Chapter Nine

Krycek was already up when Mulder awoke the next morning, up, dressed, and
brewing the surprisingly good coffee he managed to produce on their
temperamental hot-plate. It seemed to be taking much more work and
concentration than usual this morning, and when Mulder brushed by him he
didn't turn around.

The atmosphere in the attic was tense all morning. Krycek was irritable one
moment and attentive the next, snapping at Mulder for the masses of paper
that had begun to invade the room, then bringing him coffee, ruffling his
hair, leaning a thigh against his arm as he peered over Mulder's shoulder at
the map he was surveying.

Mulder twitched away from his touch. Thoughts and memories of his father
were so vivid in his mind this morning that it felt like the man was in the
room with them, a heavy shadowy presence. In the chaos of the past weeks he
had seen his father's name on paper hundreds of times, had scrutinised the
details of his life going back dozens of years, but somehow he had kept
himself from really *thinking* about him - he had made him into an abstract,
just another piece of the puzzle. But telling Krycek about Matthew had
destroyed that carefully maintained distance. Every time he looked at Krycek
now the images that had plagued him through that last dead year played in
his mind: Matthew, his father at the cottage, Krycek on the train, his
father dead at Krycek's feet. He felt claustrophobic and ill-tempered, a
steady pressure building behind his eyes.

Halfway through the morning, Krycek's cell-phone rang, making them both
jump. Krycek snatched it up and listened in silence for a few moments, then
grunted tersely and said "Right. What time? No problem."

"That was Tobias," he said to Mulder. "He wants me to meet him, says he's
found something interesting in the financial records. I don't know when I'll
be back."

Mulder listened in silence, and wondered if it was true. He was less and
less certain of what was, now; they had spent weeks searching for answers
and it felt like all he had found were more questions, questions that made
him wonder if there were in fact clear answers to be found. And if not, just
what it was that Krycek really wanted with him.

"What are you looking at?" Krycek asked, tapping the map with his bitten
finger-nail and knocking one of Mulder's piles of paper askew.

"Shipping routes," said Mulder, repressing a stab of annoyance. "I've found
regular shipments from one of the drug companies that include the kind of
things we've been watching for - DNA assay gels, Polymerase Chain Reaction
Medium. They're destined for different places, but they all pass through
this one yard on their way. I think that shipments are actually being
dropped off there."

He could hear the terseness in his own voice, and felt Krycek's gaze shift
from the map to his face. He didn't meet the other man's eyes, though, just
kept his face lowered and redundantly pointed out the shipping yard he
meant.

Krycek nodded absently, then stroked Mulder's neck, sliding his hand down
the open collar of his shirt. Mulder's annoyance flared again, and he tried
to shrug the touch off, but Krycek hooked the leg of his chair with his foot
and tipped it, forcing Mulder to rise. Mulder spun around, his stomach
twisting in anger, and Krycek flinched back, then leaned forward almost
apologetically and brushed a kiss as light as air against his lips.

"You'll be late," Mulder said without returning the kiss, and Krycek, after
one long searching look, turned and strode out the door.

Mulder righted the toppled chair and dropped into it, resting his head in
his hands. He felt raw and restless and confused. The images in his head
wouldn't go away, and all of a sudden he couldn't stand being cooped up here
with his memories for one moment longer. With abrupt decisiveness he reached
for his jacket. Damn Krycek's warnings. There were things he could look into
on his own. Leaving a scrawled note on the table, he headed out the door for
the first time in over a week.

*                                     *                                  *

It was raining, a chill icy rain but rain nonetheless, starting to erode the
packed and dirty snow from the gutters. Mulder hadn't even noticed the
gradual shift in season.

The thaw did nothing to ease his mind, though. The drifting sheets of rain
caught in the corners of his vision, making him glance nervously around
every few seconds, and the dull patter and swoosh of its fall seemed
expressly designed to hide other, less innocent sounds, like the snick of a
safety being thumbed off, or the tread of pursuing feet.

In fact he blamed it on the rain at first, the faint echo that seemed to
sound behind him, like measured footfalls just subtly out of step with his
own. But when he stopped, the sound halted a little too late, and when he
picked up his pace the echo started up again with a brief stutter.

His heart beat faster and he felt for the gun at his side. Ahead of him the
street curved around and up into the overpass, heavy and grey over scrubby
crab-grass and the tracks of the old railway line. It might offer him enough
concealment...

He put on a burst of speed and ducked around the corner. A group of ragged
men huddled beneath the shelter of the overpass, and the sight gave Mulder a
sudden idea. He pulled his gun and mouthed 'Move!' at them, and they
exploded like frightened pigeons out from under the concrete ramp, running,
lurching and staggering off in all directions. In the midst of the chaos
Mulder looped back and ducked down behind one of the trucks in the alley.

And there he crouched and waited. He could see a truncated slice of the
sidewalk and the road, the lower parts of the buildings, and he wondered
just what he would see as the footsteps grew louder - the booted feet of
another hired thug? A pair of anonymous agency dress-shoes? Or - and he
shivered at the unbidden thought - maybe something infinitely stranger,
something etiolated and inhuman, something -

A pair of tasteful pearl-grey pumps stepped casually into his vision. "Not
bad, Mr. Mulder," a clear voice called out. "But you'd still be dead if that
was my intention. Don't you know that people are looking for you?"

It was the woman from the ski-lodge, and he wondered for a moment if he was
hallucinating, seeing her here in the alley-way with the umbrella that
perfectly matched her shoes and her smoothly coiled hair resisting the rain
with iron determination.

"People keep telling me that," he said shortly as he rose from his crouch,
hand still hovering cautiously over the butt of his gun. "But they haven't
found me yet."

"I found you," she said with an enigmatic smile. "And if I can, so can they.
You haven't made much progress yet either, have you?"

"Just who are you that you wanted to find me?" asked Mulder suspiciously.
She was even taller than he had remembered, and as he came closer he found
himself straightening his shoulders to try and meet her eye-to-eye.

"I could say here that you can trust me," she replied, "though I'm sure that
wouldn't reassure you at all. But there are one or two things you might want
to think about. Bill Mulder held some stock in various biotech companies
when he died, didn't he?"

Mulder nodded warily.

"You might want to check some of the recent developments in that portfolio.
And remember - there are still some people at the agency you can trust."

And with that she lit out at a surprisingly athletic pace towards a grey car
that came around the corner.

"Wait!" called out Mulder. "You can't just - "

But the car door slammed shut and she was gone.

*  *  *

His research didn't take long. A few calls and a visit to the newspaper
archive told him that his father had left him stock in a company that not
only had a contract with the Agency research division, but also with the
same supply company whose records he'd been checking that morning.

They had recently built a new research facility, on undeveloped at the other
end of the city from their current refuge. There was an interview with their
head of research, a Dr. Boddington, who mouthed platitudes about the
exciting new developments this facility would allow them to explore. Mulder
noted the address.

Then he turned his mind to the other thing she had said. Someone still at
the Agency whom he could trust...he remembered Scully's horrified face the
last time she had seen him, and quickly put the thought from his mind. It
was doubtful that she'd have the information he needed in any case. Which
left him with one other obvious possibility ...

*   *  *

The apartment block's service entrance provided only meagre shelter, and the
chill from the rain was beginning to creep into Mulder's bones. He had been
here for more than a hour, and was afraid that his camouflage of badge,
clip-board, and impatient frown wouldn't keep him inconspicuous much longer.
He was tired and cold and wet and beginning to think about leaving when
Skinner's unmistakable form appeared on the sidewalk. Adrenaline suddenly
flowing, Mulder stepped forward and raised his head, letting the lights from
the building's glassed-in lobby fall on his face. Then he stepped back
around the side of the building again.

The big man didn't react, and strode wordlessly in the front door. A few
minutes later, though, the service entrance opened and his stern face looked
out at Mulder.

"Get the hell in here!" he hissed. Mulder slipped through the door and found
himself immediately pinned to the wall, a gun barrel pressing into his ribs.

"You understand, don't you, Mulder, that I could kill you now and no one
would blink an eye? A rogue agent showing up at the home of his former
superior?"

Mulder nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the other man's. "But you're not
going to kill me, are you, Sir?" he said. "You're not going to kill me
because you know I was set up. You know as well as I do that something at
the Agency is rotten."

The brown eyes didn't soften, but the gun was removed from Mulder's side,
and after a long moment the Director stepped away, releasing him.

"This had better be good," he growled. "And keep your head down in the
elevator!"

Then he turned and strode away, and Mulder had to hurry to follow him.

**    **   **

Mulder hesitated in the doorway to Skinner's apartment, intimidated despite
himself at the room's sombre authority. The walls of book shelves made the
room dark, which the small pool of yellow lamp-light at one end of the couch
only emphasized, and the few pieces of furniture were solid and massive,
built to accommodate the size of the man who now dropped into one of the
arm-chairs, gesturing at the other peremptorily. Mulder moved into the room
and perched awkwardly on the edge of his seat, feeling dwarfed by his
surroundings. Taking the Director's silence as permission, he took a deep
breath and began as coherent an account as he could of everything that he
and Krycek knew or suspected.

Almost everything. He didn't name Krycek, careful to keep his "informant"
anonymous. He was superstitiously certain that even saying Krycek's name
would somehow reveal what had happened between them, and here before his
former superior he felt suddenly awkward and uncomfortable at the thought of
all the changes in his life.

The explanation took more than an hour. Skinner listened closely, asking
questions from time to time but otherwise letting him speak. Mulder's voice
was hoarse by the time he neared the end, and the other man was still as a
statue.

"So, it looks like there's a long-standing cadre within the Agency that's
been diverting funds from legitimate operations to a covert genetics
program, a program that initiated with an event that may have involved alien
contact. Some sort of clandestine screening process seems to be going on
through a couple of the big labs that do high-volume blood work for the
street clinics and public hospitals, and this process is connected somehow
with some complex transport and quarantine contingency plans my informant
discovered.

"It looks like they're either anticipating or possibly *planning* some kind
of bioweapon strike, though we're not sure what the connection with the
screening process is. Maybe they're looking for immunological markers that
could indicate a natural resistance. I'm not sure. But if you're willing,
Sir," Mulder finished, "There's information we need that I think you might
be able to help us access."

Skinner stayed still and silent for so long that Mulder began to fear
refusal. But at last he nodded reluctantly, looking suddenly old and tired.

"I never thought - " he said, staring sightlessly at the room around him, "I
knew something was going on, but I didn't believe that he - that the Agency
- could be involved in anything on this scale. I-"

"He?" said Mulder suspiciously, "He what? He who? What do you know about
this?"

But the Director just met his eyes, and said, "You have my word, Mulder.
I'll help you however I can on this. What do you need from me?"

Mulder fished the address of the research facility from his pocket. "For a
start, anything you can tell me about this building - floor-plans, security
measures, anything you can get me. They have a contract with the Agency, so
they must have gone through a security check."

Skinner took the piece of paper and rose from his chair, a look of sudden
determination on his face. "Done. But I'll have to go back to my office.
Will you stay here?" After a moment, Mulder nodded, and Skinner picked up
his briefcase and walked out the door.

Relieved, Mulder slumped back into his seat, only now aware of how tense he
had been. It was strangely comforting to sit here in the dimness, the smell
of books and leather upholstery and faint cologne in his nostrils, no sound
but the rain against the windows and the distant muted roar of traffic. His
lack of sleep last night was catching up with him now, and his memories were
only a faint echo. He breathed deeply, and let his eyes fall shut for a
moment.

He didn't know how long he had been sleeping when the feeling of being
watched jerked him awake. He struggled upright, automatically reaching for
his gun, but a hand caught his own and he realised that Skinner was there,
sitting on the edge of the coffee table, right in front of him. Skinner's
tie was loose, his jacket and glasses gone, and there was a determined light
in his eyes that gave Mulder a sudden glimpse of what he must have been like
as a young agent, out in the field. In one hand he held a file folder.

"I think you're on to something with this, Mulder," he said tensely. "I
called in nearly a career's worth of favours, but it just may be worth it -
this building is like no industrial research facility I've ever seen.
Intense security - motion detectors, cameras, access codes that are changed
every second day - but no staff on site - not a guard, not a watchman. It's
monitored by a remote station about a mile away. They don't seem to want
anyone to get a look at what they've got there. Are you sure you know what
you're getting into?"

Mulder laughed once, humourlessly. "No. No, I'm not sure at all. But I don't
think I have any choice." He reached for the folder in the other man's hand.

The Director didn't release it. "Mulder -" he said, his voice hesitant but
his eyes still intent, fixed on the younger man.  "I gather that Krycek is .
. . involved in this with you."

Mulder flushed deeply, but tried to keep his voice deadpan as he said, "What
gives you that impression?"

"Agent Scully. Who, since you haven't asked, has been suspended from duty
while your actions are investigated - internal security felt her integrity
had been compromised. She told me from the start that she thought you'd been
set up. She's been extremely worried about you, and she . . . mentioned
Krycek."

Shame and anger made Mulder drop his head and look away. It had been too
painful to think of Scully's reaction to finding him with Krycek, to
remember her shock and betrayal, the way she had refused to meet his eyes as
she left. So he hadn't let himself think of it at all. Think of it, or her,
or the danger she might be in. Now he stared down at his hands, feeling
guilty and defensive, afraid to look up and see her disapproval mirrored on
the Director's face.

"I don't think - " he began, but the other man's voice rumbled on, cutting
him off.

"Think about what you're doing, Mulder, and don't be foolish. The things
you've told me tonight - I've seen enough strange things going on over the
last year that I don't doubt your theories. But I have to question what
Krycek is getting out of the work you've been doing. Don't trust him. He's
involved in this right up to his pretty little neck."

That brought a new flush to his face, anger behind the heat this time, and
he raised his head and said, "Sounds like you noticed his neck. *Sir*."

The Director stared at him blankly, then actually looked embarrassed, his
eyes going blank and unreadable again. "I think you misunderstand me,
Mulder. I don't care about the ... the nature of your relationship. I just
want you to be careful. Remember Quebec? They assigned him to you for a
reason. And you're the one who's always claimed he killed your father. I'm
telling you, you can't trust him."

"Who can I trust, then?" said Mulder, not ready to be placated. "The
Agency?"

The other man looked suddenly bleak. "No one," he said, his features
suddenly heavy with weariness and something that looked like shame. "Trust
no one."

Then he quickly rose, and one warm hand seized Mulder's upper arm and pulled
him to his feet. He pushed the folder against Mulder's chest and Mulder
grabbed it awkwardly with his other hand.

"Sir?" he asked apprehensively. Skinner's hand settled on his shoulder, and
he stood so close that his breath ruffled Mulder's hair. Mulder was suddenly
viscerally aware of the sheer size and strength of the other man, the power
hidden beneath the carefully tailored suits. "Sir!?" he said again, looking
into the Director's eyes, watching them deepen and darken with unnamed
emotion. Skinner stared back at him, a vein pulsing rapidly in his forehead,
and then his lips parted and -

"Go!" he said hoarsely, and dropped his hand. Mulder staggered backwards as
though he had been released from a much greater weight. "Go now, while it's
still safe!"

**  **  **

The temperature was falling as Mulder left, the rain beginning to turn to
sleet. But even with the wind flinging icy drops against his face he found
himself hesitating, lingering in the street. Skinner's words had heightened
all his own doubts and suspicions, and he thought of the attic room that
waited for him with a claustrophobic shiver. By the time he trudged wearily
back beneath the overpass he was thoroughly chilled and exhausted, and it
was sheer instinct that made him duck into a doorway as headlights swept
towards him. The car pulled into the alley opposite, and Mulder tensed and
drew deeper into the shadows as he saw Krycek step out.

Krycek crossed the street towards the fire escape up the side of their
building. After a few moments Mulder emerged from his doorway and, without
pausing to question his decision, hurried across the street to the car. The
lock gave easily at his ministrations - not all the skills that Krycek had
taught him were carnal - and in a few moments he had concealed himself
beneath the jumble of gear in the back seat, a pile of tarps and rope and
something that looked strangely like a doctor's bag.

Krycek returned fifteen minutes later, and even without seeing him, Mulder
could feel the tension in the air around him. The engine started, but the
car sat idling for long moments before Krycek muttered an obscenity to
himself and pulled out with a lurch and a screech of tires.

Eventually Mulder cautiously moved a corner of the tarp, looking out to see
where they were going. They were headed west, and he watched the office
towers of downtown fall away until their lights were replaced by the yellow
sodium glow of the industrial park, where corrosive smells filled the air
and the factories ran on into the night with their strange, unceasing
rhythms.

Krycek pulled behind a low concrete building and slammed out of the car.
Mulder gave him a minute, then followed, dodging across the crumbling
asphalt towards the small side door that Krycek had entered.

The building was dim inside and smelt musty and unoccupied. But as Mulder
followed the faint sound of Krycek's passage up the stairs, he noticed that
a path had been worn in the dust on the floor - the building was clearly
used for *something*.

He opened the door to the third floor, then pressed himself against the wall
of the corridor as a door further down the hall opened and a bright
rectangle of light spilled out into the hallway. Krycek vanished inside and
Mulder crept forward as silently as he could.

"You're late," he heard a voice say as he caught the edge of the door and
eased it open a fraction more. To his surprise there appeared to be a fully
functioning office inside - a bank of filing cabinets along one wall and a
large desk with a computer on it. Only the deserted surroundings and the
squares of metal riveted over the windows gave any indication that there was
something out of the ordinary here.

The man behind the desk had gray hair and the quiet assurance of great power
held for many years. With a shock Mulder recognised him - it was Alan
Carter, head of Operations at the Agency and one of Skinner's long-time
adversaries.

He was handing two file-folders to Krycek. "Here you are - though I can't
imagine what you want with these. We've been over the contents several
times, and Dr. Mulder removed anything that could be of use to us long ago."

Krycek stuffed them in his jacket, shrugging, and said, "I think Mulder
might know more than he realises. This material might just do the trick of
reminding him."

Carter's thin lips compressed as he watched him. "Where is Mulder now? And
what have you told him?" he asked, and Mulder's heart lurched in his chest.

Krycek shrugged again. "I told him that Himmelman had stolen some of his
father's research regarding the possibility of extra-terrestrial life, and
that Himmelman had him killed to avoid discovery. And that the Agency was
covering it up to avoid scandal."

"And *where* is he?" asked Carter again.

"Safely contained," replied Krycek.

His answer didn't seem to satisfy Carter. "You know he's still necessary to
our plan," he said sharply. "I'm beginning to question your commitment to
our cause, Mr. Krycek. Do I need to remind you of the consequences if you
fail in this? You barely managed Bill Mulder's death successfully, and I
don't like your current attitude."

Krycek began to answer, but Mulder couldn't hear him. The blood was pounding
so loudly in his ears that he was deafened, and the empty corridors of the
building seemed to darken and coil around him as though he were in the belly
of some great dark beast. His fingers curled around the butt of his gun
almost involuntarily, and he was moving in what felt like slow motion to
fling the door open when the shrill buzz of a cell-phone sounded.

He jerked back against the wall in alarm. His fingers were still clenched
tight around the gun but he struggled for control, straining to listen to
the muffled conversation inside over the beat of his own heart.

When he looked back into the room, Carter had come out from behind his desk
and Krycek was kneeling at his feet, undoing his pants. As Mulder watched,
Krycek took the man's cock in his expert hands and mouth while Carter looked
down at the top of his head with a triumphant expression. After a little
while Carter, face red, pulled Krycek to his feet and gestured at the desk.
Krycek dropped his pants and lay half over the desk, submitting to the
casual slap on the ass Carter gave him. Then Carter pulled a tube of
something out of a desk drawer, efficiently greased his cock and, parting
Krycek's buttocks, slowly pushed into him.

As Carter entered him, Krycek looked up and Mulder froze, afraid that even
in the dimness of the corridors he would be seen somehow, his presence
sensed. Krycek's face looked much older in the harsh fluorescent light,
features pulled down in lines of sorrow and bafflement, as if he couldn't
quite understand how he had come to be here, as if this wasn't what he had
intended at all. Mulder watched, remembering the other times that he had
watched Krycek unseen, the shower, the lodge, and oh, his father's lifeless
body and -

- and the memories filled him with a helpless wave of pain and shame and
rage, a rage that made his whole body shake. Unable to watch any more, he
turned and blindly staggered towards the stairs.

*                               *                              *

The old man jerked Krycek's cock roughly and Krycek spasmed joylessly into
his hand. He felt no triumph this time, none of the contempt he usually felt
for the men who used him this way, only gratitude that it was over and a
flesh-crawling repulsion at the touch of Carter's hands.

The old man pulled out of him, wiped himself off on a large handkerchief and
zipped his cock back into his pants. It was only as Krycek was cleaning
himself up and putting his pants back on that Carter said smoothly,

"Oh, I suppose I should commend you for showing such initiative."

"What?" said Krycek, confused.

"That was Dr. Boddington on the phone, and you anticipated my wishes
precisely when you took those samples of Mulder's in to him. Of course, we
had his basic profile already, but with the results from the boy and the new
tests we've developed, he got some *very* interesting results. And we never
did get semen samples from Mulder before - I should have trusted in your
particular skills on that front." Carter smiled unpleasantly.

"I was going to - " began Krycek wildly, but Carter cut him off.

"Now that we have those results, of course, it steps up our time-table
somewhat. I think perhaps you'd best bring Mulder in from wherever you've
got him as soon as possible." The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

"Fine," said Krycek, pleased to hear that his voice didn't tremble. And
trying not to let his panic show, he turned and walked from the room.

Once outside he released the breath he hadn't even noticed he was holding,
and slammed his dead hand against the wall as hard as he could. Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck*fuck*. He was a dead man. Somehow Boddington must have
discovered that he was working behind Carter's back, and now Carter knew,
and Krycek would never know the results he had risked so much to get, would
never get them to the people who might have been able to make sense of them.
He had played right into Carter's hands. And he didn't even know what
mysterious errand Mulder had left on or where he could find him to try to
get them out of this.

He hit his other hand now, too, feeling the skin break, trying to quiet his
panic. Christ, he'd done everything wrong right from the start, he'd fucked
this up every way possible, and now they would both pay. He never should
have played Mulder this way, he should have told him the truth about his
father and the experiments - about everything - from the start.

He took a deep breath. Carter was probably summoning people to follow him
right now, but if he left immediately and planned carefully he might still
be able to elude them...

But he couldn't think clearly. He was tired, and his traitorous mind kept
refusing to plan, kept circling back to the simple thought of a shower to
wash Carter's touch off his skin, of a bed with Mulder miraculously returned
to it, of banishing the sour taste of lies and secrets from his mouth.

He climbed in the car and leaned forward to put the keys in the ignition. He
sensed rather than saw the rush of movement behind him and tried to duck,
but pain blossomed in his temple and then everything went black.

=====================================
Continued in Chapter 10.
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