycek remembered the case
when he had tried to clue Mulder in on the conflict among the Visitors,
only to have him screw things up completely. Fundamentally, the man
was incompetent.

Still he had come through this time. Maybe killing him wasn't such a
great idea, fun though it might be. Krycek decided to let it ride, for
now. There were other decisions to make.

For example, if he left Mulder alive, did he want him to follow him to
Rongbuk? That question had to be settled as well, and soon. Florescu
could be told to just leave Mulder alone and let him figure out where to
go, too late, of course, on his own. Or he could have Florescu create
a...diversion that would keep Mulder and Scully busy while he claimed
his prize and dealt with his Hong Kong gangster associates.

Krycek decided he would sleep on it. His practical side counseled
against leaving open any avenue for interference in his plans, but his
darker nature really wouldn't mind seeing Scully again....

He relaxed against his pillow, thinking evil thoughts, and readied
himself for the next day. He would contact Wu Tseng-Li and tell him
just enough to get the gangster son-of-a-bitch motivated. Once Wu had
arranged for the gates of Tibet to be opened, it would be showtime.

Krycek smiled to himself. Things were looking up.

************************************************************************

Arlington, Virginia
19 September, 2:00 p.m.

Scully watched with chagrin as Mulder stomped down the metal staircase
that led from the front door of 'The Lone Gunman' down to the parking
lot. He climbed into the car without looking back, closing the door
with a bit too much force, and sat waiting for her. She could see his
fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

She sighed. Her arguments had annoyed and frustrated Mulder, but he
knew she was right that the smoking man could not be trusted. As usual,
though, he had become attached to the case, hell-bent on chasing every
lead to its source until he had solved the entire mystery of Rongbuk --
a mystery, Scully noted with irony, that had not even existed until just
a few days ago, when clues had begun pouring in out of the blue.

And now he was hooked, unable to just let it go and walk away.

Scully descended the staircase and climbed in beside her partner,
waiting for him to speak. They seldom quarreled -- what disagreements
they had about cases they tended to discuss in a detached manner -- but
now and then one would hit a nerve with the other, provoking an
emotional response. With Mulder, she had learned early on that it was
best to just let him think about whatever caused their disagreement.
Given time to distance himself from the problem, he would inevitably
reconsider it. Such had been the case in one of their earliest
investigations, when Mulder's contact 'Deep Throat' had given them a
doctored photograph, ostensibly of a UFO. Mulder had reacted angrily
to her suggestion that the image had been faked, but after storming off,
he had taken the photograph to be tested.

Later, he had come to her and admitted that he had been wrong. For
Mulder, a man in whom years of collegial derision had formed a core of
defensiveness beneath outward insouciance, that had been a profound
apology.

And so Scully was confident that his current annoyance would pass. In
the meantime, she stared out the front windshield, not allowing herself
to become annoyed with him.

Mulder put the car into gear and began driving, letting the silence
drag out between them. Finally, he spoke.

"Scully, let's at least go to Arkham."

She turned to him, willing to listen, but not answering.

"At least we can see if Leslie really is there. If the smoking man..."

Scully cut him off. "He's lying to us. He's trying to manipulate us
into doing what he wants. I don't think we should play his game."

Mulder shook his head, as though the act itself could somehow repudiate
her logic. "I don't plan on playing anybody's game," he said, a note of
exasperation in his voice.

"Mulder, after all he's done to us, after what he did to me...." Scully
trailed off. Her memories of her ordeal in the alien craft in
Antarctica were mercifully few and vague, but those that she retained
were unpleasant enough.

Her partner looked at her again, hurt and compassion contending for
control of his expression. "Scully, I know. I don't want to risk any
harm coming to you."

Frustration welled in her again. Mulder always looked to protect her,
but never had sense enough to realize that he was the one in real
danger. "That's not the point," she said. "It's *you* that I'm worried
about."

That earned her a blink of surprise. Mulder divided his attention
between her and the road, uncomprehending.

"Mulder, he's the one who destroyed our office, and he's the one who had
the X-Files closed. Skinner warned us that there are elements that want
us shut down again. The smoking man is just looking for a chance to
embarrass you, to corral you."

"You don't believe any of it." Mulder sounded weary, even depressed.

Scully shook her head. "I believe there might really be something at
Rongbuk, but I don't believe there is any more reason to investigate it
now than there was a month ago."

"What about the message from Hong Kong? The smoking man said Krycek has
been staying there."

"He *implied* that he's there. And so what if he is? Anyone could have
sent that message. You told me that yourself."

"It was Krycek, Scully. I just know it." Mulder exhaled sharply. "I
know the smoking man is no friend of ours, but this time, I believe him,
at least in part. Krycek has taken an interest in Rongbuk because of
Leslie, and he wants us to find Leslie for him."

"How can he expect us to do that? He has no way of knowing...oh no."
Scully felt herself go cold inside.

"What is it?" Mulder asked, alarmed.

"Mulder, didn't the smoking man say that Florescu had been watching the
'Gunmen'?"

Mulder's mouth opened in a silent 'oh' as he realized what Scully was
getting at. "He may have...," he began.

Scully cut him off, urgency filling her voice. "Mulder, turn the car
around."

************************************************************************
[end part 5 of 11]

[begin part 6 of 11]
************************************************************************

Kathmandu, Nepal
Sunday, 20 September, 9:45 a.m.

Jill Whittaker took a long sip from her cup of coffee and considered the
second strange event that had occurred within the space of a week. She
suppressed a shiver. The first had been merely unusual, but this new
development had made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up as
a chill had crept up her spine.

Less than 72 hours after she had placed him on a Royal Nepal Airlines
flight for the Persian Gulf, and less than 48 hours from when, according
to the message she had received, he had landed safely at Andrews Air
Force base in Maryland, John Leslie had walked into the U.S. embassy in
Kathmandu asking for transport back to America. One of Jill's contacts
among the embassy's consular officers, a young man who didn't question
her willingness to share his bed and who made a point of not sensing the
connection between the favors she bestowed upon him and those she asked
of him in turn, had called her at home early Sunday morning with the
news. Having previously helped arrange for Leslie's papers on short
notice, under no small pressure from Jill to handle the affair
expeditiously and discretely, he well remembered both the man's name and
face, and had been understandably surprised to see him in Kathmandu a
few days later.

Jill, having known who was waiting for Leslie back in the States, had
been even more surprised.

And now he sat across from her, in her office, just as he had a few days
before, though he seemed to be in somewhat better shape than he had when
she had last spoken to him.

She lit a cigarette to go with her coffee. "So tell me, John, how do
come to be here in Kathmandu again so soon?" She cocked an eyebrow at
him. "If I had been in your shoes, I'd could have thought of a long
list of places to go before coming back to this shit-hole."

A look of puzzlement invaded the features of the man seated across from
her. "I'm not sure I follow you, Miss...?"

"Whittaker. Call me Jill, please." She gave him her most engaging
smile. The hell you don't, she thought, but we can play games if you
wish. "Smoke?"

Leslie brightened. "Ah, yes, please." He took the cigarette she
offered him, then patted his clothes in an unsuccessful search for a
light. "Hmmm. I seem to have lost..."

Jill offered him her lighter, which he examined before using it to light
the cigarette. "I'm very sorry," he said, "but I don't remember when I
was last in Kathmandu. I think I may have been...injured...while I was
in Tibet."

"Injured?"

"I don't remember how I got there -- to the monastery, I mean. And I
don't remember anything before that at all." He paused for a moment,
then said "I'm not even sure I am who you say I am."

"Are you saying you're *not* John Leslie?" Jill was incredulous. Did
he think she had been born yesterday?

"I don't remember," he said.

Jill gave him a hard look, but Leslie did not react. "Wait here," she
said. "I have to make a call."

This was just too weird, she thought.

************************************************************************

Western Massachusetts
20 September, 1:07 a.m.

Dana Scully reached for her travel cup and sipped lukewarm coffee as she
directed the car through the turns of a winding mountain road somewhere
in what Mulder had referred to as 'Lovecraft Country.' In the
passenger's seat, her partner slept, leaning against the right-hand
window, a rolled-up jacket serving as a pillow for his head. Though
they had neared their destination, the small Appalachian village of
Arkham, Scully not woken him. The earlier events of the day had left
Mulder exhausted, and he needed every minute of rest he could get.

They had hurried back to the offices of "The Lone Gunman," realizing as
they did so they would be too late to prevent the harm from being done.
Florescu had to have been spying on the 'Gunmen,' or Krycek's plans, at
least the smoking man's version of those plans, made no sense. And sure
enough, after a lengthy search of the cluttered office, a rather morose-
looking Frohike had turned up the listening device, evidently hidden in
the room by Florescu when he had first visited them.

Not since Mulder's apparent death in New Mexico had Scully seen the
'Gunmen' look so lugubrious. On top of everything else, their pride in
their work had been wounded.

The implications of the discovery were more serious than that, though.
The presence of the bug meant that Florescu could have been privy to
every conversation she and Mulder had held with their friends.

Every conversation -- Scully shuddered at the thought, trying to
remember the details of each discussion they had had at the 'Gunman' in
the last couple of weeks, finally giving up the endeavor as both
impossible and useless. There was no repairing the damage now.

She remembered too the look of dismay she had exchanged with Mulder when
they had realized, simultaneously but belatedly, that the smoking man
might have been wrong about Florescu, that he might still have had the
'Gunman' under audio surveillance. Earlier, they had told their friends
what the smoking man had told them about Arkham, and by the time they
had realized the implications of that, it had been close to 4:00 --
Florescu had done a devilish job of concealing the listening device,
prompting reluctant admiration even from the notoriously difficult-to-
impress Ringo Langly -- and though Mulder had insisted on starting for
Arkham at once, they had both known that the effort would likely prove
futile.

Florescu would have had a head start of several hours.

They had considered trying to catch a flight to the area, but quickly
settled on a long drive. Though it would be tiring, travel by car would
give them greater flexibility and would not take much more time, given
the airline schedules and Arkham's remote location.

And so Mulder had pointed their vehicle northward along I-95 and driven
with single-minded determination, stopping only for the briefest of
meals -- Scully had contented herself with a soft pretzel and a cup of
coffee purchased in a rest-and-refueling area -- and to at last give up
the wheel to her, after almost eight hours on the road. During the
drive, they had talked through their earlier disagreement, Scully
acquiescing to Mulder's urge to visit Arkham to see for himself whether
their -- and Florescu's -- errand had hope of success.

Not that Mulder had given her much choice. His self-recrimination for
the mistakes they had made had sent him into pursuit mode, the one that
at times put him in terrible danger, forcing Scully to follow him and
bail him out of trouble. That had been the case years before, when she
had found him, barely alive under the assault of an alien retrovirus, in
the hands of a bewildered medical staff at a base in Alaska.

Of course, that same uncompromising devotion had brought him to the
Antarctic as well, to free her from her crystal coffin deep within an
alien tomb, without regard to the danger to his own person.

Scully looked affectionately at her sleeping partner. Mulder was a
haunted, imperfect knight, but his passion and devotion had won her
love long before. She had carried that love in the most secret place
in her heart, through all the difficult years, nourishing and treasuring
it through dozens of long stake-outs and in a thousand bleak motel
rooms. Scully turned her attention back to the road, resisting the urge
to reach over and touch him, and returned her thoughts to the purpose of
their journey.

In the passenger seat for most of the trip, Scully had examined a print-
out of Florescu's image, acquired at the last minute from one of the
security tapes from 'The Lone Gunman' offices. The picture was a bit
grainy, but clear enough that she would recognize the man if she were to
see him. Florescu had long hair pulled back from a wide brow, over
clear, intelligent eyes. His nose, strait and hooking slightly
downward, gave him a somewhat predatory look, accented by a drooping
mustache. He was not unhandsome, Scully decided, but had an
intimidating and dangerous cast to his features.

His was the face of a killer, she thought, hard and cold beneath his
good looks.

When Mulder had given over the wheel to her, she had passed the picture
to him, urging him to study it. She had a feeling that they would both
have need to recognize Florescu on sight.

The road crested a ridge and began to weave down into a mountain valley,
the dense forest on either side giving way to the occasional farm as the
elevation decreased. Scully slowed and, as the land flattened out and
the road crossed a small bridge, spotted a sign informing travelers that
they had entered the Town of Arkham, population 900. She reached out
and touched Mulder's shoulder, easing him awake.

His eyes opened and he shook his head, clearing away cobwebs. "What
time is it?" he asked.

"After one. Sunday morning." Scully stifled a yawn; she could have
used a nap herself.

"Thanks for driving," Mulder said. He noticed her weariness. "Are you
okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. Just a little tired." They entered the village proper then,
a few dark buildings looming in the night around them. Houses climbed
the slopes beyond, vague shapes in the darkness. "Any idea where the
hospital is?"

"Not really. On the edge of town, I'd guess. You didn't see it on the
way in...?"

"No," Scully said.

They passed what was most likely the local post office, indistinct in
the darkness, the complete lack of moonlight making it impossible to
read any signs not directly in their headlights, and then a church
steeple silhouetted itself against the stars ahead of them. Scully
turned the car sharply to the left with the sudden curve in the road,
following it over another bridge and into a stretch of woods. They had
begun to climb again, leaving the village in the valley behind them.

"I guess that was Arkham," she said.

"Bright lights, tall buildings," Mulder quipped. "Where's the damn
mental hospital?"

"Could we have missed it?"

Mulder didn't have time to reply, as the woods opened around them again
to reveal a long, low building, rather like a garden apartment, which
unlike the town itself was well-lit, both within and without. In front
of the main gate, several police cars stood, their lights flashing.

As Scully brought the car to a halt in the driveway of the Arkham Mental
Health Center, Mulder said "dinner at the 'Occidental' says this isn't
the local farmer's market."

"No argument here," said Scully.

Together, they got out of the car and made their way toward the front
door.

* * *

Several hundred yards below, back toward Arkham proper, Radu Florescu
moved cautiously out of the cover of the woods and toward the van in
which he had traveled to the western Massachusetts hills. The lack of
moonlight pleased him. He had been able to move silently through the
utter darkness of the forest, his night-vision goggles, part of the kit
he had brought when he entered the United States, providing more than
adequate vision. Florescu crept silently to the driver's side door,
pausing before sliding the key into the lock.

So far, his evening had gone as smoothly as he could have hoped. The
drive from Washington had been tiring, but not so much that his skills
had been impaired significantly. Arriving after dark, he had been able
to elude the few guards -- members of the same crew that had attacked
him the night before, he surmised -- that patrolled the woods around
Arkham, making his way into the facility.

Once inside, he had gone directly to the front desk, rendering the
surprised duty nurse unconscious with a quick choke-hold. It would have
been simpler just to kill her, but Florescu always preferred not to kill
women, even when that meant an extra effort. He had quickly found
Leslie's name in the hospital records and, moving with alacrity, had
made his way through empty corridors to his room. The one orderly he
had met was most likely still out cold in the closet into which Florescu
had locked him, after dealing him a quick blow to the head.

Leslie himself had proved largely incoherent, and Florescu had wasted
little time in conversation with him. Instead, he had located the
locker where his valuables had been stored, using the orderly's keys to
open it, and removed the surveyor's journals. Those were the truly
important acquisition, the guides to Krycek's 'master site.'

His prizes in hand, Florescu had exited the hospital via a window and
redonned his NVGs, slipping silently into the forest. It had been then
that the operation had nearly gone awry. One of the guards had crossed
paths with Florescu by pure chance -- mischance for him, as it turned
out. Judging from the relative lack of outcry, his cooling corpse
remained undetected in the tree where Florescu had left it. Other
guards had been nearby, and he had not had time to be delicate.

The nurse had recovered, it seemed, and immediately called the
authorities. Florescu decided he should have taken the time to bind her
as well as knocking her out. The first police cars had arrived as he
had moved deeper into the woods, in the direction of his vehicle, which
he had left in the village.

When he arrived at the spot where he had parked, just as he had prepared
to step out from the forest's edge, Florescu had been forced to pause to
let another arriving car pass. He had not had a good look at the two
within it, but something told him that his Washington targets, Mulder
and Scully, had followed him north, arriving too late to do more than
puzzle out what he had done.

Which was fine. All he had to do now was get to New York without
incident. He already had a plane ticket, reserved under an alias,
waiting for him. In a few hours, he would be bound for Hong Kong.

He entered the cab of the van and started the engine. Phase one in his
employer's operation was nearly complete.

* * *

Scully had almost reached the doors of the hospital when she realized
that Mulder was no longer following her. She turned, saw him standing
with his head cocked, listening intently for something.

Scully spoke in a whisper. "Mulder, what is it?"

"Engine," he muttered, his attention elsewhere. "Now who the hell...."
He didn't finish his thought, turning instead and racing back in the
direction of their car, leaving Scully staring after him in flustered
surprise.

A few seconds too late, her fatigued brain caught on to Mulder's intent.
"Mulder, wait!" she called after him, beginning to run herself, but her
partner had already scrambled into their car, starting the engine and
roaring out of the drive in a shower of gravel. "Damn it!" Scully
exclaimed to no one in particular. Her eyes tracked Mulder's path down
the hill toward Arkham. Through the trees, she spied another set of
lights, heading east into the darkness.

Florescu -- it had to be him.

Cold tentacles of dread enveloped her as she realized that Mulder had
sped off alone in pursuit of a professional killer.

She turned and sprinted back toward the building, seeking one of the
drivers of the police cars.

* * *

Radu Florescu had driven no more than a mile, from one end of Arkham to
the other, when he caught sight of distant headlights in his rear-view
mirror. Immediately, he pulled his van to the side of the road and
jumped out, sliding neatly into the darkness at the edge of one of the
buildings. Florescu had seen plenty of car chases in the movies, but he
had absolutely no illusions about the ability of a driver to elude
pursuit on a lonely road in the forest, in a society held together by
the world's most sophisticated communications network. He had to
thwart, and silence, whoever had followed him if he were to have any
chance for a clean getaway.

Florescu did not particularly enjoy killing, but he would do it without
hesitation when the need arose. And now, with time of the essence and a
lone car following him, a quick, clean kill was his best option, as it
had been in the woods near the hospital.

He moved deeper into the shadows and watched as the car pulled up behind
his van. One person -- Mulder he realized -- climbed out of it, and to
his surprised relief, Florescu saw that he had left his partner behind.

This Mulder was evidently as impulsive as Krycek had suggested, he
thought. Well, he had just made his last mistake. Florescu slipped
silently along the wall in the direction of the vehicles, taking one
quick glance uphill to make sure that no other cars were approaching.
Mulder had moved toward the driver's side of the van, his attention
focused on determining whether anyone remained within the vehicle, his
back to where Florescu stood.

Florescu drew a long-bladed knife and stepped out into the light cast
by the headlights of Mulder's car.

* * *

Scully rushed into the confusion within the Arkham Mental Health Center,
waving her FBI badge at the faces around her, looking for a police
officer, or anyone who appeared to have authority.

"Special Agent Dana Scully, FBI," she called out. "Who's in charge
here?"

Those in the room, nurses, orderlies, and others, exchanged glances, but
no one spoke. Scully searched the confusion and finally spotted a
police uniform. She rounded on the officer, a youthful, nervous looking
man with dark curls and a boyish chin.

"Let's go," she snapped, flashing her ID at him. "I need your vehicle."

The policeman opened his mouth, as if to protest, but wilted before the
glare Scully cast at him. She realized his confusion was bringing on
inertia, so she stepped forward and yanked his elbow, drawing him toward
the doors. "Now!" she exclaimed. "Move it!"

He began to follow, and Scully turned and hurried for the cruisers
parked outside.

"Into the car! Drive!" Scully realized she had come close to shouting,
that the young officer must think her half out of her mind, but she
couldn't help herself. Somewhere down the road from the hospital,
Mulder was in hot pursuit of someone who would kill him without a
moment's hesitation or remorse. An image of her partner, her lover,
lying alone somewhere in a dark, slowly-spreading pool of his own blood,
arose in her mind and resisted all her efforts to banish it.

Fear and love and anger contended for control of her psyche. Don't do
this to me, Mulder, she thought, controlling herself with an iron grip.
Don't get yourself killed in an mad rush for your 'Truth.'

If she lost him, if he were killed because she hadn't been there to
protect him, she wouldn't be able to bear it. Despite her self-control,
Scully felt herself beginning to unravel, as the prospect of a final,
unparalleled grief, tore at her.

She pulled on her seatbelt and turned to the policeman next to her.
"Toward the village," she said, willing her voice back to normal again.
"Go."

The officer turned on the car's flashers and sped down the hillside
toward Arkham.

* * *

Mulder approached the van slowly, his pistol held before him in a ready
position. The vehicle in front of him was silent; he saw no sign of
its occupant.

Part of him was painfully aware of the lack of Scully's reassuring
presence, the knowledge that she wasn't there to watch his back. But
he silenced that concern. He had not wanted to leave her behind, but
when he had heard the van's engine, he had known that he had to react
instantly or lose the chance to catch Florescu before he disappeared
into the night. Scully would be annoyed at him, but she would see the
need for his decision.

It had to be Florescu. If pressed, Mulder would not have been able to
say how he knew that, but his intuition told him that Florescu and none
other would have been hurrying out of Arkham at 1:30 in the morning.

Mulder took one step closer to the van. He did not hear the footsteps
in the gravel behind him.

Something warned him, though. Some unnamed, atavistic sense made him
turn, just as Florescu's knife sliced forward toward his unprotected
neck. Mulder flailed with his left hand, warding off the blade at the
cost of a severe cut to his palm. Pained flared there, affecting his
aim, as his gun went off in his right hand, and he missed Florescu at
point blank range. And then the knife shot forward again, in a low,
underhand thrust this time, an icy heat that tore into his abdomen.
Mulder tried to bring his gun to bear, but Florescu knocked it away with
an almost negligent flick of his hand, then stunned him with a hammer
blow to his jaw. Mulder's vision closed to a circle directly in front
of him as his legs folded and he collapsed to the ground. Florescu
stepped over him and climbed into the van. Pebbles skittered against
Mulder's side as the vehicle sped off into the darkness.

Just before he lost consciousness, Mulder became aware of his partner
kneeling next to him, back-lit by frenetic, discotheque flashes of blue
light. So beautiful, he thought distantly, so very beautiful.

"Mulder, it's me," he heard her say from across a great void. "I'm
here. Can you hear me?" He was vaguely aware of her hands working on
him in an effort to stop his bleeding. He wanted to answer her, but
couldn't find the energy to speak. He reached out feebly with his left
hand, somehow catching hold of her sleeve. Her gaze locked with his.
Precious lapis lazuli, he thought, and then everything faded to black.

************************************************************************

Washington, D.C.
Monday, 21 September, 9:00 a.m.

The smoking man inhaled deeply and blew smoke in the direction of the
woman seated across from him. Diana Fowley made a slight face but did
not otherwise respond. She waited for him to speak, returning his gaze,
evidently unintimidated. Her annoyance gave her additional fortitude,
no doubt. The smoking man took another puff and spoke:

"What may I do for you, Ms. Fowley?"

Diana came right to the point. "You might have warned me," she said.

About Scully, the smoking man thought, but he had no intention of
letting on. This was all part of the game, after all. He affected an
expression of benign puzzlement. "Warned you?"

"Don't give me that," snarled Diana. "You had to have known...about
her." Venom dripped from her words.

The smoking man noticed that she had not spoken Scully's name.
Excellent, he thought. Fowley had reacted almost exactly as he had
hoped. Now that the knife had been whetted, the time had come to point
it at someone.

However, he found that he was no longer certain who represented the best
target. Old schemes were being rapidly overtaken by events, and new
ones had to be devised to replace them. Though he had dealt with
similar situations many times before, the smoking man did not enjoy the
sense of chaos he felt when developments outsped plans. He returned his
attention to the conversation.

"Ah, you must be referring to Agent Scully. Am I to infer that there
has been a...development...in her relationship with Agent Mulder?"

Diana glared at him, aware that she was being mocked.

The smoking man pretended concern. "I'm sorry, I was not aware of that
complication. But there's nothing I can do about it, of course. You'll
have to work it out on your own. The mission remains paramount."

"I don't think they'll let me go with them," she said, trying to mask
her anger.

"Agent Mulder knows your qualifications. He values them, no matter
where he's been taking his...pleasures." A wounded look that crossed
Fowley's features. The smoking man continued: "I think he will listen
to reason, in time. He and his partner will need all the help they can
get." He paused for effect. "There has been an incident."

"What incident?"

"Agent Mulder has been injured -- somewhat seriously, I'm afraid." The
smoking man filled her in on what had happened in Massachusetts, events
he had learned of just that morning, as his agents in Arkham at last
got there reports in to him. He found that he had miscalculated. The
Rongbuk affair had begun to spin out of control, and he would have to
act quickly to regain mastery of it. In addition to Florescu's coup in
Massachusetts, there had been Jill Whittaker's report of the second
arrival of John Leslie, which told him something about Rongbuk but
raised additional questions as well. He gave Fowley only a bare-bones
account of Mulder and Scully's recent misadventure. She need not know
more than was necessary, he thought.

Diana looked ill. Her affection for Mulder was genuine enough, the
smoking man observed. That could prove a volatile element, but one that
he could exploit. But now, he had to decide what he wanted to do with
it. Prior to the weekend, he had fully expected Mulder to stymie
Krycek, with any luck compromising himself in the process. And had
Mulder managed to thwart Alex's designs without revealing himself to the
Chinese authorities, who would hardly appreciate an FBI special agent
operating in their Tibetan backyard, well, that was why he had brought
the young and ambitious Ms. Whittaker into the equation.

He had not counted on the speed or effectiveness of Radu Florescu,
however. How had Alex managed to acquire his services? The smoking man
found that he very much wanted to know that.

The Romanian had somehow managed to reestablish his surveillance of
Mulder's absurd associates, and had done so with greater alacrity than
one would have thought possible. And Mulder, who had more energy than
sense, had blithely confided in his friends, telling Florescu everything
he had needed to know.

No one in Arkham had actually seen Florescu, of course, but the smoking
man, upon reading the reports that had come in, knew at once that the
same man who had brushed aside one of the Consortium's assassination
teams in Arlington had been the one to slip through the cordon guarding
John Leslie.

Only one man had been killed this time -- assuming Mulder did not
succumb to his injuries -- but the smoking man did not really appreciate
Florescu's restraint. The man clearly represented a much greater
problem than he had suspected, even as late as Saturday morning.

"How is Agent Mulder?" Diana wore an expression of genuine concern.

"I'm not certain -- he was stabbed, it seems. Assistant Director
Skinner was concerned enough to fly up to check on him."

Diana stood. "I have to go to him," she said.

"Very well. Encourage his swift recovery. He will have to hurry if he
is to get to Rongbuk in time."

Agent Fowley left the room without responding.

The smoking man lit another cigarette on the heels of the last one and
sat back, considering the situation. He would have to take more
decisive action, now. If Alex managed to discover something at Rongbuk,
that would overshadow any other matter, including the smoking man's own
feud with Agent Mulder. Jill Whittaker and Diana Fowley would not be
enough. He would have to send a team into Tibet.

The smoking man sighed and picked up the telephone. He did not much
like the idea -- the Chinese would react very negatively to any act of
the Consortium within their territory. There would be serious
repercussions if the People's Republic discovered what was going on near
Rongbuk.

It was a risk he'd have to take, however. Mulder had already stumbled,
and though the smoking man's cohorts in the Consortium loathed anything
that drew attention to their enterprise, it would be worse -- much worse
-- if Alex gave the Russians an additional advantage.

Yes, the time had come for active measures.

************************************************************************

Northampton General Hospital, Northampton, Massachusetts
10:00 a.m.

Fox Mulder awoke to a dull headache and assorted other pains, and the
image of an unsmiling A.D. Skinner looming over him. He looked around
for his partner, was disappointed not to see her anywhere about.

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?" Skinner's voice thundered in the
room.

Mulder tried to sit up, then desisted as his head rang like a gong and
a sharp pain stabbed him in his left flank.

"What the hell happened?" he asked instead. "And where's Scully?"

"She's working," said Skinner, "and has been ever since you were
declared out of danger." He grimaced in irritation. "I don't have
to tell you we couldn't get her out of here while your prognosis was
still in doubt."

The events of the other night came back to him in a rush, and Mulder
found that he well knew why Skinner was annoyed with him. He had taken
a foolish risk and nearly been killed as a result. Remorse flooded him.
Scully didn't deserve his irresponsibility. "How is she?" he asked.

Skinners faced twisted slightly once more. "She's been better. Between
this case you've been unofficially investigating and your own
recklessness, she's close to exhaustion." Skinner looked away, toward
the hallway outside the room. "I told her to get some rest, but she
wouldn't hear of it." He paused. "Frankly, I'm concerned."

"Damn," Mulder mumbled, mostly to himself. He attempted to sit up
again, with results similar to his first effort.

Skinner turned back to him. "I suggest you stay where you are. You're
going to need to heal before you can continue your inquiries, which I'm
making official, by the way."

Mulder blinked in surprise, and Skinner said: "I've received
instructions from certain...quarters. For some reasons, you've been
given leeway, for this case at least. I wouldn't mind an explanation,
if you have one."

Mulder thought of the smoking man, then shifted back to his immediate
situation. "What happened to me?"

"Your near-fatal spasm of cranial-rectal inversion resulted in a mild
concussion, a stab wound to the gut, and a badly cut left hand."

Mulder laughed, then regretted it at once.

"You were lucky," Skinner added.

"Shit," said Mulder.

"So what's going on?"

Mulder related the gist of the meeting with the smoking man to Skinner,
as well as Diana Fowley's surprise visit on Saturday morning.

Skinner's normally bland expression betrayed a certain degree of
incredulity. "And what's your assessment of the matter?" he asked.

Mulder shrugged cautiously. "I think the smoking man is telling at
least part of the truth. I think Krycek used me to find Leslie for him,
and now he may have what he was looking for."

"Which was?"

"Off hand, I'd say he wanted the surveys that Leslie made near Rongbuk.
He already had the journals Sales had written, but those were useless to
him."

"And now that he has the surveys, he'll head for the site."

"I'd like to hear what Scully was able to find out at Arkham, but yeah,
that'd be my guess."

"You can't go to Tibet, Agent Mulder. Not as Bureau, anyway." Skinner
had already guessed his mind.

"I've got some leave coming. We can go unofficially."

"You and Agent Scully, huh?"

Mulder nodded. If she'll consent to go with me, he thought. After
this, he had his doubts. As eager as he was to see her, he also dreaded
the moment when he would have to face her. He expected her to be
furious with him, and he could hardly blame her if she were. She might
want to opt out of the case once and for all; she'd never been
enthusiastic about it.

Then another thought struck him, one that made his heart bind with
dread. She might decide she wanted quit of him altogether. Mulder knew
she loved him, needed him, but he also knew that he hardly represented a
factor for stability in her life. After all she had been through in the
last couple of years, it wouldn't take much to drive her away from him
permanently. It wasn't that Scully was inconstant -- far from it -- but
she already had every reason to give up on him and leave, and he had
just given her another.

She might decide that the time had come for her to cut her losses and
go.

Mulder squelched this line of thinking, deciding to simply hope Scully
had it in her to forgive him one more time.

If she hadn't, he didn't know what he would do.

Skinner interrupted his introspection. "Agent Mulder, I'll have you
know, I'm not blind."

"Sir?" Oh, hell, here it comes.

"You've put your partner through a lot over the last five years, but for
some reason, you're the most important person on earth to her." He
shook his head. "I'll be damned if I know why."

"Sir, I..."

Skinner held up a hand. "Agent Mulder, the next time you feel like
running off after something, try to think about the people you're
leaving behind you." He walked out of the room.

Mulder closed his eyes, dismayed that Skinner had divined his and
Scully's secret. Christ, he thought. All I need is for my boss to
decide he's my father-in-law as well.

He had to admit, though, that Skinner was right. Mulder found that his
headache had worsened. He settled deeper into the bed, hoping to get
some sleep before Scully returned.

************************************************************************
[end part 6 of 11]

[begin part 7 of 11]
************************************************************************

Kennedy Airport, New York City, N.Y.
Monday, 21 September, 11:05 a.m.

Radu Florescu waited until he felt the wheels of the Korean Airlines jet
loose contact with the runway and then settled into his seat, allowing
himself to relax at last.

The past day or so, since he had almost killed Agent Mulder, had been
extremely stressful. He had known they would be, ever since he had seen
the approaching lights of the police car and fled the scene, leaving
Mulder alive behind him.

That didn't sit well with him. Florescu never liked to leave a job
unfinished, and Mulder was a loose end that would have to be dealt with,
eventually.

For now, though, he could take it easy. After driving out of Arkham,
unpursued, he had traveled as far as he felt he could and then ditched
the van, knowing that even if the cop at the scene behind him had
stopped to help Mulder, he would surely have radioed in his plates.
Thus, Florescu had to change vehicles or risk capture down the road.

That had meant leaving the van, and most of his equipment, by the
roadside and legging it through the woods of western Massachusetts, an
exhausting hike of several miles. At the first village he came to, he
had stolen a car, and that had gotten him as far as a larger town, where
he had taken time to alter his appearance slightly and assume a new
identity.

After that, getting to New York had simply been a matter of bus and cab
rides -- slow and tiresome, but very doable.

The plane reached cruising altitude and an attractive stewardess brought
Florescu a Bloody Mary, which he sipped with relish. All he need do
now, he thought, was ride airplanes, think, and drink. He had a long
flight ahead of him: New York to Anchorage, Anchorage to Seoul, and
Seoul to Hong Kong.

That would give him close to 24 hours in which to review the errors he
had made during the past couple of days. To do that, and...other
things.

Mistake number one had been not killing the duty nurse in Arkham. If
he had not indulged in chivalry, he might have had as much as an extra
half-hour to escape before anyone alerted the authorities. Instead, he
had played it cute, rendering her unconscious and simply leaving her to
wake up later.

He had been overconfident.

Next, he had done something to alert Mulder to his presence, allowing
the agent time to defend himself and thus cause a nearly unaffordable
delay in his escape. Florescu had wracked his brain in an effort to
determine what had warned Mulder, but he had come to no satisfactory
conclusions.

He had made no sound.

He had been careful to approach from an angle that would not allow
Mulder to see either him or his shadow cast in the light of the car's
headlamps.

He had done nothing -- nothing -- to betray himself.

Yet somehow Mulder had known. At the last second he possibly could, he
had wheeled and raised a hand between himself and death. It was as
though someone had warned him, but there had been no one there but
Florescu and Mulder himself.

He sipped his Bloody Mary and shrugged inwardly. That happened,
sometimes. On occasion, humans perceived things in ways that simply
could not be explained. Perhaps this had been one of those times.

Florescu finished the rest of his drink in one long pull and ordered
another one. It was always like this after an operation. Once the need
for absolute concentration had passed, he found that his mind began to
wander. Some of the places it went were unpleasant, and that meant that
he had to drink.

The ghosts would come, Svetlana would come, but her image would be less
distinct in a fog.

The next Bloody Mary arrived and Florescu downed most of it at one go,
half of him already back in Moscow, with her.

With what was left of her.

He never remembered her as she had been before she died, when a young
and beautiful telecommunications clerk had fallen for a dashing Romanian
attached to his country's embassy. The affair had been a professional
windfall for Florescu, and it wasn't until the Russians had killed
Svetlana that he had become aware of the true extent of his feelings for
her.

When he found her eviscerated corpse left in an alley near his apartment
building, an alley he passed through each evening coming home from work.
The warning had been unmistakable, but all that Florescu had been aware
of had been the sick incongruity of Svetlana's lovely face and blonde
hair, all unmarred, and her disemboweled torso and abdomen.

And years later, her lover had sold his soul to her killers. He knew
that his decision had been the correct one, that the Organization's
objectives were goals he would give his life for, but that did not make
working for the Russians any less painful.

That Krycek was as much American as Russian made him a welcome companion
in the Organization. It allowed Florescu to pursue the war with the
Visitors at a minimal cost to his psyche. With the ghost of old love
haunting him, he needed whatever buffers he could get.

He decided to switch to strait vodka. It looked to be a long flight to
Hong Kong.

************************************************************************

Northampton General Hospital
5:07 p.m.

Mulder awoke after another long sleep and again found that Scully was
not with him.

He was not alone, however. Diana Fowley was there, seated in a chair
next to his bed.

"Fox," she said, a concerned smile on her face.

"Diana," he replied, looking around. The room was otherwise empty, and
had the bland, cheerless air of every hospital room in which Mulder had
awoken. His eyes returned to Agent Fowley. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you had been injured...I wanted to see you."

"Thanks." Mulder felt decidedly uncomfortable, not wanting to revisit
the emotional minefield they had tread on Saturday morning. He looked
himself over, considering the extent of his injuries.

"How badly was I hurt?" He had not been awake long enough that day to
talk to one of the nurses, so he directed his question at Diana, both
for information and to change the focus of their conversation.

Diana smiled at him. "The doctor said it could have been a lot worse.
You were stabbed, but the knife only cut through your skin and into your
abdominal muscles. It will be a few weeks before you're yourself, but
you should be able to walk in a few days."

"Your hand is a bit more serious."

Mulder examined his left hand, which was almost entirely concealed by
bandages. It had ached earlier, during his chat with Skinner, but now
it had begun to fairly scream pain at him.

"Bad, eh?"

"It will heal, but you'll probably need therapy to get the full use of
it back." Diana attempted to put the best face on it. "I know you're
due some time off. Looks like you'll get a chance to take advantage of
it."

Mulder forced himself to sit up, despite the pain. "The hell with
that," he said. "We still have to go to Tibet."

"Fox, you can't be serious!"

He shook his head. "Nothing's changed, Diana. Anyway, I thought you
wanted to go."

"I did, but I don't want to see you get hurt -- worse than you are
already." She reached out and took his right hand in hers, holding his
gaze with her own. "I still care about you, no matter what has
happened."

Mulder gave her a long look, decided that the concern writ on her
visage was genuine. Oddly, he felt almost no emotion in response,
despite the fact that this woman had been his lover, once.

His memory, of visual images at least, was close to perfect. Yet he
found that he could no longer remember how it felt to be in love with
Diana. Scenes from their time together, moments both professional and
intimate, he could recall clearly, but they came to him stripped of
their emotional content. He could see them, himself and Diana, but
through a haze of numbness.

Mulder pulled his hand back. The last thing he wanted was Scully
walking in on this little moment. "I appreciate your concern, but I'm
going to Rongbuk. If you want to help, then help. Don't argue with
me."

She sat back, considering him. "Does that mean I can come with you?"

"Diana," Mulder paused, wondering how to phrase his question, then
decided to take the direct approach. "Why did you come back?"

From overseas, he meant, from her posting in Europe, thousands of miles
from him and the X-Files. She had taken the job as their relationship
had fallen apart. Though their work together had been rewarding, Mulder
had found that, by the end, her affection had become stifling. Diana
had clung to him, and he had pushed her away.

Stung, she had put as much distance between them as she could. And then
suddenly, a few months before, she had returned without warning.

"Why now, after all this time?" Mulder asked her.

Diana shifted, then looked him in the eye. "I told you I had unfinished
business."

"What kind of business?"

"Professional," she paused, "and personal. After we parted, I tried to
forget you. I dated. I was looking for someone...to take my mind off
you...off of what might have been."

Mulder said nothing.

"It didn't work. Every time a relationship broke up, I found myself
checking with personnel. But there were never any openings close to
you, until a few months ago." Diana paused, then went on. "I meant
what I said about the X-Files, too."

"The professional loose end," supplied Mulder.

Diana searched his visage. "I hoped we could resolve both...aspects."
She dropped her gaze. "I've found that things aren't so simple as I had
hoped."

"It's been six years."

"Longer."

"Longer," Mulder echoed.

Diana looked up at him again. "Do you love her, Fox?"

Mulder's mind reeled at the enormity of her question. Did he love her?
Did he love Dana Scully?

He loved her more than life itself.

She *was* his life. She had given life back to him.

Mulder did not even attempt to express his thoughts. "I love her," he
said simply. "More than anything."

Diana's gaze lingered on him for several seconds, then something changed
in her visage. "You do," she said quietly, then shook her head. "Well,
Fox," she continued, her tone suddenly business-like, "that leaves
only professional issues to be resolved. May I accompany you to
Rongbuk?"

"I suppose so," said Mulder. "I need to talk to Scully first, though."

Almost imperceptibly, a muscle twitched in Diana's cheek. "Okay. But
let me know soon, will you?"

"As soon as I can."

Neither spoke for a while. The silence hung between them, awkwardly,
until Diana finally spoke again. "So, what happened in Arkham?"

"It's a long story." Mulder wasn't yet sure how much he wanted to tell
her.

Diana indicated the hospital room around them. "We've got time," she
observed.

There was no denying that. "Alright," said Mulder, "but let me give
you the short version, okay?"

Diana nodded.

"We received...information...that Leslie could be found in Rongbuk, but
we also had reason to believe that one of Alex Krycek's agents had
become aware of his presence there."

"Alex Krycek?" Diana looked blank.

"An old enemy. He has interests similar to our own, but he's always
been more...corruptible."

"I see."

"Anyway, Scully and I drove to the mental hospital in Arkham, but just
as we arrived, Krycek's agent took off. I went after him." Mulder
glanced down at himself, shook his head ruefully. "He won round one, I
guess."

"And your partner?" Where had she been, Diana meant.

"I'm right here," said Scully from the doorway.

Diana whirled to face Scully, who glanced briefly at Mulder and then
focused on Agent Fowley. Mulder sighed and closed his eyes. This could
be interesting, he thought.

************************************************************************

Washington, D.C.
5:16 p.m.

The smoking man drummed his fingers on his desk, waiting for the phone
to ring.

It would be late in Tunis, and Strughold would likely not be pleased at
being contacted, but the smoking man judged the matter sufficiently
urgent that he had no choice but to interrupt the man who stood as first
among equals in the Consortium's inner circle.

The smoking man sensed that Strughold would not be pleased with what he
had to tell him, especially in the wake of the Wilkes Land debacle, but
the Rongbuk affair had reached a critical juncture. Florescu had seized
Leslie's journals and, it had become evident, left the country. There
was little doubt as to where he would resurface, and when he met Krycek
in Hong Kong, they would almost certainly head straight for Tibet.

The smoking man wanted to get a team into the area as quickly as
possible, but he would have to get Strughold's approval, and hopefully
his assistance as well, before he could do so. A Consortium effort to
infiltrate Tibet would require official cooperation from a neighboring
country -- possibly India -- and securing that on short notice would
require the intervention of someone of Strughold's influence.

The smoking man went over the arguments he would present to his superior
while he waited for the return call. He knew his logic was sound, but
there remained one glaring hole in his reasoning. That hole, in fact,
was the premise upon which his reasoning was based.

He wished he knew Strughold's personal views of Rongbuk, assuming he
even had any. The smoking man had long been convinced that the reports
of paranormal phenomena in Tibet were precisely what they seemed to be.
But many of his colleagues did not share his concerns about what might
someday surface on the world's highest plateau. For that reason, he had
had no trouble in squelching Alex Krycek's efforts to lead a Consortium
expedition to the region. Though he had privately agreed that such an
expedition was necessary, he had not wanted someone as untested as
Krycek leading it, and later, when young Alex had proved treacherous,
he'd had cause to feel vindicated concerning his opinion.

That had been years earlier, and Rongbuk had lain quietly throughout the
intervening time, but it would lie quietly no longer.

The phone rang, and the smoking man reached for the receiver. Decision
time had arrived.

************************************************************************

Northampton General Hospital
5:17 p.m.

Mulder remained passive as Diana Fowley and Dana Scully exchanged a long
look. He had no sense of what passed between them, but Diana quickly
excused herself and, wishing Mulder a rapid recovery, left the room.

Scully sat down in the chair Diana had vacated, her expression guarded,
but Mulder could see the stress, the exhaustion, etched on her
countenance.

He realized at once that the time had come to air a few old, unresolved
concerns.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said, reaching out to her.

Her lips thinned into a tight line, and she didn't take his hand,
instead folding her arms across her chest. "Mulder, don't do this to me
again," she said, her voice subdued.

Mulder retrieved his extended hand and folded his hands over his
stomach, unconsciously mimicking her posture. "I'm sorry. I mean it.
But there was no time...."

She cut him off. "I don't want to hear it, Mulder. You could have been
killed. You very nearly were. If he had driven that knife much
deeper...." She trailed off, shaking her head as if to deny the image
that her words called into her mind.

Mulder kept silent. He found himself unable to come up with a response
that would be helpful.

For several moments, Scully did not speak either. When she did, her
voice was barely more than a whisper. "Mulder, I've been thinking."

His heart sank. I've finally done it, he thought. I've finally driven
her away. He realized he had never really believed it possible, even
when she had been facing transfer to Utah. He had always assumed that
she would find her way back to him, that if he could find a way to
repair whatever was wrong, she would want to come back.

The irony was that he had resolved not to put her in this situation.
Well, Mulder, he thought, good intentions and all that. He had to say
something, though, to make an effort to repair the situation.

"Scully, I...."

She raised a hand, cutting him off again.

"I've realized that for most of my life, I've been afraid of intimacy."
Her hands joined in her lap then, beginning a nervous, washing motion.
"I've always been afraid of being hurt, so I've kept my distance from
people." She paused. "That's what drove Jack away."

The admission shocked Mulder. Jack Willis' was a name he had not
thought about in years; he'd hardly expected Scully to bring him up now.

She went on, not looking at him. Her gaze remained locked on the edge
of the mattress. "He wanted more than I could give him. We dated for
a long time, but whenever he tried to get close, I pulled away." She
shook her head. "He finally couldn't take it any more. He told me he
couldn't stay with a woman who didn't know how to love. And then he
just left." Her hands stilled.

Scully looked up at him at last. Mulder met her eyes, waiting for more.
"In a way, working with you was easy. We had a reason not to become to
close."

"We did, though," he said. They had become close, so much so that their
becoming lovers had almost been an afterthought, in a way.

Scully nodded, acknowledging the truth of his remark. "We did, but we
never crossed the line, so it was safe." She kept her gaze on his, her
eyes moist. "I was...insulated...against loss."

"I'm sorry," Mulder said. "I shouldn't have...started this. I never
wanted to hurt you."

He took a deep breath, not wanting to say what he knew he must, but
there was no avoiding it.

"Scully...Dana...I know what I'm like. I try not to be, but it's what
I am. There's always going to be a part of me that acts first and
thinks about the consequences later." Scully wore an expression that he
could not read, and Mulder found that, for a long moment, he couldn't
get the next words out, but at last he just gave up and said them. "If
you can't live with that, I'll understand." He choked over the last
word.

Scully blinked, causing jewel-like tears to spill from her eyes. She
shook her head, denying his offer.

"Mulder, no," she said. "Is that what you think this is about?"

"I think you'd be better off without me," he said. Today's a day for
being honest, he thought grimly. He looked away from her, from the
woman he loved. The pain in his side had disappeared, for some reason.

It was she who reached for him this time, bringing his gaze back to her.
"Mulder, when have I ever given up on you?" Her left hand encircled his
right.

"Never," he said. She'd always come after him, no matter what straits
he'd got himself into.

He could recall a dozen such moments. When he came awake after his
disastrous expedition to the Arctic, her face had been the first thing
he had seen. She'd been tired, her eyes shadowed by days of fear and
sleeplessness, but she had watched over him until he'd regained
consciousness, greeting him with a look of joy that had made his heart
sing.

There had been other moments as well. Once, she'd even endured the
humiliation of imprisonment for his sake. Upon his return, she'd had
only welcome for him. No complaints, no accusations.

The guilt that had been weighing on him seemed to redouble itself. "I
didn't mean that," he said. "I..." He didn't know what to say.

Scully tightened her grip on his hand. "Mulder, I've never asked you
for much, but I'm asking for this." Her eyes locked on his, all azure
intensity.

"Don't leave me behind. Promise me."

How like her to convey so much in the simplest of words. Mulder found
himself reflexively searching for an avenue of escape.

"That wasn't my intention," he protested.

She did not relent. "Mulder, I've lost too much. I don't want to lose
you too. I can't."

The naked look of need on her face stunned him. He had known that the
years had worn her down, but now he saw that even that realization had
been inadequate. Throughout their time together, Scully had always
given of herself for him, not asking anything in return. That she had
finally let herself admit to need spoke volumes about the fatigue in her
spirit.

He realized he should not be surprised. The long months of her cancer
had taken a tremendous toll on her, and the trauma of her daughter's
death had followed close on its heels. The only question was how she
had held it together this long.

Her faith, he thought, had sustained her, but she needed more than that.

It gave him pause. Need had been the cause of his flight from Diana,
years before, but as he looked into Scully's eyes, Mulder saw love there
as well, love that would keep giving, at any cost, to her limits and
beyond. He couldn't turn his back on that love; he didn't want to.

You've already made your promises, Mulder. Time to start keeping them.

"I promise," he said. "The next assassin is all yours." The joke was
feeble, but Scully laughed through her tears. He drew her to him, then,
and she joined him on the bed, setting herself carefully so as to avoid
jostling him. Mulder wrapped his good arm around her, pulling her into
an awkward embrace. "I won't let you down again," he said. I promise,
he thought.

Scully molded herself into him. They remained thus, clasped together,
for a long time. They had no need for discourse; in silent communion,
they reconnected to each other.

Still, doubt tugged at Mulder's mind. Scully had forgiven him once
again, but nothing had really changed. They were caught in a cycle, he
realized, the same one that had trapped them since they began working
together years before. It had intensified, but its essential nature
persisted. And it would continue to manifest itself at intervals until
some fundamental change occurred.

Our quest is the last thing between us, he thought. What was hurting
her was an integral aspect of his essential nature. Mulder found that
he had no idea what to do about it.

But he feared he had already offered the only solution, the one Scully
had rejected, and deep down, he also feared he would have to insist on
it.

* * *

6:26 p.m.

Diana Fowley could not have explained what brought her back to Mulder's
room. When Scully had arrived, she had known she had to leave; the
serious mien Mulder's partner had worn made it clear that the discussion
to come would not include Diana. And Fox had already made it clear that
he no longer had any interest in her.

She had gone, clutching her dignity about herself like a tattered
blanket.

The smoking man would owe her, after this assignment. Working with
Mulder and Scully now would be nothing but emotional torment. Of
course, Diana knew that the smoking man would most likely not see it
that way -- he would have little sympathy for her inner turmoil. To his
twisted mind, the chance at vengeance against the man who had spurned
her affections, and by extension his lover as well, should be viewed as
an opportunity.

But these matters were never so simple. Vengeance would always exact
its own price.

Going on would be service above and beyond the call of duty -- if she
had not already been beholden, she would have opted out of the whole
business, sparing herself.

And yet she had returned to Mulder's room, only an hour after leaving
it, though she knew his partner would likely still be there.

Diana found that she was not mistaken. Arriving at the door, she opened
it a crack and stole a quick glance at the scene within. Fox and his
partner lay on the bed together, both asleep, in an unguarded intimacy
that the duty nurses had chosen to overlook, it would seem. Scully lay
with her head pillowed on Mulder's right shoulder, seeming small and
delicate next to him. She wasn't his type, Diana thought -- Fox had
always preferred his women tall and dark -- but she must be something
special. Diana had never seen Mulder look at a woman the way he looked
at his partner, not even when he had been with her, years before.

Stare though she might, she could not divine what Fox saw in Scully,
what quality she had that captivated him. It certainly was not her
youth -- Mulder's partner was but a few years younger than he -- yet
something about Scully drew his eyes to her whenever she entered a room.
When she was present, half of his awareness inevitably lingered on her.

Diana sighed and let the door fall closed, striding down the corridor
toward the exit. The final death of her love affair with Mulder hurt,
but she found herself embracing the pain, gripping it tightly to
herself.

She knew she would need the strength that it gave her.

* * *

7:30 p.m.

It was Skinner who finally roused Mulder and Scully from their slumber.

He had left Mulder at the hospital hours before, dealing with the local
authorities for most of the afternoon, his intent to spare Scully as
much as possible of the bureaucratic hassle that inevitably followed a
event such as had happened in Arkham. He knew she needed rest, but she
had insisted on pursuing Mulder's inquiries at the mental hospital, and
so Skinner had taken some of the load for her.

The day had stretched out endlessly, and by the time he returned to
Northampton that evening, Skinner felt tired and irritable and more than
a little in need of a shower. Instead, he just had time for a final
interview with Mulder and Scully before he had to head out for the
airport in Hartford, Connecticut.

He knocked on Mulder's door, expecting to find both of them there, and
after a moment was invited to enter. Scully sat in a chair next to
Mulder's bed, but from the foggy look the both of them wore and Mulder's
position on the bed, Skinner knew that they had been asleep when he had
knocked.

Asleep together -- his earlier conjecture had been correct, he realized.

He regretted disturbing them, but forbore from taking overt notice of
the circumstances in which he had found the two agents. Instead, he
drew another chair near to Scully's, sat heavily, and brought up the
case.

"Agent Scully, how went your inquiries in Arkham?" Mulder would want to
know this too, if he and Scully had not already discussed it. Something
told Skinner they had not.

Scully shook her head, perhaps clearing cobwebs as much as expressing
futility. "Not well," she said. "The person calling himself 'Leslie'
who is currently in the custody of the mental institution is not old
enough to be the man we're looking for."

That revelation disturbed Mulder, if the frown that creased his forehead
were any indication. He carefully worked himself into a sitting
position. "What do you mean, not old enough?" he asked.

"This 'John Leslie' can't be more than 35. That isn't--"

Mulder interrupted her. "It may not matter. Many abductees experience
time distortion. If his absence were due to an abduction, who knows?
Maybe he hasn't aged at the same rate as the rest of us." He shrugged
gingerly.

Scully was shaking her head again. "Mulder, time can be distorted --
theoretically -- but the energy requirements would have to be of a
scale..."

"...to allow travel between the stars?" Mulder finished. "Think about
it: Leslie my have incurred time debt while in interstellar transit."

Scully's hand described a non-committal motion. "Yes," she began,
"that's possible, but even if true, it raises several other questions."

To Skinner's mild surprise, Mulder held his peace, merely inclining his
head, inviting her to continue.

"Well," said Scully, "if...extraterrestrials...took someone from earth
and then traveled at relativistic speeds out of the solar system, that
person would experience time more slowly than we would. So if he was
returned, he might not have aged as much as we would expect."

Mulder's eyes lit up. "Well, wouldn't that explain--"

"No, Mulder." Scully shook her head. "It wouldn't make sense. If we
assume that extraterrestrials can master the energy needed for inter-
stellar travel, we also have to assume they've found some way to
overcome the lightspeed barrier, some sort of 'shortcut' between points
in space. Reaching even the nearest star would require years of travel
if one could only accelerate up to the speed of light."

Mulder chewed his lip, frowning again. He'd read enough science fiction
over the years to have heard that argument before.

"Well," he said, "if they've found a 'shortcut,' why couldn't they
distort time? I've measured such effects in the past." He pinned his
partner with his gaze. "You've seen that."

Scully did not respond at first. Finally, she said "I suppose it's
possible -- again, in theory. But I--"

Skinner broke in. "Alright, I'm sure this is all quite fascinating, but
we need to approach this in a more mundane fashion or it won't matter
what the smoking man says -- this investigation will be shut down." He
faced Scully. "What else did you learn?"

She gave him a questioning look. "About Leslie?" she asked.

"For starters."

"Well, he does believe that he's the person that Agent Mulder thinks he
is. But he may be delusional. He's clearly been under considerable
stress. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had been diagnosed
with some sort of breakdown."

"Which would make sense if he is the real Leslie," Mulder put in.

Scully nodded. "True enough, if largely unprovable."

"What is he doing in a mental hospital if he hasn't been diagnosed?"
asked Skinner.

"Better ask our smoking friend about that," Mulder responded. "He's the
one who put us on the road to Arkham in the first place. I'm certain
that he arranged for Leslie to be held there."

"Okay, enough about him," said Skinner. Speculation about the smoking
man could last all evening and end with nothing accomplished, and
Skinner inevitably felt greasy when discussing him. He changed the
subject again. "What was...the guy who attacked Agent Mulder, what the
hell was his name?"

"Florescu," said Scully.

"Right. What was he doing in Arkham?"

Scully took a deep breath. "I'm not sure. He choked a nurse until she
was unconscious, but he didn't kill her. Then he knocked out an
orderly, and killed a third man of...uncertain affiliation."

"What?" asked Mulder, leaning forward and wincing as his movement caused
him to inadvertently tug at his wound.

"He evidently broke into the hospital shortly before we arrived in
Arkham on Sunday morning. According to the staff, he didn't harm anyone
working there, apart from rendering them unconscious."

"So what did he do there?" Mulder asked.

Scully hesitated. "Well, he apparently went to Leslie's room, but the
patient calling himself 'Leslie' doesn't remember speaking with him.
The staff did say that he took certain...documents from a locker."

"What documents?" Skinner and Mulder asked simultaneously.

"The staff wasn't sure. No one paid much attention. Someone said there
was a book."

"Oh, damn!" Mulder started to slap the bed in frustration but thought
better of it. "Leslie's journal."

Skinner looked at him. "Are you certain of that?"

To his surprise, Scully answered. "That's what whoever set this up
really wanted. He evidently had access to Sales' writings, but they did
not include accurate surveys that would reveal the location of...
whatever is near Rongbuk."

Mulder was nodding. "But Leslie was carrying his books. Krycek knew
that, or guessed it, and now he has what he wanted."

Skinner felt anger, a blend of old disdain for Krycek and frustration
with Florescu's success in Arkham, rising in him. "So now what do we
do?" he asked.

"If the smoking man arranged for Leslie to be sent to Arkham, he must
have had him in custody at one point. Maybe he has copies of the
documents." Mulder slid his legs from beneath the covers and attempted
to stand, prompting a gasp of concern from Scully, who stood and
prevented him, forcing him to lie back on the bed.

"Mulder, don't even think about it."

Skinner noted that Mulder's injuries prevented his usual willfulness.
"Scully, we have to get moving. We're in a race to Rongbuk, now."
Mulder protested, but he also returned to a prone position.

"We'll need permits -- we'll need time to arrange them," said Scully.
"You might as well rest."

"We need to contact the smoking man..." Mulder began.

"I'll take care of that," said Skinner, feeling unclean. "I'm returning
to Washington tonight. I'll get in touch with him."

That seemed to satisfy Mulder, so Skinner decided to head out. "I have
a plane to catch in about two hours, so I have to get started. Agent
Scully, are you on board with this?" He waved a hand at Mulder and his
notions.

"I don't have a good alternative hypothesis," Scully admitted.

Skinner nodded. "Alright. Keep me informed."

With that, he left the agents in the hospital room. As he walked to the
parking lot, he reflected on the unholy alliance he would have to cement
once again.

************************************************************************
[end part 7 of 11]

[begin part 8 of 11]
************************************************************************

Book III -- Rongbuk

On the Friendship Highway, Tsang Province, Tibet
Friday, 2 October, 12:14 p.m.

Dana Scully stared out of the window of the Toyota Landcruiser at the
hard, hot light of Tibet. Next to her in the rear seat, Mulder half-
reclined, leaning against the window in an attempt to sleep, while in
the front, their guide, Nawang Tsering, steered their vehicle along the
dusty Friendship Highway. In the front passenger's seat, Diana Fowley
slept soundly, somehow managing to rest despite the jolts and bounces.

The countryside through which they traveled was grey and dry, stone and
sagebrush, uninhabited. On the horizons, distant mountain ranges
marched in jagged array, dark peaks capped with glittering ice. Scully
raised her eyes from the mountains to the cloudless, lapis sky and then
lowered them again, searching the land for...something. She found that
she could not name what she sought, but its absence disturbed her in an
inexplicable way. While Tibet might represent a mysterious Shangri-La
to some, she found it a vaguely depressing place, a harsh and almost
lifeless redoubt, cut off from the more inviting, lusher regions
southward beyond the Himalayas. The thin, dry wind blew chill in
October, but the sun's rays baked the unprotected land.

The Landcruiser pounded through a particularly severe irregularity in
the road, which was nothing more than a rough dirt trail, despite its
name. Mulder groaned and sat up.

Scully scrutinized him, trying to assess how badly his injuries were
hurting him. "How are you doing?" she asked.

Mulder winced. "You'd think someone would have bothered to pave this
road, considering it's the only one between the two largest cities in
the region." He paused, his wry expression fading into neutrality.
"I'm okay."

Scully left her gaze on him a moment longer, finally deciding that the
healing of the injury in his left side had not regressed.

She leaned forward and spoke quietly to the driver. "Be careful,
Nawang." She had already asked him to keep the ride as smooth as
possible, but the Tibetan did not seem to really understand the concept
of using the steering wheel to avoid bumps.

Nawang turned back to her and grinned. "We leave the highway soon,
ma'am. The road gets rougher ahead." He pronounced the words with the
exaggerated enunciation of one who had spoken most of his English in a
classroom.

"Well, make sure you don't miss any pot-holes," said Mulder.

"Okay," said Nawang, missing the sarcasm. He made a 'thumbs-up' sign.

Scully smiled inwardly, momentarily cheered by the Tibetan's good-
natured eccentricity. She found that she genuinely liked him, though
something about him struck her as odd. She remembered the look of...
almost recognition...that he had given her and Mulder when they met at
his travel agency in Lhasa, asking him to secure permits and a vehicle
so they could travel to Rongbuk Monastery.

She hadn't yet had time to fully consider that.

The time in Lhasa had passed in a blur. Worried that Krycek would have
too great a head start, Mulder had wanted to head west toward Rongbuk as
soon as possible, and somehow Nawang had managed to arrange matters in
only a day, an unusual development in Asia, she would have thought.
Thus, she and Mulder had not had much time to see the city -- she had
spent an afternoon in the dark and mysterious recesses of the Jokhang
Temple, but that was all -- before their guide had contacted them with
the news that all was ready.

Almost before Scully knew what was happening, she was giving the
unvisited Potala Palace a last wistful look through the rear window of
the Landcruiser as they rode west out of Lhasa. It was almost as though
their guide had set up the trip in advance.

Something was up, she thought, but Nawang had evaded all of her attempts
to elicit it from him. She had decided to let it ride for the time
being. For some reason, almost against her better judgment she found
herself inclined to trust their guide's good nature.

Scully sobered again as she turned back to Mulder. Though the injury to
his side had been dangerous, it had healed well and represented no
long-term problem. Mulder could already walk fairly well, though his
side still pained him.

His hand, however, was another matter.

Scully sighed to herself. She had urged Mulder to delay this trip and
allow his injuries time to heal properly, but he would have none of it.
As a result, he had no real use of his left hand and would probably
require extensive therapy later to recover it. In the meantime, she
had been keeping a close eye on him, changing his bandages frequently
and watching for signs of infection. Fortunately, that particular
problem had not manifested itself.

Other concerns continued to be an issue for them, though.

She looked out of the window again. They had begun to descend, she
noticed, and in the distance ahead she could see a small town, situated
on the floor of the wide valley they had entered. Scully looked forward
to moving down into relatively thicker air; they had been above 15,000
feet for some time, and she had suffered from a mild headache for
several hours. Between the thin air and her frustration over the case,
she had found herself in a state of mild depression ever since they had
reached Lhasa a few days earlier.

Seldom had Scully felt as useless as she had during this investigation.
From the beginning, she and Mulder had been reacting to the
manipulations of others -- Alex Krycek, in Mulder's view, the smoking
man, in hers -- rather than taking the initiative. And while she had
doubts about Mulder's hypotheses, doubts that Diana did not share,
naturally, she had even more about the motivations of the smoking man,
despite his insistence that their interests had aligned for this
mission. On top of all that, she felt she had contributed nothing to
their investigation, such as it was.

And Mulder had not been himself either, for the past couple of weeks.
He had not been the partner that he had been for more than five years,
and he had not been the lover he had recently become. Scully had been
debating the reasons for this ever since their conversation in the
hospital in Northampton, but she had come to no satisfactory
conclusions.

She tried to convince herself that they were doing the right thing, that
this mad dash across Tibet made sense because they had nothing else to
go on. And the very real interest in Rongbuk of the smoking man and
Radu Florescu, if not Alex Krycek, suggested that Mulder's hunches were
not entirely baseless.

Unless, of course, Florescu was working for the smoking man, and unless
his interest was in Mulder himself, rather than the writings of a semi-
legendary explorer.

Scully rubbed her forehead, as though that might slow the thoughts that
spun in ever-tightening spirals in her mind. She found herself in a
familiarly uncomfortable situation, following after her partner without
a chance to catch her breath and think the matter through. As usual,
Mulder had a dozen reasons why everything had to be done in a rush.

That was the root of the problem: no matter how close she and Mulder
became, and no matter what assurances he gave her to the contrary,
as long she was not in immediate danger, the quest still came first.

Scully found that, deep within herself, her selfish side's resentment of
that had grown.

She was afraid, she realized, afraid of losing Mulder, afraid that their
work would demand she make one more sacrifice on top of all of the
others. And she hated herself for that fear, for being weak.

So she had choked back her doubts and objections and lent her best
efforts to Mulder's endeavor, just as she always did. It had not seemed
to help, though. Mulder sensed that her heart wasn't in it.

Ever since Skinner had brought them copies of John Leslie's writings,
which the smoking man had provided, he had been both driven and distant.

Together, they had arranged travel first to Kathmandu and then Lhasa,
but she had felt a sense of separation from her partner during that
time, as though the more she tried to bring him close, the further he
slipped away.

It hadn't helped to have Diana there, nodding in uncritical agreement to
everything Mulder said. Scully had felt more like a harpy with every
question she asked, every contrary statement she made.

Their lack of physical intimacy had undoubtedly also contributed to
their sense of distance. Between Mulder's injuries and, lately, her own
lingering altitude sickness, they had not made love in more than two
weeks. That was just one more frustration nagging at her, Scully
decided.

"Mulder, hand me those papers again, will you?" She dug into one of her
own bags for a topographical map of the area around Rongbuk as her
partner produced the file containing Leslie's surveys.

Mulder handed her the file. "Haven't got them memorized, yet?"

She shook her head. "Something's been bothering me about these
documents. I need to figure out what it is." Perhaps if she could
gain some semblance of control over their investigation, other things
would fall into place as well. Perhaps the sense of order she needed
would return.

"Knock yourself out," Mulder said, turning to contemplate the landscape
outside.

Scully lowered her gaze from his profile and opened the file for what
had to be the fifteenth time, pouring over its contents once again.
Leslie's maps of the area around Rongbuk for the most part matched the
modern map she had, but there seemed to be certain inconsistencies as
well. Scully concentrated on matching up the two documents' salient
landmarks.

There was the monastery itself, not far from a village that lay at the
end of a remote roadway. To the north lay a broad valley that rose in
elevation and stretched about 20 miles toward a range of hills. Through
this valley ran a river that flowed from a second, higher range of
hills located another 10 miles or so to the north and cut through the
first range.

Leslie had evidently never added the alien facility -- assuming that's
what his and Sales' writings had actually described -- to his maps, but
according to the narrative, the site could be reached simply by
following the river northward to the first range of hills and locating a
cave mouth on the east side of the canyon through which the river
flowed. Passing through the cave gave access to the facility itself.

He had also diagramed what appeared to be the facility's main gate,
along with several numerical sequences that Mulder had decided were
access codes, though there was no way to be certain of that until they
actually reached the site.

Leslie had sketched the river and cave mouth, as well as a crude map
through the cave. Scully found herself returning to this sketch over
and over again. Something about it seemed...strange. She glanced back
at the topographical map, comparing the two. A sudden thought struck
her.

She looked up. "Mulder, I--" She stopped, seeing that her partner was
staring at her with a look of appalled concern on his face.

At that moment, Scully felt the liquid warmth on her upper lip and
realized, with a shock, that her nose had begun to bleed.

************************************************************************

Near Rongbuk Monastery
12:30 p.m.

A Landcruiser roared to the top of a low hill, it's engine laboring in
the thin air, and stopped at the top. A second vehicle soon joined it
there.

Alex Krycek, riding shotgun next to the Chinese driver of the first
Landcruiser, hopped out and strode ahead to the top of the hill's
northern slope. He raised a pair of binoculars and scanned the vista
before him, moving the lenses from the monastery to the lands beyond,
tracing the river northward to the range of hills that was their goal.
He felt his excitement mounting; the object of years of thought and
planning, at times intense, at times speculative, now lay nearly within
reach.

Nothing would stop him this time, and if Rongbuk proved to be what he
suspected it might, well....

His partner, Radu Florescu, emerged from the second vehicle, accompanied
by Sun Wei-kuo, one of the triad gangsters whom Wu Tseng-li had sent to
accompany them. Krycek had not really wanted Sun or any of the other
three gangsters to come on this expedition, but he had not had time to
argue with Wu Tseng-li about the matter. Florescu had reported the
smoking bastard's interest in the affair, and that meant the time for
unhindered action would certainly be limited. Krycek had accepted the
four tag-alongs as the price of Wu's help and resolved to deal with
them as necessary when the time came.

In the meantime, it was just possible that they would prove useful.

Still peering through the binoculars, Krycek addressed Florescu. "We'll
be there within a few hours." He spoke English. He'd slipped back into
the habit in Hong Kong.

"This is dangerous," said Florescu. "There are only six of us, and
these men are not trained." Krycek heard him spit and resisted the
temptation to do the same. The damned Tibetan dust had left his mouth
feeling gritty for days -- wretched country. Florescu continued. "If
there is resistance, it could be a problem."

Krycek lowered the field glasses and looked at his partner. "We've been
over this before," he said. "We've got the gear we need. We have to go
with what we've got." Each Landcruiser carried a flame-thrower set,
Chinese military 'surplus' that Wu had "liberated" from a garrison close
to Hong Kong.

Krycek gave Sun a hard look. "Make sure your men are ready," he said.
"And when I give an order, it had best be obeyed at once."

Sun nodded, showing no emotion. "Of course, Mr. Krycek. It will be as
you wish." His English was fluent and scarcely accented.

"Alright," said Krycek, stowing his binoculars and stepping back to the
vehicle in which he had been riding. "Let's get moving."

************************************************************************

On the Friendship Highway
12:40

Scully dabbed at her nose one last time and then folded her
handkerchief. It had taken a while, but the flow of blood had at last
stopped.

She gave Mulder what she hoped was a reassuring look. "I'm okay," she
said. "It's not a sign of...a problem."

An amalgam of concern and fear, and loneliness, emanated from Mulder's
eyes. "How can you be certain?"

"It's too soon for the tumor to have returned, to have reached a size
that would cause this...symptom." I'm almost certain of that, she
thought. "It's just the dryness of the air; I'll always be prone to
nosebleeds."

Mulder nodded, but his expression of disquiet did not fade.

Scully reached out and placed her hand gently on his. "I'll see the
oncologist when we get back, just to be safe. But it's nothing. I'll
be okay." She willed him to accept that; the one thing that could put
her under more stress would be for Mulder to start obsessing over her
health again.

"Alright. The *second* we get back." He tried to appear reassured, for
her sake, she realized.

He does care about me, she thought. In his own way, he does.

We have to find a way to love each other and continue to function.

"I promise," she said.

Nawang Tsering, who had been pointedly keeping his attention focused on
the road, now turned back to them. "Ready for lunch?" he asked.

At the thought of food, Scully's stomach rumbled quietly. She realized
they were approaching the town she had noticed earlier. "I'm starving,"
she said. Perhaps food would distract Mulder from his worries as well.

Nawang grinned and shook Diana, rousing her from her nap. "Time to
eat," he said, beaming at her. Diana did not speak, rubbing the sleep
from her eyes instead. This seemed to amuse Nawang even more.

"So, is there a McDonald's in this town?" Mulder asked.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Scully finished the last of the noodle soup and
yak butter tea that she and Mulder had identified as the restaurant's
safest offerings and opened up the file she'd consulted earlier. Diana
rose from the table she had shared with Nawang and joined them, pulling
her chair across and crowding in next to Mulder. Nawang drifted off to
chat with some of the locals at the other tables, evidently uninterested
in their discussion.

"This is what I meant to show you earlier," Scully began. She pointed
to the sketch of the cave entrance that Leslie had made, then indicated
the same area on the topographical map.

"What is it?" asked Mulder.

"Look at the relief lines on the topo-map. I knew something was wrong
about this, I just couldn't figure it out. It finally hit me."

Mulder shook his head. "I'm not seeing it."

"Nor am I," said Diana.

"Look at the line spacing on this map," Scully said. "The relief lines
along the river are tight, but not enough for this to be a true canyon,
which is what Leslie sketched."

Mulder picked up the map and then the photocopy of the sketch,
scrutinizing each in turn. "Are you certain?" he asked.

"Absolutely."

"She's right, Fox," said Diana. She looked at Scully. "So, what do you
think it means?"

"Three possibilities," Scully said. "One, Leslie's sketch is not
accurate."

"I doubt that," said Mulder. "He was a professional surveyor, after
all."

Scully nodded. "I agree, and his drawings appear accurate enough in
other areas." Assuming this is his work, she added to herself.

"So what are 'two' and 'three'?" Diana asked.

"Two, these journals have been faked." Mulder looked dismayed, and
would have spoken, but Scully went on before he could do so. "That was
my conclusion, until I noticed something about these photocopies that
opens up the third possibility."

She ran her fingernail along a set of very faint lines that traced the
edges of two of the sheets.

"Son of a bitch!" Mulder exclaimed. "I'm impressed, Scully. I'd have
never noticed it." The lines Scully had spotted were extremely fine.
Even someone holding the actual journal might not notice that pages had
been removed.

"What?" asked Diana. "I don't see it."

"These lines," said Mulder. "There were pages here. Someone cut them
out, with a razor or something." Scully thought he looked as pleased as
he had in weeks, and for a moment she half-expected him to give her a
kiss, but he settled for squeezing her hand instead. "This is great
news."

Light had finally dawned on Diana's features. "Part of the narrative is
missing -- Krycek may be looking in the wrong place."

"Exactly," said Mulder. "I was afraid we'd be too late, but the odds
have just shifted in our favor."

Scully wasn't entirely sure about that, but was grateful for Mulder's
happiness all the same. Fear of being too late had been one of the many
concerns that had plagued him throughout the trip, and it would be good
for him to alleviate some of the stress he was under. "Still, we're
going to have to figure out where the actual cave is," she said.

"Any ideas?" asked Mulder.

Diana pointed to the map. "Perhaps the next range of hills," she said,
then shrugged. "It's hard to know."

Mulder nodded. "That seems likely, but it would be better to be sure."
He looked at Scully. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Scully considered it. If Mulder were correct and Leslie had recently
been returned to the site he had surveyed 64 years ago, it stood to
reason that he would have passed by Rongbuk on his way out of Tibet.

Scully met her partner's gaze. "The monastery?" she asked.

Mulder nodded in satisfaction. "I think we need to interview the good
monks of Rongbuk," he said. He stood up, calling across the room.
"Nawang! I think we're ready to go."

Their guide detached himself from the group of Tibetan truck drivers
whose conversation he had joined and hurried across the room, following
Mulder, who had already exited the restaurant.

Scully gathered the map and the contents of the file, waiting for her
sense of order to return, but it refused to do so. As she followed
Mulder out of the restaurant and into the bright noonday sun, she sensed
that their investigation continued to follow its own course, unmoved by
their plans or desires to control it.

************************************************************************

Nepal-Tibet Border
Sunday, 4 October, 6:00 a.m.

When the smoking man had informed her that the Consortium would be
taking "active measures," Jill Whittaker had been impressed. She knew
enough about him to recognize that whatever measures he had in mind
would be decisive.

Still, she had not expected the team that had arrived in Kathmandu on
October 1st.

Jill had been busy during the second half of September. The smoking man
had given no explanation for the return of John Leslie to Kathmandu, and
simply ordered her to arrange his immediate transport to Dubay, just as
she had the first time. Presumably, Leslie had found his way to Andrews
Air Force Base once more.

The smoking man had also not explained his instruction that, should
Leslie find his way into Kathmandu yet again, he was to be forwarded to
Dubay with alacrity. Jill had decided that these things would make more
sense once her status in the Consortium hierarchy had risen. In the
meantime, she had a new mission to complete.

Travel to Lhasa to meet with Mulder had been deferred so that she could
facilitate the transit of Colonel Calvin Henderson, a Consortium
operative, along with the squad that he led. Their arrival in
Kathmandu's spacious and sleepy airport had been an eye-opener.

Colonel Henderson had quite a presence. Middle-aged, supremely self-
confident, and clearly a long-time veteran of Special Forces Operations,
he had taken control of the situation from the moment he arrived,
relegating Jill almost to the role of an administrative assistant.

That did not exactly sit well with her, but Henderson was not the sort
of man who would have been interested in her complaints, had she chosen
to voice them.

He was the sort of man for whom action -- decisive action -- came as
second nature, and thus it hardly struck Jill as surprising that, just
a few days after the team's arrival in Kathmandu, she was now walking
away from the remote track that crossed the border between Nepal and
Tibet, looking for a shielded spot among the rocks in which to practice
the delicate art of relieving herself in the wilderness.

Jill sighed as she exposed herself to the chill air of the Himalayan
autumn and attempted to balance herself in a squatting position; this
was not her idea of rapid upward progress in the ranks of the
Consortium. It was, however, Colonel Henderson's idea of covering all
of the bases. The team had no intention of dealing with the authorities
in China -- the border crossing they were attempting was both covert and
highly illegal -- but in the event of trouble, Jill represented the best
local area knowledge readily available.

She patted herself down with a tissue and pulled up her trousers, then
made her way through the rocks and pre-dawn dark back to where the team
had stopped their Jeeps. They had left the lush, semi-tropical slopes
of the Himalayan foothills behind them and crossed into that part of the
Tibetan Plateau that lay, on a political map, within the Kingdom of
Nepal. Another hour or so would put them within Tibet proper.

Getting past the border patrols would not be easy, but perhaps the
Consortium had managed to arrange something. Jill hoped so. She did
not relish the thought of a Chinese prison. She wasn't too worried,
however. Corruption might have been the Consortium's greatest strength.

She returned to the team. The soldiers, heavily armed and all Special
Operations types like their leader, had taken advantage of the break
much as she had and were now ready to press on. Henderson snapped out a
few orders and at once engines were starting and Jill found herself
hustling to clamber back into one of the vehicles. Within moments, the
little caravan had resumed its trek toward Rongbuk.

She contemplated her orders. Though the overall plan had been almost
completely transformed, the matter of Agent Mulder remained open. She
could still take action on that front if the opportunity should present
itself.

Jill was ambitious. She sensed the smoking man's antipathy toward
Mulder and knew that he would be well pleased should she be able to
effect the one aspect of his original instructions concerning him. And
she had every intention of doing so.

************************************************************************

First range of hills, north of Rongbuk Monastery
10:16 a.m.

Alex Krycek rode atop the Toyota and watched the ravine walls on either
side, shifting his gaze back and forth in search of any hint of a cave
entrance. The Landcruiser splashed its way slowly through the river,
which was nothing more than a broad, shallow stream here. It probably
ran higher at other times of the year, but now it was low and placid,
allowing them to simply use its bed for a roadway with no danger of
drowning the engine.

The sides of the ravine sloped upward from on either side, and were
largely free from vegetation. Unfortunately, they were also free from
openings that might lead to John Leslie's discovery. Krycek forced
himself to be patient, but the search had begun to drag out. Since
Friday, they had already driven the length of the ravine twice, with no
result.

He consulted the copy of Leslie's journal he'd had made in Hong Kong,
staring at the sketch of the cave entrance. He looked up again and then
kicked the roof of the Landcruiser. The driver brought it to a halt in
response to his signal.

Radu Florescu clambered out. "What is it?" he asked.

Krycek pointed up and to the right. "Look there," he said.

Florescu complied, then turned back to him. "I don't see anything."

"Look at that rock."

After a moment, Florescu shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Bullshit. We need to get closer." Krycek leapt off the roof of the
Landcruiser and began climbing. Florescu followed, as did one of the
triad men, responding to an order from Sun Wei-kuo.

Though not vertical, the slope was steep. Reaching the rock required a
climb of a few minutes, and the effort in the oxygen-poor air left them
sweating and panting, but when they reached the rock, Krycek scrambled
on top of it and let out a muted exclamation of triumph.

Before him stood the cave, just as Leslie had described it. Thank you,
Fox Mulder, you bewildered cock-sucker, he thought. I couldn't have
done it without you.

"I'll be damned," said Florescu, next to him. The entrance, large
enough that a man could stoop and walk inside, could not be seen from
below. But atop the ledge, there was no missing it.

Krycek signaled to Sun Wei-kuo. "Bring up lights, and the weapons."

He watched as Sun turned and began barking orders in Chinese to the two
other triad men who had remained with him below.

After a few more minutes of grunting and straining, the three had joined
Krycek and Florescu at the cave entrance. Florescu and one of the
Chinese donned the flame-throwers. Krycek settled for a 12-gauge
shotgun with a flashlight mounted atop it. He faced the cave and
stepped in, followed closely by his cohorts.

The inside of the cave proved dry, a dusty, lifeless chamber. Within
the entrance, it widened suddenly, its ceiling rising as high as 12
feet overhead at its highest point. To either side, the walls spread
until a 30-foot wide chamber was formed, but ahead, a narrower passage
vanished into the darkness.

So far, so good, Krycek thought. He looked for signs of passage in the
grit on the cave's floor, but saw nothing. He worked the action of the
shotgun, readying a shell for discharge, and moved deeper into the cave,
the beam from his flashlight piercing the inky dark before him.

The passageway narrowed and began do descend, and the floor proved
treacherous, with oddly-spaced irregularities threatening to trip the
unwary. Eventually, the party was forced to walk in single file, with
Krycek in the lead, followed closely by Florescu.

Suddenly, the passage widened again, opening into a roundish chamber.
Krycek swung his light around and settled on a figure directly in front
of him.

"Son of a bitch," he heard himself say.

************************************************************************

Tsang Province, southwest of Rongbuk Monastery
11:00 a.m.

Jill Whittaker pressed herself into the ground and tried to make herself
as small as possible. Overhead, the roar of rotor blades swelled to
fill the world, as though the machine were directly overhead.

She knew this was not the case, but the Chinese military helicopter was
nonetheless far too close for comfort.

The border crossing had been deceptively easy, as had the morning's
drive toward Rongbuk. Still, Colonel Henderson and his men had been
cautious. One, a Mandarin-speaker, Jill had learned, had begun scanning
radio frequencies in hopes of monitoring Chinese military transmissions.
He had succeeded, and thus Henderson had been warned of the helicopter
reconnaissance patrol that now threatened to discover them.

Jill did not want to be discovered. Far too much was riding on this
mission, and she had no illusions about the lengths the Consortium would
go to in order to recover her from Chinese custody, should she fall into
it.

She risked a glance to one side, seeking one of her companions, but she
found she could not see them. When the team had first heard the sound
of the helicopter's rotors, they had stopped their Jeeps and remained
just long enough to through camouflage netting over them before they had
scattered into cover. They had been lucky that they had been driving
through a canyon when they had been forced to abandon their vehicles, as
the rock-strewn and shadowed area provided some opportunity for
concealment.

The roar of the helicopter's engines grew to a crescendo and then began
to fade, and Jill allowed herself to hope they had been overlooked.
Still, she waited until long after the silence had returned before she
ventured to stir from her hiding place, arising at last in response to
Colonel Henderson's call.

She stood up, feeling a bit sheepish, and walked toward the Jeeps,
which Henderson's men had already begun to uncover.

"Give you a turn, Ms. Whittaker?" asked the Colonel, a look of cynical
amusement on his face.

"A little," Jill allowed. She was too worn out from worry and travel to
keep up any pretenses.

Henderson nodded. "Not to worry." He jerked a thumb in the direction
of the vanished aircraft. "Those guys, their hearts aren't in it.
They're too busy not putting it into a cliffside to pay attention to
their mission." He flashed her a cocky grin. "If we're on the ball,
they won't notice us."

Jill glanced around. There seemed to be a lot of places from which a
helicopter could appear without warning, but Henderson's men seemed
unperturbed at the prospect. They had already rolled up the netting and
started the engines of the Jeeps.

"Let's go," said Henderson, turning toward their vehicles.

Jill followed him, hoping with all sincerity that his skills matched his
self-confidence.

************************************************************************

Tsang Province, east of Rongbuk Monastery
1:00 p.m.

As their Landcruiser approached the checkpoint, Diana Fowley gave their
guide an appraising look.

Nawang Tsering seemed unworried, despite the serious mien of the Chinese
security official, who was evidently asking to see their travel permits.
The Tibetan produced a sheaf of forms filled out in scribbled ideographs
and stamped with numerous, important-looking red seals, which the guard
accepted with ceremony. He scrutinized the documents, frowning and
and clucking to himself, as though they held the key to his nation's
destiny. A few other guards stood by, their automatic rifles cradled
nonchalantly as they leaned against the concrete blockhouse by the road.

Diana knew she could bring Fox's operation to a complete halt with just
a single suspicious word or deed. Even if the checkpoint guards did not
speak English, it was clear from their demeanor that any irregularity
would be greeted with the utmost suspicion.

Bored guards are dangerous guards, she mused.

At the moment, though, she could hardly expose Fox without exposing
herself as well, and whatever her feelings toward her ex-lover, she had
no interest in bringing herself down.

In any case, the smoking man's instructions had allowed her an escape
route. She would just have to wait until they were closer to Rongbuk,
and then she could link up with the team that had been sent in.

And Krycek remained to be found and dealt with, before anything else was
done. Diana was to make sure that Mulder made it to his objective prior
to secondary plans being initiated, which meant another couple of days
of awkward companionship, and not just between her and Fox, or her and
Scully.

The tension between Fox and his partner had not been lost on Diana.
The almost tangible connection between the pair had shown some signs of
wear of late, and for all their evident closeness, they seemed uncertain
how to cope with it. Scully had withdrawn within herself, raising
protective walls, as though she feared hurt more than isolation, while
Fox seemed torn between the quest and his love, and ended up giving
neither the necessary attention.

He'd been flying blind ever since they had arrived in Tibet, and if it
had not been for Scully, they would have learned nothing since their
arrival.

No, Diana decided, it wasn't that simple. Fox wasn't just missing the
obvious; he was actively pushing his partner away from him. Diana
wasn't sure why, but Fox had seemingly made a point of brushing off
Scully's attempts to re-connect with him, and as she grew increasingly
wounded, those attempts grew less and less frequent.

As best he could, Diana realized, Fox was trying to end their
relationship. That was something to ponder.

She stole a glance back at the woman who had ruined her last chance to
restore her love affair with Fox. Scully wore a pensive mask, as she
had for most of the trip, and her introspection prevented her from
noting Diana's scrutiny.

It also prevented her from perceiving her partner, who brooded in his
own world next to her. Fox may have been keeping Scully at arm's
length, but Diana wasn't fooled. His heart wasn't in it. For all his
distance, his affection was there to be seen. It was just that Scully,
hurt by his efforts to drive her away, had stopped looking.

The situation had the potential to become downright unpleasant, Diana
mused. She remembered her own break-up with Fox, years earlier.

Nawang was speaking to them, interrupting her train of thought. "We'll
have to get out for a while. They want to search the vehicle."

Mulder and Scully exited the Landcruiser without comment. Fox slipped
away from his partner and walked off, ostensibly to stretch his legs,
leaving her standing with one hand raised where she had tried to touch
him. Scully lowered her hand slowly and walked in a different
direction, eyes downcast.

Diana remained with Nawang by the guard station. She was not perturbed
by the search. Traveling as tourists, rather than FBI agents, their
group had perforce not brought any weapons with them, and the most
sensitive items they had carried into the country were the topographical
map, which was on Scully's person, and a Geiger counter, which the
Chinese guards likely wouldn't find if their search was not thorough.

And it wasn't. A thorough search would have meant work, so the guards
settled for a perfunctory inspection and then allowed them to drive on.
Within minutes, Nawang had pointed the Landcruiser west toward Rongbuk
once more.

Fox and Scully resumed their meditations in the back seat, each taking a
profound interest on the landscape outside the vehicle.

Nawang took it upon himself to liven up the atmosphere.

"Have you ever heard of the yeti?" he asked.

That got Mulder's attention, drew him out of his gloom for a bit. "Have
you ever seen one?" he asked.

"No, I have not," said Nawang, "but many people have. Or they have
seen the tracks, or heard the sounds the creature makes."

"What does one look like?" Diana did not really believe in yetis, but
it seemed a good tale might be in the offing, which could be reward
enough.

"My cousin saw one." Nawang's eyes shifted back and forth, from the
road to his audience and back again. "He said it was very large, with
a squarish head, and fur. It had long arms." The Tibetan wiggled his
eyebrows, enjoying his story. "Of course, my cousin is unreliable. I
think perhaps he saw a bear."

"A bear?" asked Diana.

"Yes, maybe a bear. Or maybe nothing. My cousin likes to tell stories
about what he has seen, especially the yeti."

"Who else has seen one?" asked Fox. "Anyone you believe in?"

Nawang twisted to give him a look, prompting Diana to warn him to watch
the road. He looked forward again before responding to the question.

"My uncle, Jamyang Dorje, is a lama at Rongbuk Monastery. I believe in
him. He saw something, years ago, but he did not say that it was a
yeti. But it was something strange."

Scully had been listening quietly, and chose this moment to speak.
"What did your uncle say it was like?"

"Like a man, but not like a man. It was tall, and thin, but had no
hair. It's head and eyes were large. My uncle said it was not a yeti."
He shrugged. "I don't know what it was. Maybe it was yeti, maybe not."

"Where did your uncle see it?" Scully asked. Diana wondered what her
interest was.

"It was a long time ago, when he was younger. He had traveled from the
monastery to a meditation cave that the monks used to go to. It was
from there that he saw it, walking along the side of a river. He said
it frightened him."

"Did it see him?" Scully had begun to lean forward. Fox was looking at
her, his expression unreadable. She did not return his glance.

Nawang tossed another look over his shoulder. "My uncle says not. He
waited very quietly, and it passed by without noticing him."

"Where was this?" asked Mulder.

"North of the monastery, there is a range of hills. That is where the
cave is. The monks do not go there any more, and have not, for many
years. No one goes there."

He slowed the vehicle to almost a stop and turned to look at Fox. "That
is an evil place, now," he said.

************************************************************************
[end part 8 of 11]