Copyright:  Wednesday, March 09, 2005 10:22:52 PM       FBI HEADQUARTERS J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING WASHINGTON, D.C. SEPTEMBER 29, 1995                         FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner was exhausted.           Six hours ago, the careers and lives of his two best special agents had lain in ruins.           He still felt grim--but intense relief had revitalized him. Now he was ready to win a battle he had never sought, never wanted, never dreamed of fighting.           The bait had been set, the trap sprung. He awaited only the final closing scene--and then, thankfully, it would all be over.           His own life and career would never be the same again. But somewhat to his surprise--because overall he was a stolid, pragmatic man--he realized that this battle’s victory was worth any cost. It awaited only the villain’s arrival to complete the setting. And then...           On cue, his office door opened. A familiar, hated figure stepped silently into his office.           The craggy-faced Cigarette-Smoking Man pulled a pack of Morley cigarettes from his inner coat pocket, lit one, and inhaled a deep, leisurely lungful of smoke.           "Now," the mysterious enemy agent said, exhaling slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. "You wanted to see me?"           God, how Skinner hated those noxious cigarettes, and everything they represented! Maybe the damned black-lunged bastard thought he did have the world by its tail--but that was about to change!           He looked up from an open case file, as if only then noticing his unwelcome visitor.           Slow...maintain control...don’t let him rattle you...           His movements were deliberately casual as he rose to his feet, and rounded the corner of his desk. "I have the tape you’ve been looking for," he offered, his baritone voice steady despite the tension stiffening his shoulder blades.           Opening gambit. Let him make the next move!           The Cigarette-Smoking Man’s graying eyebrows rose in surprised disbelief. "Really!" he murmured.           That rotten sonofabitch had the nerve to sound amused!           Skinner’s jaws clenched as fierce hatred coiled in his guts. ‘Smoky,’ as Agent Mulder irreverently called their mutual enemy, was a soulless shadowy entity who pulled strings, struck without mercy, destroyed lives and careers without a shred of conscience. Humanity itself was not safe from his vile machinations. Ever since he’d become Assistant Director, Skinner had been forced to compromise his own beliefs and values numerous times just to stay alive, let alone protect his agents.           Well, now it was payback time. He felt an unholy surge of glee at the prospect.           "I’m prepared to hand it over--or destroy it--in exchange for Mulder and Scully’s safety, and for their reinstatement here," he declared.           A contemptuous smile curved his enemy’s thin, weathered lips. "What did I tell you, Mr. Skinner?" the older man mocked. "I don’t negotiate. Especially with punks like you who think they can bluff me!"           "Bluff you?" Skinner took a step closer, his voice dangerously soft.           The Cigarette-Smoking Man scornfully dismissed his adversary’s covert threat. His one-time protege, Alex Krycek, had the missing tape--damn his traitorous soul to hell! And if he ever chose to make its controversial contents public, everything the powerful Syndicate had worked for over the past several decades would be destroyed. "You haven’t got any tape," he scoffed. "You haven’t got any deal! You can’t play poker if you’re not holding any cards, Mr. Skinner."           Then his expressive voice deepened with palpable warning. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to die in a plane crash? Of botulism? Even a heart attack’s not uncommon for a man your age!" His deep-set eyes glittered in the bright overhead florescent lights. "Think I’m bluffing?"           Deliberately he blew one last acrid puff of smoke in Skinner’s round face. Then he turned to leave. Skinner was a good FBI agent--but no match for his own cunning brand of treachery.           "I’m not finished yet!"           Skinner’s sharp tone brought him to an abrupt standstill. The Cigarette-Smoking Man spun back around, eyes narrowing, as his adversary opened a nearby door and swung it wide open.           An old man with long white hair was sitting calmly in the doorway.           "Albert?" Skinner brusquely gestured for the wizened old Indian to join them.           The Cigarette-Smoking Man’s eyes widened as the aging Navajo rose from his chair, moved to Skinner’s side, and spoke to him in flowing, liquid syllables. An age-old traditional greeting, in a language few men understood.           Prickles of cold foreboding began to chase down his long spine. "What is this?" he snapped, as angry confusion broke through his facade of amused indifference.           Skinner surged forward until he was nose to nose with his enemy. "This is where you pucker up and kiss my ass!" he retorted, eyes aflame behind his dark-rimmed glasses.           Raw fury jolted through the older man. "Now listen, you..."           "No, you listen to me, you son of a bitch!" Skinner interrupted, baring his teeth in a feral snarl. "This man’s name is Albert Hosteen. You should remember that! Because if Agents Mulder and Scully so much as come down with a case of the flu, Albert is prepared to recite, chapter and verse, file for file, everything on your precious tape!"           He couldn’t be serious!           The Cigarette-Smoking Man glared at Hosteen’s round, placid face with open disdain. "That’s a nice try, Skinner," he retorted.           And yet...           He was well aware that Walter Skinner was not a bluffing man. The Assistant Director was blunt and outspoken--often to his own detriment. Was it possible that he did know something potentially damaging? Could Agent Mulder have made a duplicate tape before Krycek stole it from him?           Or had Krycek himself handed the tape over to Skinner, in revenge for that foiled attempt on his life several hours ago?           Then there was the old man to consider...why was he here, what did he know?           Skinner wasn’t through yet. He’d been waiting years for this moment--and damn, it felt good! "I’m sure you’re thinking Albert is an old man," he grated through tightly clenched jaws. "And there are plenty of ways you might kill him, too. Which is why, in the ancient oral tradition of his people, he’s told twenty other men the information on those files."           And those twenty men had told twenty other men, who in turn had told twenty other men, who in turn...           The Cigarette-Smoking Man felt something clench in his chest. He knew the Navajo traditions better than most white men ever would. If Skinner and this Hosteen person were telling the truth...           "So unless you kill every Navajo living in four states," Skinner concluded, his voice savage with unmitigated triumph, "that information is available with a simple phone call. Welcome to the wonderful world of high technology!"           "You’re bluffing!" The Cigarette-Smoking Man’s challenge was instinctive, even as his guts knotted with dread.           Skinner’s thin lips curved up in a faint knowing smile. "Am I?"           Defeat! Disaster!           Dazed, the Cigarette-Smoking Man stared at his determined opponents. A thousand bitter threats clogged in his aging throat. He longed to strike out, to take revenge on this insolent young pup who dared to defy him...           But direct violence had never been his modus operandi. He struck best from the shadows, where he could reach out and destroy with impunity, yet remain untouched by the results of his treacherous actions.           Skinner and his damned Indian tribes might have won this round. But by God, the battle was not over!           Scowling, he spun around and stalked through the doorway. The door slammed behind him, and Skinner’s office echoed with the resounding crash.           Hosteen met Skinner’s resolute gaze, and nodded. Their lives would never be the same again--but they had won a valuable breathing space.           For now, it would be enough.