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Copyright:
Thursday, March 10, 2005 12:06:48 PM
FBI HEADQUARTERS
J. EDGAR HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
10:00 P.M. - DAY 2
Despite the late hour,
FBI Assistant Director Walter Skinner was still in his office. Papers were
scattered in disorderly array across his large desk, demanding his urgent
attention. But at the moment, his attention was riveted elsewhere.
A large wooden panel was
quietly sliding open on the far left side of his office.
Only two men had ever
used that secret passage--Mulder’s hated nemesis, the treacherous
Cigarette-Smoking Man, and his turncoat protégé, Alex Krycek. But both
those men were dead now, so who...?
The elderly man facing
him had neatly-groomed white hair. Deep lines carved sharp valleys down his
long, thin face. His dark gray business suit was elegantly tailored, and a crisp
white ascot hid the loose folds in his aging neck. A large manila envelope was
clutched in his long, thin fingers.
Skinner’s hand brushed
against the security button cleverly camouflaged into his heavy mahogany desk.
The slightest pressure would bring a bevy of heavily-armed and highly-motivated
guards pouring through his door. But an indolent gesture from his unexpected
visitor made him hesitate--for now.
"You have no need of
security guards with me, Mr. Skinner," the old man assured him in a slightly
wavering British accent. "I mean no harm to you or any of your people."
Skinner’s dark eyes
widened in surprised recognition. "I know you. But you’re dead! Agent Mulder
saw you killed, four years ago!"
His aging visitor merely
smiled, and inclined his head in a faintly reproving gesture. "Appearances can
be deceiving, Mr. Skinner, if one possesses the intelligence to, how do you say
it, roll with the punch."
The younger man shot to
his feet, and angrily leaned forward. "What the hell are you doing here? And how
did you know about that passageway?"
"Please, Mr. Skinner,
manners!" the Well-Manicured Man chided. "I know many things about this office.
And about you and your agents."
Like that was any big
surprise, when he’d been in cahoots with the evil alien-allied Syndicate for
who-knew how many decades! And probably still was, despite having faked his own
death! "Then perhaps you’d care to enlighten me on your reason for this
unexpected late-night visit," Skinner retorted. "I presume you do have a real
name?"
"You may call me Alistair
Desmond Carstairs-Smythe III," the Well-Manicured Man replied, without missing a
beat. "Of the many identities I have assumed over the years, that is my
favorite."
Skinner’s mouth curled
into a mocking sneer. "And in Somerset, England, ‘Alistair Smythe’ is as common
a name as ‘John Smith’ over here."
"Precisely," the old man
conceded, bending his head in a dignified nod. "But with, shall we say, just a
touch of elegance thrown in. I do have an important image to maintain, after
all."
The Assistant Director
settled into his high-backed leather chair again, and motioned for Smythe to be
seated. The pleasantries, such as they were, had been satisfied. He’d never had
much patience for such pretenses, anyway. "Why are you here?" he demanded.
Smythe hesitated, then
leaned forward slightly. "It has come to my attention that a small charter plane
mysteriously crashed this morning, halfway between Miami and Bermuda." The lines
furrowing his high forehead deepened as he glanced at the envelope still
clutched in one hand. "My sources inform me that two of the nine passengers
aboard that plane were Special Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully."
Skinner’s jaws clenched
as he rose again. "Your sources are excellent," he gritted. "Did they also
inform you that Senator Kensington’s and Alexander Stanwick’s teenage children
were on that flight?"
"A most regrettable
incident." Smythe’s eyes became hooded, unreadable, as he steepled both index
fingers together in a thoughtful gesture. "The plane appears to have gone down
in a freak electrical storm. The Bermuda Triangle is famous for them, of course.
Pity that so few bodies are ever recovered!"
Skinner controlled an
unbearable urge to grab his elderly visitor by the lapels, and shake him until
his teeth rattled. "Their families have all been notified, of course. But I have
every faith in my agents’ abilities to survive against incredible odds," he
retorted.
For the first time,
Smythe’s lined face showed visible concern. "It would take more than a
highly-developed instinct for survival to escape from such a deadly crash," he
warned.
Skinner was rapidly
losing patience with this verbal sparring. "Obviously you knew that my
office had already received word of the charter’s destruction," he snapped, his
voice flat with anger. "What do you really want?"
Before the old man could
answer, Skinner’s office door burst open. "Walter, thank God you’re still here!
Alexander Stanwick and I just received word from the Pensacola Search and Rescue
Station that..."
Smythe spun around at the
abrupt interruption, and all the color drained from Senator Charles Kensington’s
ruddy face. Hated recognition flared in the brief instant before he lunged
across the room, fists clenched. "You had something to do with this! What
have you done with my daughter, you miserable lying sonofa..."
Skinner barely managed to
intercede, and shove Kensington back a pace. "Control yourself, Senator!" he
barked. "While you are in this office, you will conduct yourself in a manner
befitting your professional status!"
The livid politician
glared past Skinner’s shoulder at his long-time enemy. "Damn it, Walter, I can’t
believe you’re actually protecting this...this..."
Skinner’s eyes blazed
behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I am not! Smythe is here to share his
knowledge of the incident--as a friend!" And he stabbed the silently watching
Well-Manicured Man with a venomous warning glare. "Isn’t that right?"
The old man slowly rose,
and inclined his graying head in a reluctant nod. "I am sure we are all very
anxious to uncover the truth surrounding this unfortunate incident," he
murmured.
"The truth!"
Kensington’s face reddened again with apoplectic fury. "When have you ever
concerned yourself with the truth?"
Smythe’s lips curled in
cynical acceptance of the Senator’s verbal thrust. "Nevertheless," he
maintained, "you could say that I have a personal interest in determining
what happened to the passengers on that missing charter flight."
Skinner sent another
warning look over his shoulder. "Mulder and Scully have told me about you," he
grated. "You play both sides against the middle, you lie and manipulate, and
don’t hesitate to kill for your own gains. I asked you before what you really
wanted. I’m not asking again."
Smythe meticulously
straightened the folds in his white ascot, and eased back down into his chair.
"I would like to propose a collaboration," he offered. "I have access to
information which you would find--shall we say--difficult to obtain."
Kensington’s fists
remained clenched. "Such as?" He flatly ignored Skinner’s testy gesture to be
seated, preferring to stand rather than sit anywhere near his hated nemesis.
The Well-Manicured Man
appeared to consider his words carefully before replying. "No doubt you have
already dispatched a team of divers to investigate the crash site," he finally
murmured, glancing in Skinner’s direction.
Nodding, Skinner wearily
sagged back into his own chair. "The pilot’s last transmissions were accurately
plotted along their projected flight path," he conceded. "A team of specialists
was dispatched immediately when my office received the news. If there’s anything
left of the plane, they’ll recover it."
"And my daughter?"
Kensington paled. "What about her?"
Skinner stared down at
his desk, unable to meet his friend’s pain-filled eyes. "If her body is
recovered, I’ll notify you immediately," he promised.
If her body is
recovered...
It was the first time
Kensington had allowed himself to accept how grave the situation really was.
"Penny is--she’s all I have left!" he whispered, shaken. "She’s my whole life!"
Numbly he sagged into the nearest chair. "Isn’t there any possibility
that she could still be alive?"
Smythe hesitated. He’d
come prepared to gloat, to savor the triumph of this moment, when his bitter
enemy would gladly deal with the devil himself. But the pain of losing his own
son, decades ago, was still agonizingly fresh in his long memory. Somehow he
could not quite bring himself to exploit another man’s racking grief.
"The possibility exists,"
he replied.
In an instant, he had
both men’s undivided attention.
"My people intercepted
the report you received," he informed Skinner with a wry smile. "I have already
reviewed the satellite photos. An unusually heavy electrical storm appeared
literally out of nowhere, and enveloped the plane. The pilot’s last transmission
described a strange blue lightning that destroyed their instrument panels. The
plane went down--and that strange storm dissipated as quickly as it formed. This
entire atmospheric disturbance lasted less than fifteen minutes--an unusually
short time span for such a violent, destructive event."
Skinner’s eyebrows rose
in baffled surprise. "You’re suggesting that someone or something
deliberately manipulated the weather in that region? How could that be achieved,
and for what purpose?"
"Let me show you
something, Mr. Skinner." Smythe reached into the manila envelope, pulled out
several unusual high-resolution photos, and spread them across Skinner’s desk.
"These are special infrared shots which were coincidentally taken at the
approximate time your charter plane was--intercepted."
The Assistant Director
fixed his elderly visitor with a suspicious frown. Nothing involving Alistair
Desmond Carstairs-Smythe could possibly be considered coincidental. "Why?"
"These photos were taken
by a Navy oceanographic satellite," Senator Kensington exclaimed, leaning closer
for a better look. "You have no right to this classified material!"
The Well-Manicured Man
spread his hands wide in mocking amusement. "With the proper connections,
Senator, any material is accessible."
Skinner shot their clever
adversary another warning glance. "I trust that these materials will be
returned immediately, once their purpose is served," he grated.
Smythe favored him with
an icy smile. "Consider it done--as a special favor to a friend."
Then he leaned forward
and lightly touched the nearest photograph with one long finger. "These infrared
photographs tell a fascinating story to anyone with the knowledge to interpret
them properly," he commented. "In this shot, for instance, the growing
electrical storm is just a small spot in the camera’s field. Yet here, twenty
seconds later, it has more than quadrupled in size--and within a minute it
overflows the satellite camera’s entire range.
"Storms of this nature
occur frequently enough in the Bermuda Triangle to warrant special surveillance.
Strange things often happen in that part of the world."
His enigmatic glance
snapped the FBI director out of his haunted reverie. "Why did you bring us these
photos?" Skinner demanded, tapping the nearest film with an impatient finger.
"What exactly are they supposed to tell us? We already know that a freak
electrical storm blew up out of nowhere, and took down that small charter
plane!"
Smythe ignored Skinner’s
angry question, and focused his intense gaze on Kensington. "Senator, you worked
with infrared satellite telemetry when you were stationed at Pensacola Naval Air
Station," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "What do they suggest to you?"
Kensington grudgingly
lifted the semi-transparent films toward the light. Skinner watched in rapt
silence as the politician’s keen eyes slowly traced every flicker and spot that
represented a potential heat source.
Finally Kensington shook
his head in confusion. "If that plane was intercepted, as you imply,
there should be distinctive heat signatures from whatever craft made the
rendezvous," he argued. "Yet no focused heat source is apparent, except for this
arrow-shaped wedge here--the charter plane itself."
Skinner thoughtfully
rubbed his chin. "Logically these films suggest that no other airborne craft
were in the vicinity," he reasoned. "Yet you seem convinced otherwise." And he
turned to stare at their unlikely ally. "Why?"
The Well-Manicured Man
returned his intense gaze without flinching. "These photographs speak for
themselves. Perhaps you simply are not looking closely enough at the available
evidence."
Skinner gritted his teeth
at the older man’s mocking tone. Eyes narrowed, he accepted the translucent
photographs from Kensington, and examined them himself.
Two tiny oval dots on
opposite sides of one frame finally caught his attention. "These couldn’t
possibly be life rafts," he murmured, bewildered. "They’re much too far from the
crash site!"
Kensington had wearily
slumped back into his seat; now he jerked upright again. "Let me see!" he
demanded.
"It’s impossible,
Charles!" Skinner protested, shaking his head. "These dots, whatever they
are--they’re hundreds of kilometers away from the charter’s last known
location!"
"And rapidly
accelerating," Smythe confirmed, pointing at the last film in the series. "This
is a wide-angle view of the entire region. Those two tiny dots are even further
apart now, and their relative positions have changed. Instead of accelerating in
a straight line, they appear to be curving in a wide circle--against all the
laws of physics, and certainly against common sense."
Skinner leaned back in
his chair again, and linked his fingers together. The logical part of his mind
kept insisting that those two dots were totally unrelated to the tragic crash.
Yet some inner voice disagreed, forcing him to painstakingly reevaluate his own
beliefs--and hopes.
My God, he thought
with an ironic pang, am I finally becoming like Mulder, relying on
hunches when the truth is too unpalatable to face?
Yet there was no denying
that Fox Mulder’s uncanny insight had served him well on a multitude of
occasions. Even, perhaps, in his final protest against this doomed vacation?
If they’re
truly dead, I’ll carry the guilt with me forever...
His well-trained face
showed no signs of the emotional conflict raging in his mind. He alone bore the
final responsibility for sending Mulder and Scully away. Likewise, his grief
could not be shared, especially with these two men. He needed to be strong in
the face of Senator Kensington’s heart-rending anguish--and even stronger in
outfacing their wily enemy/ally.
Of anyone, Mulder himself
would have most appreciated the irony of his current situation.
I will not give up
until I see their bodies with my own eyes, he resolved. And
maybe--knowing Mulder--not even then!
Mulder’s inexplicable
hunches. Somehow it all came back to that. A bizarre knowing that
couldn’t be explained, programmed, categorized, or easily referenced. Like two
insignificant specks on a pair of translucent infrared photographs that couldn’t
possibly have any logical connection to the charter’s bizarre crash. Yet
he knew that they did!
Kensington stared in
blank surprise as Skinner straightened and squarely faced the Well-Manicured
Man. "You know, don’t you?" he demanded, his voice rough with urgency.
"We’re talking about an area where the laws of physics and common sense don’t
always apply! You know what those two dots represent!"
The tension was suddenly
palpable. But Smythe merely leaned back in his chair, the very portrait of
indolent indifference. "It could be many things," he theorized. "Two large pods
of dolphins circling their territory, perhaps."
Before Skinner could
frame a sarcastic retort, Kensington leaped to his feet. A deadly service
revolver seemed to materialize in his big hand. Without hesitation, he jammed
the barrel against the Well-Manicured Man’s unprotected chest. Skinner
instinctively jolted forward--then froze and watched the two men with cautious,
narrowed eyes.
Charles Kensington had
been elected into the Senate for many reasons; chief among them because he knew
when to pull his punches--and he knew when to call a bluff. This, in his
opinion, was a prime example.
"That’s grade-A
bullshit," he snarled, "and you know it! Now I’m only going to ask you this
once, and I expect a complete and honest answer out of you. Because if you lie
to me again, you just may not live to walk back out of this room.
"Did you or any of
your so-called ‘organization’ have anything to do with this plane crash?"
And the gun’s muzzle dropped steadily until it was aimed right at Smythe’s
vulnerable groin.
The Well-Manicured Man’s
aloof expression never flickered. "The other members of my ‘so-called
organization,’ as you charmingly label it, believe that I am dead," he replied.
"I expended considerable money and effort to stage my own apparent destruction.
Since then I have remained safely incognito, with only a few trusted men to
serve as my eyes and ears upon the world.
"The Syndicate has no
reason to endanger your daughter or Mr. Stanwick’s son at this time. And while
certain factions most assuredly want Agents Mulder and Scully dead," he conceded
with an uncharacteristic grimace, "they do not currently hold the majority vote.
Whatever happened to that plane is a mystery to all of us--one which I am
equally anxious to solve."
"Then if you have any
further information to share," Skinner interjected, "I strongly suggest that you
do so now--before Senator Kensington manages to succeed where so many others
have failed!"
Several tense moments
passed. Finally Smythe lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, and
carefully reached into the manila envelope one more time. "This frame was taken
as the plane was actually sinking," he commented, offering the last film to
Skinner. "My contact was able to enlarge a section of the original photograph by
several thousand percent. The resulting images are blurred, but may shed some
additional light on a most confusing set of circumstances."
Skinner’s eyes were
hypnotically drawn to a large grainy mass that filled over half of the
translucent film. Wordlessly he held the photo up so that Kensington could share
his view. The Senator’s revolver slowly sagged, then disappeared back into its
hidden holster without a sound.
The distinctive oval
shape of an emergency life raft was hauntingly familiar to both men. Four
smaller "hot spots" blazed in a cluster at one end, and another pair was visible
nearby, in the water. By squinting, Skinner could even make out a hazy pair of
arms reaching from the raft into the water--reaching for the two waterlogged
survivors whose chilled bodies had cast a fainter mark on the heat-sensitive
photographic negative.
"Mulder and Scully!" he
whispered, his voice husky with hope--and absolution.
"How can you be sure?"
Skinner glanced in
Kensington’s direction, but his intense gaze was focused a million miles away.
"They would have been the last ones out of the plane," he marveled. "No matter
what the crisis, they would have made sure that everyone else escaped first! It
has to be them!"
The telephone on his desk
suddenly rang. Its shrill cadence startled all three men. Skinner quickly
snatched at the receiver. "Yes?"
He listened intently for
several long moments, and his expression shifted from irritation to confusion
and then, slowly, to disbelief. "Are you absolutely sure?" he demanded.
Another long pause, while
his gaze drifted back to the blurred satellite photo, and the tension slowly
left his long body. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he finally murmured. "Yes, that’s
right. Continue your operation, and notify me immediately with the results."
Kensington and Smythe
both leaned forward as he set the receiver down. "Lieutenant Mitchell’s diving
team has found the remains of the charter plane--right where we expected it to
be," he confided in a sober voice. "As I’m sure you both know, normally the
wreckage from a water landing is spread over a wide area, because the plane
fragments upon impact.
"Against all the odds,
our missing charter split into only three parts–and it appears that the
splitting occurred several minutes after impact. No bodies have been
recovered so far--and both of the life rafts are missing. NAS Search and Rescue
has no explanation yet for this unprecedented anomaly."
Something suspiciously
like triumph gleamed in Smythe’s deep-shadowed eyes. "So they are still
alive," he whispered to himself.
"They were still
alive at ten o’clock this morning," Skinner clarified. Then he looked back at
the scattered photographs with a pensive frown. "I find it difficult to believe
that two unpowered rubber life rafts could travel hundreds of kilometers in
opposite directions so quickly. Or that both rafts’ emergency beacons failed.
"Still, if these
photographs are accurate, and those two dots do represent their last-known
locations..."
He hesitated for a long
moment, then released a deep breath. "Obviously, standard search-and-rescue
procedures will not apply in this case. Our survivors may be a thousand
kilometers away in any direction--because the forces that propelled them away
from that sinking plane have not followed the predictable laws of physics as we
know them."
Senator Kensington’s
distinguished face visibly transformed with growing hope as he stared at Skinner
and the Well-Manicured Man. "Penelope is alive," he said, his voice gaining
strength with every word. "She was alive twelve hours ago when that plane went
down, and she’s alive now–-somewhere! I don’t care if I have to personally
search every single rock and island in the entire Atlantic Ocean! I am not
going to quit until my daughter is safely home again!
"And if your two special
agents can keep her alive and healthy until then," he added, turning to Skinner
with a fierce light burning in his eyes, "they will have anything and
everything within my power to give!"
Skinner watched in silence as the revitalized politician rose and
hurried from his office, a new spring in his long strides. Then he gathered the
infrared films into a neat pile, and handed them to the Well-Manicured Man. "I
trust that you will find ways to stay in touch, should either of us receive
pertinent information which could help solve this--unusual case?"
Smythe tilted his head in a cynical nod. "Consider it done," he
replied, and silently left the office the same way he had arrived, through
Skinner’s secret passageway.
The pensive FBI agent stared blindly at his untidy desk for several
moments. Then he reached for the phone, and began dialing.
"Lieutenant Mitchell? A. D. Skinner here..."
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