*BLUE BOYS

*Blue (boys) come in every size
Some are wise and some otherwise ...
For an hour a man may change
For an hour (his) face looks strange*
RIPPLES: with apologies to Genesis for the gender modifications

 

"No matter how paranoid you are ... "

They'd had good teachers, they'd had good object lessons, they'd put in
the lab time. It would be logical to assume, Frohike thought, flexing
his wrists against the metal restraints that were holding his hands
behind his back, that when it came time for the midterm, they'd ace the
bitch.

"She doesn't seem to have the disc, sir."

One of the soldier boys gave Yves' a last, lingering grope, then backed
off. They'd all been examined as thoroughly as possible, short of a
strip search and unnatural consummation of the cavity-probe kind.
Frohike hoped they'd move the party before anything this intimate was
suggested.

He caught Byers' eyes as one of Fletcher's government goons gave him a
push. Byers made a slight gesture toward their bags.

"Hey, man. At least take our equipment with. You don't need it, and
Langly'd like to be buried next to that laptop." Frohike heard Langly's
noisy gulp across the feet that separated them.

Morris Fletcher's enormous, shit-eating smile stretched a centimeter
larger. He waved a hand at one of the soldiers. "Bring that junk along,
boys. I may not need to shoot you all now, but I'll get a kick out of
watching them drive your rustbucket van over Langly's precious laptop.
Let's get 'em out of here."

	

They crowded into the elevator, propelled by professionally rough hands.

"Face first, against the wall."

The suggestion was accompanied by another push. From the corner of his
eye Frohike could see Byers, Langly and Yves beyond in similar
positions, their noses resting against the back of the elevator.

"I'm sorry, boys." Yves' voice sounded naked, vulnerable. "I never
wanted ..."

"You never wanted?" Morris interrupted with a laugh. "Nobody ever told
you that it wasn't nice for little girls to steal things?"

"She's been told."

The nameless man who'd accompanied Fletcher into the vault was standing
behind Langly, and Frohike could just see the gloating look in his eyes
as he stared at Yves' back. Frohike was sure that the man wasn't a
government goon, but something else altogether. He carried himself with
an arrogance that seemed to indicate he might be in another branch of
the security profession. Probably a European branch. Mr. Smarm, Frohike
decided, would be a good working moniker.

"She's seen firsthand what kind of retribution can be visited on a
thief," Mr. Smarm said.

"You're all murdering bastards. Bastards." Yves said the words as if
passing sentence, revealing rage, hatred and hopelessness with the
epithet's repetition.

"Who is he, Yves?" Frohike saw her spine stiffen, her shoulders square up.

"He's nothing." The emotion was gone from her voice. She leaned her
cheek against the metal wall and closed her eyes.

Smarm laughed, a shallow, well-bred social ha-ha that made Frohike want
to grind the man's face into the elevator floor.

"We'll see who's nothing, my dear." The elevator opened. "You'll want to
search them properly. I assume you have a location suitable for
interrogations?" Smarm followed Fletcher into the hallway.

"Sure." Fletcher glanced back and winked. "I'll bet you and the boys
enjoy those full body cavity searches, eh Melvin?"

"And I can take possession of the woman ...?"

"Patience, my lad." Fletcher nodded at one of the soldiers. "Outside.
Move it."

The trip out went much faster than the trip in. The fancy set up for
facial recognition was standing wide open, like the window dressing it was.

"They don't have the disc," Yves said. "It's long gone. There's nothing
you can do to get it back."

"Nothing?" Fletcher started to laugh. "You mean I can just blow Melvin's
brains all over the pavement, and that won't get my disc back?"

"Think before you answer, Yves," Frohike said. A soldier held the outer
entry door open, and they left the building for the night air.

"It's been disposed of." Yves shrugged. "Killing them isn't going to get
it back for you."

"We aren't 100 percent sure of that yet," Fletcher smiled, "and at the
very least, it would make me so freaking happy. It beats the heck out of
me why you even care what happens to these science fair rejects. Soldier
... turn them so I can see their faces."

They were still inside the fence. Frohike could see the van down the
street, empty and dark. This was the hard part; he'd feared Jimmy had
done something stupid like track them down, and put himself in harm's
way. But it looked like he'd worried for nothing. Once again some
gorilla was pushing him around, holding him by the shoulders to face
Fletcher.

"Use stronger deodorant, buddy." Frohike managed a credible sneer. "It's
like the lady says, we don't have your disc."

"You're not going to do this out in the open, surely?" Smarm looked
beyond at the street.

"Who's going to care if these three disappear?" Fletcher paced in front
of them. He stopped when he got to Langly, and tapped his finger in the
middle of his lenses. "Doesn't that just drive you nuts when someone
touches your glasses?"

"Stop. Stop," Langly rolled his eyes, "I'll tell you whatever you want
to know. Just please don't throw me in that briar patch ..."

"Very funny." Fletcher waved at the gate. "Open it. I'm taking them
somewhere more conducive to muffled screams and gunshots."

"Your bedroom?" Frohike got in one last barb before he was wrenched into
the street with military aid.

"Good one, Melvin. Hey ... you," Fletcher pulled a gun from under his
arm, and waved at one of the soldiers. "I've got this covered. You can
take off."

"But our orders were to ..."

"Take your orders from me? Right?" Fletcher shook his head in an
exaggerated sign of affirmation. "Right, soldier?"

"Right. Sir. But there's four of them, and two of you ... and you're the
only one armed, sir."

"Not to worry. Your relief is on its way ... and here it is!"

The smile was back in full glory, Frohike thought, watching the two
cat-suited figures materialize out of the darkness behind the van.

"Fletcher. Who are they?"

Smarm didn't sound like a happy camper. But then, Frohike was willing to
bet the guy was more the safari type. He pushed against the handcuffs
again, contemplatively, wondering how anyone might find this kind of
restraint arousing. It was making him nuts; his nose itched. Maybe one
of those two MIB figures wearing the ski masks would be more
accommodating than the soldiers.

"Special forces. As you can see, they're armed. I'll be in touch when
I've got the disc back. Just give me the laptop." Fletcher took the
machine and tucked it under one arm, then waved his fingers at them.
"Go, go. None of you are going to want to witness what we have to do now."

"Yes, sir!" The soldier saluted sharply, turned on the ball of his foot
and left. The rest of the troops followed silently.

After a moment Frohike could hear, from farther down the street, the
noise of two engines turning over.

"If we cuddle, I think we can all fit in the van," Fletcher said. "If I
remember correctly, the Guinness Book of World Records has them getting
over twice this many people into a Beetle ..." He nodded at the black
figures. One of them turned and walked down the alley. The other got
into the driver's seat.

It was a tight, warm fit. Byers and Langly were pushed up against the
back wall, and he and Yves were the filling in the sandwich. A nasty
idea, Frohike thought with a small smile, watching as Smarm got in next
to the driver, and Fletcher sat down just behind them.

"Cozy." Fletcher tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Go."

"I'd like to get her somewhere safe tonight," Smarm said. "I trust your
men are efficient interrogators."

"I'll let you make up your own mind about that," Fletcher grinned,
leaned back and surveyed the interior of the van. "I can't tell you how
happy I am right now."

"Glad you are, you dick. My hands are gonna fall off, and I can't breathe."

"Don't enjoy it too much," Frohike warned, ignoring Langly's muffled
complaint.

"Whatever you say, little guy." Fletcher groped in his overcoat, and
brought out a small cylinder attached to a trigger. "Ever seen anything
like this? They took it off Catwoman."

"Of course." Smarm sniffed. "Standard issue, compressed air, probably
contains what the lab boys call knockout juice."

"Nifty." Fletcher raised his eyebrows. "I wish we had more toys like
this. How long does it last?"

"An hour, maybe two ... depending on body weight. It's a short-term
solution." Smarm frowned. "It's part of her stolen equipment. I'll
return it."

Fletcher turned the cylinder over and over, squinting at it. "Well, okay
then," he said finally. "I guess if you want it ... " He offered it,
casually, in his outstretched hand.

"Yes." Smarm took the cylinder. His eyes went huge with surprise as it
hissed against his wrist. "Fletcher? What the ..."

"Nifty."

Frohike watched the cylinder vanish back into Fletcher's overcoat. "You
ought to be an actor, Walt."

The replica of Morris Fletcher frowned and leaned toward him. "You're
still wearing cuffs, Frohike, and you're still exhibiting dangerous
behavior. I've told you not to call me Walt."

"What's going on?" Yves asked. "Frohike?"

For the first time Frohike heard fear in her voice, and it was the fear
of sudden hope.

"It's okay, Yves. That isn't Morris Fletcher ... it's Walter Freaking
Skinner, of the FBI. And the guy in the driver's seat ..." The ski mask
was coming off as he spoke. Frohike nodded, wishing he could give them
both a big thumb's up. "Agent Doggett. Buds extraordinaire. Thanks,
guys! Mulder is driving the car behind us."

"I don't think being one of your buds is in my best interest," Doggett
grumbled.

"It might grow on you," Skinner said. "I don't know anything about your
taste in videos, but I've heard that Melvin here has a collection that
would bring tears to the eyes of ..."

"I watch sports, sir." Doggett shook his head.

"So do I." Skinner laughed. "Mulder tells me that when you've been
working a little longer on the X-Files, nothing gets you over an
encounter with a slimy egg-laying alien parasite like a couple of hours
watching the nude women's basketball league."

"Cut the bull and get these cuffs off me," Langly yelled. "My right hand
has gone numb."

"I don't understand," Yves said. "I thought you needed me ..."

"Needed you to walk in and offer your butt on a platter?" Frohike shook
his head. "I'm really sorry, Yves; this has been a two-way failure to
communicate. You've known me long enough to know you can trust me. I may
have misjudged you occasionally, but I would have listened to an
explanation."

"Knowing would have placed you in danger."

He could hardly hear her voice. Frohike turned toward her; he held his
hands up and looked back over his shoulder. "Now would be a good time to
take these off, Mister Assistant Director." He could feel Skinner
releasing the cuffs as he watched Yves' face. "Sugar, we laugh at danger."

"Speak for yourself," Langly pushed past. "The cuffs ... now!"

"Yeah. He pisses himself at danger," Doggett contributed, deadpan.

"Oh bite me," Langly said, "and give me the laptop. We aren't out of
this yet."

"No. We're not." Frohike pushed up beside Skinner, reached over the seat
and began going through Smarm's pockets. "I'd say we've made a good
start, though." From the corner of his eye he saw Skinner itching at his
neck. "Don't mess up the latex, Walt. We may still need Fletcher. We
don't have Jimmy with us yet."

"He should be back at your office. Safe." Yves' hands were free, and she
was rubbing her wrists. "I hit him with the knockout atomizer and told
Kimmy to take him home."

"Clever woman." Frohike was surprised by the relief he felt. Jimmy had,
somehow, grown on him in the last few weeks. He'd felt like shit
misleading and ignoring the kid, but all things considered it would
probably end up being a valuable lesson for Jimmy. It had been for them.
Always go with your gut feeling, Frohike thought. "Let's hope Kimmy did
what you told him."

"If he didn't -- I'll find him," Yves said. "When are you going to
explain all this?"

"Soon." Frohike leafed through Smarm's wallet, finding nothing, thinking
hard. "A few precautions, a different locale, and we'll have a chat. The
disc had nothing to do with the Maheren Project, did it?"

"No." Yves moved past Langly and offered her hands. "It contains
Fletcher's records on a government sponsored alien abductee program."

"Who has it now?"

"Jimmy." Yves let Skinner take the cuffs and turned around to face him.
"I was going to give it to Mulder."

Frohike sighed. "You know what they say about good intentions."

Yves just looked at him. "I hope they're wrong," she said finally.

 

A spiky-haired cherub was sleeping on the couch; Kimmy was nowhere to be
found.

They moved through the offices like quick, silent burglars, scertaining
that Jimmy was the only body in the place. Frohike had cautioned them
before going in not to talk. Everything looked untouched, but they
lacked the time for a thorough sweep. He wanted them in and out in minutes.

Jimmy retrieval went smoothly. Mulder grabbed one end, Doggett the
other, and between them carried him up the stairs into the alley.

"Come on." Frohike saw Yves stare at the van as Byers and Langly walked
away from it, carrying Smarm in the same fashion. "We don't have time to
make sure it's completely clean." He hurried to keep up with Mulder and
Doggett. "You made sure your cars ... ?"

"Skinner made me go over them three times," Doggett complained. "I
suspect he's grooming himself for Kersh's job. He's a natural supervisor."

"Been there. Done that," The mask of Fletcher's face once again beamed
at Frohike. "Have you noticed -- Doggett is uncannily observant for a
field agent."

"I've noticed. Where's Fletcher?"

"He's in Skinner's trunk." Mulder waved the keys in the air. "I'm driving."

"How far do we have to carry this stiff?" Langly yelled. "Mulder?"

"Another block."

The cars were waiting, parked next to each other on a dark stretch of
street. While Skinner helped Byers cram Smarm into Doggett's back seat,
Frohike and Mulder slid Jimmy into Skinner's car.

"Langly -- front seat. Yves, in the back. I'm riding with Mulder,"
Frohike shouted to Byers. "After you," he said, motioning Yves into the
center, next to Jimmy. He wasn't going to risk having her try a crazy
bail on them once they got on the road. She'd been thinking furiously,
Frohike could see the signs; it scared him a little. Women who thought
that hard were apt to produce work-intensive, uncomfortable "to do"
lists, and he had enough on his own list without additions from Yves.

"When you talk to us, it's going to be the truth, and nothing but the
truth," Frohike said as he sat down next to her. "It's going to take a
combined effort to wrap this mother up clean and tidy, no sword of
Damocles left in our lives. If you aren't up for that ... too freaking
bad. Get up for it."

She didn't answer, but he heard her take a deep breath, and from the
corner of his eye Frohike saw her touch Jimmy's knee.

Frohike relaxed against the seat as Mulder fiddled with the radio and
fought with Langly over choice of a station. It had been obvious for
some time that Jimmy had a crush on Yves. This was the first indication
Frohike had seen that the feeling might be reciprocated. The idea was,
on first inspection, ludicrous. On second inspection, taking into
account that most of what Yves had shown them of herself was an invented
character, the idea was still ludicrous. But ... men and women, birds
and bees, yin and yang ... Jimmy and Yves ... Frohike tried the pair out
in his imagination, and found he could make a case either way. Mother
Nature was a stand-up comedian, after all, and those two would provide
rich material for years of routines.

"Are we there yet?" Langly was sulking because Mulder had won the battle
of the radio.

"Not long now," Mulder said, grinning at Frohike in the rear view
mirror. "He doesn't like Phil Collins? Go figure ..." He turned up the
volume, and sang along.

If singing is what you'd call Mulder's kind of Rex Harrison style,
Frohike thought with reluctant affection.

"The face that launched a thousand ships, is sinking fast ... that
happens you know ..."

His own face was itching fiercely. Frohike rubbed at the stiffened
paint. It was time for them all to come clean.

 

 

The FBI safehouse that Skinner had selected seemed to be just that. It
had an exterior alarm system that would be adequate for the short time
they needed to be there. At least, Frohike hoped that was the way it
would go down. He wanted to be back in his own bed before morning.

Mulder and Doggett stood guard as Skinner fished Fletcher out of the
trunk, threw him over his shoulder and led the parade into the house.
Yves helped Frohike get Jimmy out of the car and up the walk. It was a
struggle, the kid was heavier than he looked. Byers and Langly brought
up the rear with Smarm.

Once inside, Skinner made a beeline for stairway. "Check and secure the
perimeter, civilian," Skinner yelled over his shoulder at Mulder. "And
don't let any of them mutilate the screens."

Frohike saw Doggett nod and disappear toward the interior; Mulder
thumbed his nose and went in the opposite direction. He and Yves let
Jimmy ease to the floor and rest against the staircase.

"I really need a shower," Langly whined, two steps behind them. He had
his hands under Smarm's shoulders, and began inching up the stairs with
his back against the wall. "How come we get stuck with Mr. Deadweight?"

"Will you quit complaining?" Byers sounded irritated. He had hold of
Smarm under the knees. "I've been kneed in the chest twice."

"Why don't you both take an arm and Pooh Bear him up the stairs?"
Frohike asked, laughing at them. "He won't feel anything."

"I think you need to put them down for the night," Yves broke the
silence she'd maintained in the car. "They're cranky."

"I'm glad you're getting your spunk back," Frohike said as they rounded
the landing. "You're going to need it. My, my. Doesn't he look ...
natural. Good work, sir. Can you go get Jimmy? You did such a nice job
with Fletcher."

Skinner snorted, and headed back downstairs.

Morris Fletcher glared at them from the bed. He had been stripped down
to his boxers, and was double cuffed to the headboard. His mouth was
covered with duct tape.

"That's really gonna hurt when they pull it off, man." Langly finally
found something cheerful to say. He let go of Smarm and stepped away
from the body.

"Don't leave him in the doorway." Byers struggled to pull the man
further into the room.

Yves was right, Frohike thought. They were tired and irritable, and the
night wasn't close to over.

"Don't leave bodies in the middle of the floor." Skinner returned with
Jimmy over his shoulder. He followed his own advice and placed Jimmy
close to the wall by the door. Yves sat on the floor next to him.

Fletcher struggled as Skinner dragged Smarm to the floor near the right
side of the bed. His throat was working, making muffled noises. His eyes
looked crazy with anger.

Frohike bent over him, grabbed a corner of the duct tape and gave it a
deliberate tug, smiling at the sound of ripping adhesive and skin.

"OOOWWW! You sons of bitches!" Fletcher's eyes squeezed shut, and a tear
dribbled down from one eye.

"You'd think his skin would be thicker," Byers said, sitting on a nearby
footstool.

"You're dead. All of you." Fletcher pulled against the cuffs and tried
to kick Frohike.

"Naughty, naughty." Frohike stepped back out of range. "You have to
remember not to telegraph your moves, Morris. Something else you need to
commit to memory: Your enemy's greatest weakness is your greatest strength."

"Who said that?" Byers asked. "Machiavelli?"

"I did," Frohike said, raising an eyebrow at Fletcher.

"Well if you're done with the tour of the candy factory, why don't you
take Violet Beauregarde and the other Oompa Loompa and grab a shower,"
Skinner said, hacking up the voice modifier and pulling away the latex
mask. "God, that feels better. There's a shower in there," he pointed to
a nearby door, "and one downstairs."

"Dibs!" Frohike made it to the door of the upstairs bathroom first. He
ignored Langly's shrill complaints and the thumping on the stairs that
sounded very much like Christopher Robin had just exited. He locked the
door and began to strip.

The blue paint came off quickly, running in rivulets down his legs and
into the drain with cartoonish swirls. Frohike let the hot water beat
against his face and soaped until the water ran clear. He'd had all the
time he needed to think. He was ready for a conversation with Yves, and
more than anything he wanted to get it over with. Some of her answers
might make a difference in what they'd have to do with Smarm and Fletcher.

He dried off and dressed quickly. The vanity mirror showed he needed a
shave, and his skin might have the slightest hint of blue ... but that
could be his imagination. Frohike made a face at himself, took a deep
breath, and opened the bathroom door.

Skinner had removed Fletcher's overcoat and suit jacket, replaced
contacts with his usual wire rims, and was lounging in a recliner,
keeping watch over the bedroom. Mulder sat on the bed next to Fletcher,
and seemed to be absorbed in what Fletcher was babbling. From her spot
near Jimmy, Yves stared into space, her expression one of patient
resignation. A few feet away from her, Doggett leaned against the wall,
watching everyone. Langly and Byers were still absent.

"What's this disc Jimmy was supposed to give me?" Mulder asked. "Some
detailed file about people who've been brainwashed into thinking they
were alien abductees?"

"This is what I meant to give you, Mr. Mulder." Yves rummaged in Jimmy's
pocket. "Mr. Fletcher's job description seems to be varied, but one of
his most important tasks is disinformation. He's really quite good at it."

"My disc." Fletcher sounded outraged. "It's the only damn copy. I
file-thirteened the backups. How was I supposed to know some little
bimbo ..."

"Watch your mouth," Frohike knew it would be too easy to pop Fletcher in
his present situation, but it was still a temptation. "That's the pot
calling the kettle." He could hear Langly and Byers now, coming up the
stairs, fighting like sisters.

"You need a special solvent," Byers was saying. "I know something that
will do it."

"Yeah. Probably take my skin off in the process." Langly slumped into
the room. His face had improved, but he still looked like a blue raccoon.

"Glad you could make it," Frohike said, pointing at an unoccupied
portion of floor. "Sit down. The troops are getting restless."

"Oh man ... " Jimmy yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. "Guys? Yves?
You're okay?"

"So far, so good." Frohike smiled at him.

"Let's hear it," Skinner said, crossing his legs and sitting back. "I
want to know what there is about these three that warrants Bureau
involvement. I've got permanent tattoo marks from Kirsch's teeth in my
ass now, but I've still got a job."

"Ouch." Mulder scrunched up his face. "At least now my own lips are clean."

"Like you ever kissed up ..." Skinner leaned forward, grabbing the arms
of the chair with a force that made the frame underneath squeak in protest.

"I have no cookies and milk to offer." Yves dished out an impartial
glare around the room. "Begin the bedtime story, Frohike, before they
start wrestling."

"Okay. We'll start the tale with us belly down on the ground," Frohike
said, sitting on the bottom corner of the bed farthest from Fletcher,
"watching Mr. Morris Fletcher and his bunch of stormtroopers riding off
into the sunset. He'd dropped his clue, that expression of disbelief
bordering on fear when we mentioned the name Romeo 61. He figured it
would be enough to encourage further investigation. He was right."

"When we found Romeo 61, and the list of dates with the word
'successful' listed after each one, for a few moments we wondered -- as
Langly phrased it -- if we really had found the Holy Grail of
Conspiracies. The Lockerbie crash, the Olympics bombing, the bombing of
the Marine barracks in Lebanon, and others listed ... many of the
incidents could be traced directly to known terrorists. Three Mile
Island and the Exxon Valdez just plain made no sense at all. But we'd
had one of our buttons pushed, as Fletcher had planned. The idea that a
single group of government sanctioned terrorists was responsible for the
assassination of JFK sent our collective sense of paranoid reality right
out the window."

Mulder was sitting on the edge of the bed, hanging on his every word.
The others, except for Fletcher, who was rolling his eyes and grimacing,
seemed just as interested. Frohike nodded at Byers. "Take it."

Byers cleared his throat. "The thing is, we have a pretty good idea who
the actual trigger man was in the assassination, and it wasn't Lee
Harvey Oswald. It took us a long time to put a man to our profile, but
eventually we arrived at a 98 percent certainty that a figure who'd been
lurking around the corners of Mulder's life ... and ours, to a certain
degree ... could very well have been responsible."

"Who was it?" Jimmy asked in a hushed voice. "And why'd you get so
excited if you'd already figured it out?"

"We called him Cancer Man for years," Byers said, looking at Mulder.
"Also known as C.G.B. Spender. He's dead now, I believe."

"And if there's a God, burning in hell," Mulder said. "You think he shot
JFK, and you never told me?"

"Lots of shit been hitting the fan, dude," Langly said, polishing his
glasses on a piece of the bedspread. "The thing was, we've always hoped
for hard proof, documents, and this was a new place to start looking. If
a group like Romeo 61 did exist, Cancer Man would have been Grand Poobah
of the order."

"Back up a bit," Frohike said. "We found the nice site Fletcher made for
us, got all excited and decided to go question him about it. Jimmy was
doing some heavy foot-dragging, and when I asked if he wanted to come
along he said no, he had something to do."

Jimmy looked at Yves, shyly. "I never believed it. Not for a minute."

"I know." Yves smiled sadly. "But you thought they did."

"Hell yes." Jimmy frowned at Frohike.

"Well I give you credit for awakening the worm of doubt, Jimmy. We
calmed down after you left, and Langly wondered aloud why a group that
dished out assorted death and destruction would bother e-mailing us
about a shadow government poobah dealing in alien technology. Wouldn't
they: a - take the technology if they wanted it, or b - swat Fletcher
like the annoying stinging insect that he is." Frohike smiled at
Fletcher. "No offense, Morris."

"Then Byers made the observation that we'd had two too-good-to-be-true
leads in less than 24 hours, what were the odds of that," Langly said.
"The odds are pretty high. Frohike made us go through each of the listed
dates and run a couple of sims with all the information we could find on
each event. Turns out there's no possible way they could all be the work
of one group. Turns out a couple of the dates couldn't even be exactly
matched to an obvious event ... like the terrorist killing of the
Israeli athletes in Munich, September 5, 1972. Romeo 61 had it listed as
9-6-72."

"It was good bait, but it wouldn't stay threaded on the hook," Frohike
buffed his fingernails against his vest. "You've got an ego problem,
Morris. The earliest dated incident, the last on the list ... you just
had to slip in something to show what a clever bastard you are."

"That and the name of the 'terrorist' group," Byers said. "Langly hit on
that right away. He wanted to know what kind of terrorists would call
themselves something that sounded like a chat room Lothario."

Langly peered up over the edge of the bed and grinned at Fletcher. "I
hit the romance and sex chat rooms, claiming to be a 23-year-old blonde
pregnant with the love-child of Romeo61, a Caucasian, 6 foot male with
sandy blond hair, about 55 years old."

"I'm not that old," Fletcher protested.

"... did anyone know his real identity, and where I could find him. It
didn't take long." Langly shook his finger at Fletcher. "Lola32,
Debbi362436 and Desiree27 were very helpful. Especially Desiree." Langly
made a fanning motion with his hand. "She sounds so hot, Morris.
Remember her? Little redhead, Las Vegas, you told her your real name was
Tommy L. Jones? Imagine our surprise when we realized you were at the
DefCon in Vegas when ..."

"Langly." Frohike shook his head.

"You mentioned something about a date," Mulder prodded.

"Yeah. July 28, 1952 in Buenos Aires. Odd, we couldn't find any
significant occurrence on this day that would fit into the Romeo 61
scenario. Fortunately, we have Wonder Byers." Frohike smiled around the
room. "He's a walking encyclopedia. Try two days earlier, the death of
Eva Peron. Two days later, on the 28th, an entire country was in mourning."

"Don't cry, Argentina," Jimmy said, "Evita."

"It didn't jell at the time," Frohike nodded. "But it was an oddity, and
although there were plenty of people who might have wanted her dead,
there's absolutely no doubt that Eva's death was natural."

"So why did Fletcher include it?" Skinner asked, entering the
conversation for the first time.

"We'll come back to it." Frohike took a second to bask in the knowledge
that he was telling a good story, and his audience was appreciative of
the fact. "It was at this moment that Byers asked another crucial
question. How had Fletcher, shot up to the gills with pentothal, managed
to come around, get himself out of our alien stage-o-rama, mobilize the
death star and throw up a road block? The whole thing was as staged as
our rubber suit and vibrating probe."

"Frohike." Mulder looked startled. "You're the one who took my things?"

"Payback, Mulder. You've got half my video collection under your couch."
Frohike continued rapidly. "Our next move was to pay Fletcher a call at
his hotel. We wanted to hear what explanation he'd offer for Romeo 61,
and why he'd been brought to our attention in the first place. We'd had
a chance to evaluate what he'd told us about the Maheren Project, and it
was looking thin."

"Bogus," Langly contributed. "Science of the fictional variety. Photonic
aggregate my butt cheeks."

"The scary thing was, he knew who we were," Byers said. "He stood there
and laughed at us, insulted us, compared us to the staff of Mad Magazine
..."

"As if that wasn't an honor," Langly interrupted.

"Then he launches into this whole Maheren Project disc stolen, I'm a
dead man, can't find the woman who ripped him off -- who just happens to
look like Yves and uses an anagram for Lee Harvey Oswald as her alias --
and who Fletcher claims is a member of Romeo 61, this apolitical group
of terrorists who kill, torture and steal for profit, or to create
chaos," Frohike continued. "Fletcher's sitting there describing Ferengi
and asking us to seriously believe Yves has enlarged ear lobes."

"We stepped out in the hallway after Fletcher dropped his big clue,"
Byers said. He began walking back and forth between the foot of the bed
and the doorway, looking from Fletcher to Smarm's unconscious body on
the floor. "The whole story wasn't working for me. We'd agreed before
going in not to let Fletcher know we suspected him."

"Langly and I were on the same page with Byers," Frohike broke in. "Why
would Yves rip Fletcher off, then e-mail us? It just didn't make sense.
If she'd wanted to expose him, she could have brought the disc straight
to us, no tantalizing mention of Romeo 61 involved. Hard proof equals
hard copy in our profession. I told the guys it wouldn't hurt to play it
out, maybe try to find Yves and, once and for all, solve two mysteries
for the price and effort of one."

"We took Fletcher back to the office with us, and dropped red herrings
about her phone account. Jimmy gave us the perfect chance to play our
parts. He got all defensive, demanding to know if we'd ever seen Yves
kill anybody," Langly said. "He blurts out that we're wrong about her."

"Thank you, Jimmy." Yves had been listening with a brooding, unhappy
look in her dark eyes. It made Frohike hope Jimmy would get around to
giving her a comforting hug sooner or later. She looked like she could
use a hug and shoulder to cry on.

"It was perfect. It was the reason we decided to keep you out of the
loop, Jimmy. Your acting skills aren't as polished as ours," Frohike
said apologetically.

"I've heard stories *I* don't believe about his acting skills," Skinner
said. "*The bodies are piling up,* Jimmy?"

Jimmy had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry about that. I thought
you were a murderer, sir."

"You gave us credibility. You contributed something important," Frohike
added. "Byers nearly caved in the apartment when you stormed out."

"It was such a relief, though," Byers said. "I felt terrible deceiving
you, Jimmy."

"What apartment?" Mulder asked. "Keep the story in a straight line, guys."

"Fletcher wanted to find Yves, and he suggested we start in his hotel
lobby and try to track her car by hacking into security cameras. We were
willing to do it his way. Langly stayed ready to lose the connection at
any point along the route if it looked like we were going to be
successful in the trace."

"What's that mean?" Fletcher wriggled on the bed. "You knew where she
lived all the time? I don't believe it."

"Believe it, man. Frohike made me track her phone numbers a month ago.
One was billed to Martha Stewart, the other to Rupert Murdoch. We had a
look for any kind of rental in the area that was being billed to either
of them. We found ... something. Some place," Langly said carefully.

"Imagine our surprise when the cameras led us to an apartment at Bishop
Place." Frohike stopped when he heard Smarm groan. "You should tape that
guy, Skinner. He's coming round."

"Glad to. Keep talking, you give good story, Frohike." Skinner rolled
Smarm over with his foot and began wrapping duct tape around the man's
hands.

"If we had any doubts about Fletcher before we got to the apartment,
they evaporated once we were inside." Frohike looked at Langly's still
mostly blue face and grinned. "The dye job on Langly. Yves would never
have set that up; she'd have seamless electronic surveillance in her
place." He nodded in her direction. "You did, too. A nice job. It took
me a while to find everything."

"You broke into my ... place? When?" Yves' face had lost the sorrow. She
was getting pissed.

That was more healthy, Frohike thought. "Not until tonight. We needed to
use your stuff. And very cool stuff it is."

"Back to the apartment." Doggett growled. "Your ego seems a match for
Fletcher's, Frohike. Finish the damn story so I can get back to real
life sometime soon."

"The dye was wrong, the bra was wrong, the clothes were wrong, and the
receipt from Lucerne Financial recording the multimillion dollar payment
from Fenix Atlantic Corporation was way wrong." Frohike grinned and
began smoothing the leather on his gloves. "We'd just watched Jimmy
storm out after his big speech about dealing with a man who lies for a
living, then Langly conveniently finds this document that shouts even
louder at us that Fletcher thinks he's playing us like violins, and he's
getting his rocks off on the whole scam."

"I hate all of you," Fletcher said, turning his head to stare at the
wall. "You'll all be sorry."

"What about the bra?" Mulder asked. "Don't tease me, Frohike."

"Sorry. It was a nice bra, but it was a size 36D. I'm betting you picked
out the clothes for the setup in the apartment, Fletcher. Your eyes are
bigger than your ..." Frohike coughed, rolled his eyes and continued.
"Unless I'm getting senile, Yves wears a 34C. And none of those clothes
looked like anything I've ever seen her wear."

"You can tell her bra size by looking at her?" Jimmy didn't want to ask,
but couldn't help himself. "Yves?"

Her skin was turning rose under the smooth coffee color of her cheeks.
"34C," she said. "You're a dirty old man, Frohike."

"I prefer the term experienced, my dear." Frohike realized he was
enjoying the Fletcher torment a tad too much, but couldn't make himself
quit poking at the big weasel. "We didn't find leather, either. I'm not
sure what that says about him."

"I said you weren't smart," Jimmy's voice was contrite. "I didn't trust
you."

"You did good, kid. You trusted your gut, and stood by your conviction.
You've got nothing to apologize for, Jimmy." Frohike walked to the foot
of the bed and stared down at Fletcher's mulish face. "Did you really
think Fenix Atlantic wouldn't jump up and kick us between the eyes?"

Mulder started to laugh. "Oh my god. What a condescending asshole."

"Explain it to me in words of one to two syllables," Skinner said. "Now."

"It's an anagram," Yves said slowly. "Spell it with one extra 't', and
you've got *an X-File antic.*"

"Son of a bitch." Doggett threw his hands up. "Does everything in the
universe come back to the damn X-Files?"

"Yup." Mulder reached over and patted Fletcher's cheek. "You really
screwed yourself. Don't mess with my boys, ever again."

"Good advice," Frohike said. "We told Fletcher we needed to get our gear
together, and we'd be back for him around 8. We dropped him at his hotel
and went to work. Swiss banks aren't the easiest hack in the world, but
Langly was able to verify that the account had been opened in the name
of ... Fenix Atlantic Corporation. Not Yves Adele Harlow or Romeo 61. He
also found out that Fenix is a shell, with a fictional board of
directors who all live in Nevada."

"What a surprise," Skinner said.

"Yeah. We tried to get hold of you, Mulder, but you weren't answering."

"Another dead cell phone." Mulder shrugged. "I got your message on the
machine when I returned from meeting Jimmy."

"You met Jimmy?" Frohike looked between them.

"Short story, but later," Mulder said.

"Okay. Skinner graciously consented to break into Yves' apartment with
us, and be the test subject in the Morris Fletcher look-alike contest,"
Frohike continued.

"And *I* had to be home when you called," Doggett shook his head. "I
have to be crazy."

"I'm beginning to have my suspicions," Mulder laughed. "I must say,
you're a good man to go funky poaching with, Doggett."

Doggett's face froze in an expression of distaste. "Do me a favor,
Mulder. Never explain that term to me. Or use it again in my presence."

"So you broke into my place and figured out how to use the prosthesis
modeler? I'm impressed, boys." Yves raised her eyebrows and fixed
Frohike with a stare. "You're forcing me to do some significant
reevaluation about your character and ability."

Frohike took a bow. It had been obvious, but it was nice to hear her
admit their kung foo was the best. "The worst part of the operation was
sitting in the van outside the Fenix Atlantic warehouse, listening to
Fletcher trying to feed us the clues. They handed everything up on a
platter to Langly, on line. Then Fletcher spends ten minutes insulting
and teasing Langly about his blue face -- like we hadn't figured out by
that time exactly why that booby trap had been planted in the apartment.
Fletcher wanted to lead us, in easy stages, toward a foolproof method of
getting inside ... that he thought we would think was the result of our
own cleverness. It was painful. We had to sit there and take it, and
sell the same bull back to him. By the way, Byers ... you're getting to
be a great actor. 'Chroma-key ... that's the answer!' All big-eyed and
innocent, full of discovery. You killed me. I wanted to applaud."

"Your turn to bow Byers," Mulder said.

"It was nothing." Byers sketched a nod with his head. "I knew we could
swing the facial recognition software. But we still didn't know exactly
why Fletcher wanted us down there. We figured he was after Yves, but
there was still a possibility that he might want to rip off his own
people. We couldn't rule that out, and we couldn't pass on the chance."

"When Fletcher told us he was staying in the van ... well, chances we
were headed for the mother lode of useful information seemed to
increase. We had our backup plan in motion, and we knew Big Brother was
watching. We went in." Frohike reached down and tickled the bottom of
Fletcher's foot. "Are you getting all this, Mr. Majestic? Mr. MIB?"

"Don't *do* that, you nasty little troll." Fletcher tried to retract his
feet.

"I came up behind him just in time to see you three disappearing through
the gate, and hear Fletcher say "Three blue mice, headed toward the
cheese" into his cell phone. It was the last thing he said for a while,"
Skinner said with some satisfaction. "Agent Doggett and I stripped him
down, trussed him up, and stuffed him in the trunk of my car. We'd just
finished when Mulder drove up, and cautioned us there was a convoy
headed in our direction. I greeted them as Fletcher, and we followed you
into the warehouse."

"Then you showed up, Jimmy. Mulder and I nearly had to bounce your butt
out of there," Doggett said. "Who was the little squid with you?"

"Kimmy. But Yves did it for you." Jimmy tipped his head and smiled at
her with his best harmless puppy dog expression. "She was willing to
sacrifice herself ..."

Frohike rolled his eyes. "And see how useful *that* was."

"It worked out okay, Frohike. Give her some credit," Jimmy insisted.

"I give her credit." Frohike turned away from Fletcher and faced Yves.
"Time to belly up to the bar, Yves, and put your money down. We've
already got a pretty good idea what you are, where you came from, and
what you've been doing."

"Thanks in part to Fletcher's smug clue about Eva Peron," Byers said.
"'A man of action is one who triumphs *over* the rest. A woman of action
is one who triumphs *for* the rest.' All that money you've been ...
liberating. It's going to help women and children, orphans, poor
families ... isn't it?"

"Yves." Jimmy was glowing. "I knew it. I knew it. Why didn't you just
tell us?"

"You make it sound so easy." Yves wrapped her arms around her legs and
rested her chin on her knees. "Maybe if the story had been all mine, I
would have told you. How did you find out?"

"I took a look at your computer," Langly said. "Only a quick one," he
added as she directed a killer look his way. "Hey, you've seen ours, it
was only fair we should see yours. Anyway, you have a pretty scary
setup, so I only peeked. In and out, with a couple of bits we could
backtrace from our end."

"I guess I've done the same thing to you." Yves looked at Skinner. "You
still have the trank gun?"

"Yeah." Skinner nodded, pointing to Fletcher's overcoat.

"Would you mind?" Yves motioned toward Fletcher. "I don't believe he's
on a need to know basis."

"It would be a pleasure." Skinner found the gun and left his seat.

"Don't you dare." Fletcher began to thrash. "No ..." The hiss of the gun
left him limp and quiet, his hands flopping bonelessly over the cuffs.

"I'm guessing your father was KGB." Frohike met her eyes across the
room, and for the first time he saw the shadow of a smile.

"You are a charming and annoying man, Melvin Frohike."

"You left out brilliant." Frohike ignored the various noises that
emerged from Mulder, Langly and Skinner. "So tell us."

"They don't really want me at all," Yves said. "They want my father.
Dmitri. He never told me his full birth name. He invented the prosthesis
modeler, their compressed air weapons, and so much more. As you say,
father worked for the KGB. He also worked, at various times, for MI6,
the CIA, and others."

"Free agent?" Skinner shook his head. "I've never heard of anyone who
crossed the line that often."

"There has never been anyone like Dmitri." Yves resumed staring at an
invisible point in the air. "Until I was 12, I thought my father had
died in a rail accident shortly after my birth. Mother raised me, in
London. I never missed having a father. Mother was beautiful, talented;
she filled my life with music, literature and art. When I got old enough
to think about it, and compare my life with the few other children I
knew near my own age, I thought we must be rich, and mother eccentric
and smart enough to prefer home schooling. I didn't mind the difference.
Every day was an adventure."

"It sounds wonderful," Jimmy said softly.

"I loved her very much." Yves bit her lip. "When I got older, I also
started wondering about mother's monthly trips alone. She said she was
visiting a friend in a retirement home, and I knew she had to take a
train to get there. But she never told me the friend's name. Since we
had no family that I knew of, I used to fantasize she had a crazy
brother or sister that mother's sense of duty forced her to visit. I was
reading Bronte at the time."

"She was visiting your father?" Frohike saw her nod.

"I think so. When I was 12, she was killed in a rail accident, returning
to London. Two of mother's woman friends took care of me for the next
week. When they didn't think I could hear, they would comment on the
cruel irony of losing both parents in the same manner, years apart, and
wondering what would become of me, and who would take care of the
finances. Mother's estate was, it turned out, substantial.

"They took care of the funeral arrangements, and the night after the
funeral one of them asked me if I'd like to live with her until I was
old enough to care for myself. She was a nice woman, truly I don't think
her offer was motivated by financial considerations. I told her I'd
sleep on it."

Smarm groaned again and rolled over. Yves' eyes and jawline hardened as
she looked toward him. "When I woke up again, I wasn't in London
anymore. I was on a yacht, with a man who claimed to be my father. It
took me time to understand, and accept. The years that followed were
every bit as rich and varied as the time I had with mother, but on a far
broader scale. We went around the world, and back again. When I was old
enough to appreciate the facts, father told me about his life in the
select community of what he called special government agents. He never
used the word spy; father thought it was vulgar, and imprecise. He felt
'spy' implied a voyeuristic act, while what he and most of his peers did
was active. The men he knew didn't just tour the orchard, they raked,
weeded, pruned, and occasionally burned entire stands of trees."

"Was he still active while you were with him?" Doggett asked.

"No." Yves shook her head. "He'd removed himself from the business
before mother's death. The world was changing, he told me, and not for
the better. Men who should have known better, powerful men who told him
what to do, were putting the entire world at risk. The face on the
opposite side of the power coin was responsibility, father used to tell
me. He made a decision, packed his toys, and went into hiding. He was
fortunate to be one of a very few clever enough to pull it off. The
prosthesis modeler was a useful tool in his ability to remain low
profile. Unfortunately, others knew the modeler existed, and father had
been working on a significant piece of software for the Russians when he
evaporated."

"That's where you learned your hacking skills," Langly said. "He must
have been good. I wish I could meet your father."

"You and so many others." Yves laughed, a sound suspiciously like a sob.
"Failing that, they'd like to have his inventions and papers. I haven't
seen father for three years now. They shot him, and he nearly died. When
he was well enough to leave, he told me goodbye. He's an old man; if he
isn't dead, he's close. They should just let him go."

"That's what Smarm is after? You and the toys?" Frohike asked.

"Smarm? Him?" Yves smiled. "That's a good name for him. I didn't
recognized him as one of the many men father pointed out over the years,
but his type is obvious. Yes, he'll take as much as he can get. Me, the
equipment, any clue where my father might have gone."

"How did you hear about Fletcher in the first place?" Langly asked.
"That's been bothering me."

"Street rumor." Yves looked toward Mulder. "It was a stupid, impetuous,
non-lucrative endeavor. I suspect Smarm may have planted other such
tidbits, in the hope I would eventually go after one of them."

"What I'm still wondering is how you knew so much about her, Frohike,"
Byers said. He'd been absentmindedly stroking his beard and listening to
Yves with a frown of concentration.

"And we still don't know her real name, or what's up with the Lee Harvey
Oswald thing," Langly chimed in.

"I'm still surprised he remembered my face," Yves said, shooting a
haughty look in Frohike's direction. "Father insisted I obtain legal
American citizenship, under my birth name. He knew it was a risk, but
wanted me here clean. It was at the swearing in ceremony; I noticed a
garden gnome leering at me. I think that's when he first pegged my
brassiere size."

Frohike grinned and waggled an eyebrow. "You were wearing a white knit
turtleneck and a little black skirt. Very nice. And I remembered your
face perfectly; your legs, too. Very nice."

"What were you doing there, Frohike?" Jimmy asked. He looked slightly
resentful.

"I was with a friend who was going through the process, an ex-Cuban woman."

"Not ...?" Byers looked at him, interested.

"No." Frohike said, shortly. "I checked the register after the ceremony,
just idle curiosity."

"You are a dirty old man, Frohike." Mulder had found a pen somewhere,
and was writing on Fletcher's leg. "And her name is?"

"Eva. My name is Eva Lee Harolds." Yves laughed at their varied
expressions, a moment of real humor lifting the stress lines around her
mouth and making her look young, beautiful and carefree.

She needed more moments like this, Frohike thought, watching the joy
fade too quickly.

"Father was a fiend for word games. He never spoke about mother much,
but he told me she'd named me on her own, and he teased her later about
hitting on a near perfect anagram for a famous scapegoat. He said it had
brought him up short. The Oswald frame was one of the turning points in
his career."

"He knew it was a frame?" Byers leaned forward, excited. "What did he know?"

"He was working for the KGB when Oswald applied for Soviet citizenship.
Oswald was quite a joke among them, this foolish Americanski trying to
defect *to* the USSR. It wasn't father's department, but his curiosity
was boundless. He tagged along on one of the first interviews another
agent did with Oswald; they posed as journalists seeking information
about his grand intention.

"Dmitri said Oswald was no killer, just another lost citizen looking for
a perfect country that didn't exist. Father moved on to other things,
and probably wouldn't have thought of Oswald again except for an
overheard conversation between two agents some months later. Competition
from "the other place" was interested in Oswald."

"CIA?" Byers shook his head. "Surely there was no direct communication
with the KGB."

Yves arched her eyebrows. "Dmitri said there'd been a directive to begin
applying pressures to Oswald, to encourage him to return to America.
Normally, father said, such a directive was enforced with the finesse of
a tap-dancing elephant. Oswald's case was handled by the invisible ones."

"The invisible ones?" Skinner sounded intrigued. "Some division of the
KGB we've never heard of?"

"Not KGB. I suspect they're the Russian equivalent of Mr. Morris
Fletcher," Yves said. "Father hated them."

"You're suggesting that someone in America planned in advance to use
Oswald," Frohike said.

Yves shrugged. "Father thought so. It turned into one of his life's
obsessions, to never be used again. The time I lived with him he spent
atoning for things he'd done in his youth. There were clinics, nursing
schools, orphanages, food banks, housing projects ... in various parts
of the world, not just Russia, although Dmitri's heart bled for his
native soil. When he left, I promised to carry on for him. I have. It's
expensive."

"Whew." Doggett broke the lengthening silence. "That's all interesting,
and I think I'm glad that we saved your butts ... what are we going to
do with the bodies now?"

"I can't wait to hear your answer, Frohike." Skinner crossed his legs
and swung one foot idly. "There's no way I'm taking either of them back
to the bureau."

"Probably not a good idea," Frohike agreed. He looked toward Mulder.
"What the hell are you doing with Fletcher's leg, you pervert?"

Mulder looked up and grinned. "Anagrams. How many words can you make
from Morris Fletcher? I've already got thirteen."

"It's always up to me," Frohike grumbled. "I've got an idea, but Yves
may not like it."

"I'm sure I won't." Yves stood, a defensive reaction. "What do you have
in mind?"

Frohike grinned what he hoped was his most disarming, charming grin. "It
strikes me that we've got a perfectly good brainwasher right here.
Fletcher could enroll Smarm in one of his little Reticulan Clinics. That
should take care of his credibility, maybe his sanity."

"Don't be so sure," Mulder said. "Look at me."

"It should work," Skinner and Doggett said, together.

"How are you going to talk Fletcher into cooperating?" Langly got off
the floor and stretched. "He strikes me as the backbiting traitor type."

"Yeah. Well, that's the part Yves won't like." No use putting it off,
Frohike thought. "I need my bag from the car. And I need you to copy
that disc, Langly."

"I'll get your bag," Doggett offered. "*I* need some air. I probably
won't keep walking."

"Thanks. I'll come with." Frohike followed him down the stairs. He
stopped Doggett by the front door. "I know this is strange stuff for
you. I just want to say how much we appreciate your help."

"If you really appreciate it, think about changing your life-style,"
Doggett said, opening the door. "You may have lived a full life, but
your friends could still put in decades if they moved to the normal side
of the road."

"Hey! I could still put in decades ... at least a couple." This guy
definitely wasn't a Mulder clone, Frohike thought. Nice enough, and
potentially easy to guilt into helping out. Frohike wondered if Doggett
was more imaginative than they'd first thought.

"So what's the plan have to do with Yves?" Doggett asked casually as he
reached into the car for Frohike's bag.

"I'd better tell her first. She's really going to hate it."

 

Yves looked at the black satin negligee, at Frohike's face, then back at
the satin.

"You are out of your tiny little mind," she said calmly. "If I didn't
know better, I'd think you set the whole thing up, Fletcher, Smarm, the
rescue ... just so you could suggest this ... this ... "

"Way to save your keister?" Frohike shrugged. "If you've got a better
idea, let's hear it."

"I *like* this one," Mulder said. He'd stopped writing on Fletcher's
leg, which now looked, from a distance, as if it belonged to a tattooed
South Sea Islander.

"I wouldn't do it," Doggett said helpfully. "We could shoot both of them
in the head."

Everyone in the room swivelled in unison, staring.

"Just kidding," he said, in the same tone of voice.

"I don't think the A-Team ever stooped this low," Jimmy complained.

"Jimmy." Yves grimaced. "Do you mind taking everyone downstairs for a
bit? I would really appreciate it."

"We can't stay?" Mulder tossed his pen across the room, nearly hitting
Skinner. "All the risk, none of the reward. My life has been a series of
disappointments."

"Out." Jimmy stood by the door and gestured. "You're the luckiest man I
know, agent Mulder. Now move your ass out of here."

"Lucky? Lucky?" Mulder followed Langly and Byers out of the bedroom,
bitching his way down the stairs.

Skinner paused in the doorway, looked at Fletcher, then at the bit of
black satin Yves had grabbed from Frohike's hand. "I'd do it while he
was still unconscious," he said, grinning only slightly. "The fact he
can't remember will really get his goat."

"Frohike." Jimmy's hand was on the knob, ready to shut the door behind
him. "You be nice to her. If she isn't completely okay when she comes
out of here, I'm going to feed you bits of your favorite digital
camera," he said with perfect calm. "Comprender?"

"Si, Jimmy. She'll be fine."

It was the easiest photo shoot of his life. He took a limited number of
photos, none of them showed Yves' full face. When Frohike finally talked
her into straddling Fletcher, with the disc between her teeth, bending
over so her hair fell to one side like a swath of black satin, her mouth
nearly touching Fletcher's with the disc resting on his lower lip ...

"That's the one." Frohike looked at the image preview and laughed out
loud. "He has decent taste in lingerie."

"The top's a bit big," Yves had managed to keep the straps more or less
on her shoulders. "If you're looking at my legs ..."

"I've seen your legs. Our work here is done, you can get dressed."

"Smarm's awake," Yves said as she climbed off the bed. "He's been
listening."

"Oh well," Frohike shrugged. "With any luck, this will work out for us."

"With any luck." She paused in the bathroom door. "Remind me, when I'm
fully dressed, to kiss you again."

"Ooohh. Don't make promises, sugar." Frohike winked at her, feeling
absurdly euphoric at the thought they could return home without fear any
the night's activities might return to haunt them.

"Eva. My name is Eva." She disappeared into the bathroom.

 

They watched NASCAR races in the bedroom until Fletcher woke up. Langly
sat in one corner, working on his laptop, glancing infrequently at the
television. He'd made two duplicates of the disc, although Frohike
hadn't let anyone else know there was more than one. Fletcher's original
was safe in Mulder's pocket.

Smarm had recovered enough to be verbally threatening, so they'd let
Jimmy slap duct tape on his mouth.

Yves and Jimmy sat side by side now, with their backs against the base
of the bed, ostensibly watching television. Frohike suspected they were
enjoying a moment of simple, uncomplicated physical proximity.

"Oh shit." Fletcher groaned and yanked feebly on the cuffs. "Where am I?"

"We're on." Skinner nodded to Doggett. Frohike had wanted to make the
pitch, but he'd been overruled by the majority, who agreed that Skinner
and Doggett had higher scores on the scary dude scale.

"Mr. Fletcher." Doggett's eyes narrowed to cold slits. He sat down on
one side of Fletcher, holding his gun in one hand, caressing the barrel
with the other. "We need to talk."

"Mr. Fletcher." Skinner landed with a large bounce on Fletcher's other
side. He held a glossy print and a cigarette lighter, which he flicked
on a few inches from Fletcher's nose.

"Oww!!" Fletcher looked wildly between them. "What the hell is going on?
You can't ..."

"Oh. I think we can." Skinner held the print in front of Fletcher's
eyes. "We know you know who we are. But now *we* know who you are. Your
wife, Joanne. Your two children. Your special job. We're not the bad
guys, here."

"We'll drive you back to your hotel," Doggett said, resting his gun
against Fletcher's kneecap. "We'll give you your disc back."

"This is so lame. What do you want?" Fletcher looked beyond his
tormenters toward Frohike, and Yves standing behind him. "What do *you*
want?"

"We've got a disposal dilemma," Skinner said cheerfully. "Can you think
of a way to help out?"

 

~~~~~

 

"That went well." Frohike leaned against the wall near the front door,
and felt exhaustion crawl up his legs.

"I think so." Skinner sighed. "You owe me a big one, Frohike. Doggett
and I will take them to Fletcher's hotel. You want to make sure we leave
in one piece?"

"Yeah. I'm sending Jimmy, Yves, Langly and Byers back to the office.
Yves is going to stay there tonight, and they're going to sweep the
place -- just in case. Mulder and I will tail you to the hotel. Then you
two can tail us back to pick up his car near Fenix." Frohike felt a yawn
erupt. "Damn. I'm tired."

"And you had a shower. I've still got bits of plastic sticking to my hair."

"Mr. Skinner." Yves came down the stairs, followed closely by Jimmy.
"Thank you. If there's ever anything I can do for you ..."

"You're welcome, Eva. I hope it works out. For all our sakes," Skinner
said, smiling at her. "There is something you can do for me."

"Yes?" Yves raised an eyebrow.

"Promise you'll never let Jimmy impersonate me again."

She smiled, glowing with relief and amusement. "I promise."

"Get in the car," Frohike said. "They'll be bringing Fletcher and Smarm
out."

"Frohike." Yves bent over and kissed him full on the mouth. "Thank you."

No tongue, Frohike thought, but that little nip on the lower lip had
been interesting. He grinned at the outrage on Jimmy's face. "It was a
very platonic gesture, Jimmy."

"Yeah. Right. Almost sisterly," Skinner said with a bark of laughter.
"Let's get out of here. I just know there are more important things
going on in the real world."

"More important than a blackmail scam? You mean like life, death and birth?"

"I do." Skinner caught his quick look up the stairway as Mulder
appeared, carrying Smarm. "I'm worried about her."

"Scully? Me too." Frohike heard the uncharacteristic emotion in
Skinner's voice. "We're here if she needs us. If you need us. Anytime.
Any place. Anything."

Skinner grabbed his shoulder for a moment, then went through the front
door after Yves and Jimmy.

"Coming through." Mulder breezed past, knocking Smarm's head against the
door jamb. "Ooops."

Langly and Byers came next, escorting Morris Fletcher down the stairs.
He was walking, but wobbly, and his hands were still cuffed.

"I never want to see your face, or hear your name again, Melvin,"
Fletcher snarled as he tripped down the last stair. "That goes for the
rest of the losers you hang out with."

"Okay by me." Frohike locked the front door and pulled it shut as they
left. "No hurt feelings here, Morris."

"And I'm not sending any more stories your way. Ever." Fletcher was
still snarling as they put him into the car. "And I'm canceling my
subscriptions."

"Subscriptions?" It might be interesting to find where they were being
sent to, Frohike thought.

"All eight of them." Fletcher's head disappeared. "I hate all of you."

Frohike got into Skinner's car. Mulder was behind the driver's wheel
again. "Go to the office first," he said.


 

 
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They rolled down the driveway slowly. Frohike could see the headlights
of Doggett's car shine in the side mirror, and felt oddly comforted. If
he judged himself by the quality of people who liked him, and the
quality of the people who hated him, he was a monumental success.

"I'm good," he said to Mulder. "I mean -- really good."

"I know." Mulder laughed. "I want to grow up to be just like you. Can I
see the photos now?"

"No!" Jimmy and Yves answered from the back seat.

"Sorry, man." Frohike looked over his shoulder. Jimmy was sitting on the
hump, shielding Yves from the proximity of Smarm. He winked at Yves,
then turned his eyes forward again. "So, Mulder, have you found a job
yet ...?"

"Is that an offer?" Mulder turned on the radio and began switching
between stations. He stopped when he found an old CCR song. "I love
this. Let the midnight special ..." he crooned at the top of his lungs.

"Make him stop," Jimmy begged, from the back seat. "It's really been a
long night."

Mulder turned the sound up a notch. "Shine your ever-loving light on me ..."

Frohike reached over and turned the radio down. "So Mulder, have you had
time to miss the X-Files? Would you like to see something really scary ..."

"NO!"

Frohike was sure the vote would have been unanimous, if Smarm's mouth
had been untaped. He reached for the radio and cruised for a moment. He
stopped when he heard a familiar chorus, not because he particularly
liked the song, but because he had a sudden notion they needed to hear
the end.

"Angels never know it's time, To close the book and gracefully decline,
The song has found a tale ..."

They were right back at Genesis. Some kind of message there, Frohike
thought as they drove into the night.