Pawns And Players

// February 24, 1999 //
// FBI Headquarters, Washington DC //

"I'm going to pack up my office."

The words sliced through the familiar pattern of charges and countercharges, bringing the meeting to a sudden and abrupt halt. With hardwon dignity, Jeffrey Spender rose to his feet and left the office, ignoring Kersh's angry demands for him to stop. The furious AD turned on Agent Mulder, demanding answers.

"Who burned those people?"

"They burned themselves," came the cryptic reply. "With a choice made long ago by a conspiracy of men, who thought they could sleep with the enemy only to awaken another enemy."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means the future is here all bets are off," Mulder replied soberly, leaving Kersh no wiser than before. Balked, the Assistant Director tried Mulder's partner.

"Agent Scully, make some sense."

Agent Scully was even less informative. "Sir, I wouldn't bet against him."

An awkward silence settled over the room, finally broken by Kersh.

"Well." The AD once again lifted Spender's terse letter of resignation, studying the twosentence document as though it could somehow provide a better explanation of events than anyone had yet given. Eventually he forced himself to face the other occupants of the room. Mulder, Scully and Skinner were all watching him expectantly. He sighed, letting the letter fall back onto his desk.

"In light of what we have just heard and in view of the affidavit Agent Spender provided earlier today, withdrawing the charges he had made against you and pronouncing himself fatally compromised by virtue of an alliance with an extragovernmental agency, I am referring this matter back to OPR for a full investigation. You remain on administrative leave, Agents, pending said inquiry, but in light of Agent Spender's statement, I would anticipate your reassignment shortly." His eyes bored into Mulder, daring him to gloat.

But Mulder's thoughts were still on Jeffrey Spender's bombshell, as he replayed the young agent's remarks over and over in his mind, searching for nuances, hidden meanings, hints of truths previously unrevealed.

"Are we finished here, sir?" Mulder asked, belatedly realizing that he was expected to respond.

"For the present. But hold yourselves available, Agents. I imagine that OPR will want to speak with you again in the very near future." Kersh leveled another glare in the direction of his least favorite agent, but once again, Mulder failed to notice.

"Yes, sir." Mulder excused himself and left Kersh's office at a brisk clip, Scully in his wake. AD Skinner remained behind, apparently feeling the need to continue the dialogue with Kersh.

"Mulder?" Scully had to race to catch up. "Where are you off to?"

"I want to have a word with Agent Spender before he leaves. I'd like to find out just how much he knows; what caused his change of heart. He was in the thick of it, Scully; just think: he may know details about his father and the Consortium and the aliens that could be of incredible value in breaking this conspiracy wide open."

"Mulder, there isn't a conspiracy any longer. They're all dead."

"Not all of them, Scully," Mulder observed, reminding her of the one individual whose corpse was notably absent from the massacre site. "And the aliens are still out there."

Scully looked at him. She didn't quite roll her eyes, but then, she didn't have to. "I don't recall Agent Spender mentioning any aliens in his affidavit."

Mulder shook his head. "Of course not. Spender knows how to play the game. He knew it would be a waste of time and would only make him look foolish to the pencilpushers at OPR. Those timeserving bureaucrats aren't ready to hear the truth."

"Or perhaps there aren't any aliens," Scully countered. "Or maybe Jeffrey Spender simply doesn't know very much. Even assuming for the moment that there is extraterrestrial involvement here -- and you know I won't accept that, Mulder, not without a lot more hard evidence than we've seen to date -- you still don't know how much Agent Spender's father may actually have told him. Probably very little, judging from the way the man safeguards his secrets. I don't think Jeffrey Spender is going to be able to help us very much, even assuming he is now inclined to do so."

"I won't accept that, Scully," Mulder continued stubbornly. "Not until I hear it from his own mouth."

They swept down the corridor leading to the basement office that had been their "home" for almost five years. The office door was closed. Mulder hesitated momentarily, then knocked, resisting the impulse to sail right in. The office was still technically Agent Spender's, at least for the moment. Mulder wasn't likely to gain his cooperation by reasserting possession before the young man had even finished packing his things.

There was no response, so he tried the door handle. Locked.

An uneasy feeling prickled at the pit of his stomach. He knocked again, more urgently this time.

"Agent Spender?" Still no response. He and Scully exchanged glances. "He said he was coming down here ..."

They both heard the low moan from inside the room. His fears crystallized, Mulder kicked the door open and dove inside, gun at the ready. Scully flanked him, ready to provide covering fire if necessary.

But it was obvious that it was all over except the dying. An unconscious Jeffrey Spender lay sprawled across his desk, blood pooling beneath him from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. The desk phone receiver, smeared with blood, sat beside his lax fingers. There was no sign of his assailant.

In an instant, Scully had holstered her weapon and moved to put pressure on the wound. Mulder was on his cell phone, calling for assistance. The desk phone was useless, the line cut, as Agent Spender had probably discovered before losing consciousness.

"He's still alive," Scully reported after a cursory examination. "But it's a nasty wound. Considering the locked door and cut phone line, I would guess that whoever did this meant for him to die slowly and painfully. From what Kersh told us, Agent Fowley is still in the field, heading up the investigation into the massacre at El Rico Air Base, and nobody else was likely to intrude with the door closed and locked. This is very definitely a slow kill shot, and the shooter made no attempt to finish him off." She and Mulder exchanged a grim, knowing look.

"The paramedics are on their way," Mulder reported. "I've notified Skinner, and he's on the way down. Kersh is organizing a building lockdown, to try and intercept the shooter. I wish them better luck catching assassins than they've had with arsonists," he added contemptuously, confident that the search would prove fruitless. "Skinner is arranging a 24-hour guard for Agent Spender at the hospital."

"Help me, Mulder," Scully ordered. "He's going into shock. I hate to disturb the crime scene, but we have to get his head down and his feet elevated." As gently as possible, the two agents moved the injured Spender from his chair to the floor. Mulder grabbed the nearest stack of casefiles to prop up his legs, while Scully removed her jacket and wrapped it around the wounded agent. Mulder followed suit without being asked; then grabbed Spender's coat from the coat rack and added that to the pile as they tried to keep the man warm.

"Hopefully Agent Spender will be able to identify the person who shot him," Scully remarked, keeping pressure on the wound with one hand, monitoring his pulse with the other. As the unconscious man groaned reflexively, she winced in sympathy, wondering how soon help would arrive. "I still can't believe that someone would carry out so brazen an attack, right here in the headquarters of the FBI."

"They were brazen enough to torch the place last year. Why stop at arson?" Mulder replied. "They were conveying a message, Scully. And a warning."

"A warning isn't much good if you're dead," Scully pointed out.

"I don't think the warning was meant for Agent Spender," Mulder said tightly. He looked up at the rising commotion coming from the hallway. By now, word of the shooting had obviously spread throughout the building, and dozens of angry, apprehensive, or simply curious agents were converging on the basement. "Just what we don't need," he growled, wondering how they would fend off the rubberneckers. He gave a heartfelt sigh of relief at the sight of a familiar bald pate.

"That's enough, people. Unless you're assigned to the forensics investigation, you don't belong here, and you're in the way. Everyone get back to work. *Now*, agents." AD Skinner pushed his way through the crowd, barking orders on the way. He paused at the doorway long enough to assign someone to keep everyone else out of the room and to keep the corridor clear before joining Mulder, Scully and the unconscious Spender.

"Thank you, sir," Scully said gratefully. "It was beginning to sound like a carnival out there."

"Sorry I was delayed. I had to brief the top floor before I came down," Skinner apologized. He knelt beside the injured agent, watching his labored breathing for several moments. "How "

His cell phone chimed and he interrupted himself to answer it.

"Paramedics are in the building," he murmured as he replaced the phone. "They'll be here in a minute or two."

"About time," Mulder grumbled, wiping the sweat from his forehead. It had only been a few minutes since they had found Spender, but he felt as though he had spent hours standing there watching the waxen, shallowly breathing body.

"How is he?" Skinner quietly asked Scully.

"Holding his own, for the moment. Pulse and respiration are weak but relatively stable, which suggests that the internal injuries aren't immediately lifethreatening. Right now, the main danger is blood loss, though I think we got to him in time. He couldn't have been shot more than a few minutes before we arrived. Of course, it's impossible to tell what internal damage has been done: we all know that bullets are unpredictable in their behavior once they enter the human body. But I'd say he has a good chance."

"You saw no one?" This was directed to both of them.

Mulder shook his head. "Not a soul. But I'm sure Agent Spender can identify his attacker. If he survives. The shot came from point blank range: there are powder burns on his clothing. And there aren't a lot of hiding places in this office." He paused. "Of course, that's assuming they don't get to him again before we have a chance to question him."

"They won't." Skinner spoke with absolute assurance. He and Mulder quickly moved out of the way as the paramedics came hurtling into the office with their stretcher. Scully lingered at Spender's side to fill in the new arrivals on what limited medical information she could provide. The decibel level in the room instantly doubled as Scully relayed her status information and the paramedics called instructions back and forth as they set to work.

"I hope you're right, sir," Mulder replied, continuing their conversation as he and Skinner watched the organized chaos all around them. "Because when they learn he has survived, they will try again. You know these men. You know they'll stop at nothing in the pursuit of their goals."

"He's right, sir," Scully agreed, rejoining them after finishing with the paramedics. "Agent Spender is still in great danger."

"Then we'll just have to find a way to stop them," Skinner said calmly. "The two of you are still on administrative leave; there's no reason you and Agent Scully can't accompany Agent Spender to the hospital. They're taking him to George Washington University Medical Center. Follow the ambulance and make sure there are no unscheduled stops along the way. Stay with him there, and I'll meet you there as soon as I can."

"Where will you be, sir?" Scully asked.

"I have to file a preliminary report on the shooting. Agent Spender is still technically assigned to my department until his resignation takes effect. And I have to sign the paperwork authorizing aroundtheclock protection. Also, I want to go over the duty roster personally to handpick the agents for that particular assignment."

He lowered his voice. Scully and Mulder moved closer to be able to hear him through the cacaphony of noise surrounding them. "I want the two of you to stay with Agent Spender as much as possible. Since, for the moment, you're both still officially on leave, it will have to be done unofficially." As he spoke, one eye was on the paramedics, who had quickly managed to stabilize their patient and were already preparing him for transport. "Better go now, if you're going to keep up with them."

"I'll get my car," Mulder offered. "I'll meet you at the front entrance in five, Scully." He left the room at a trot, almost running down Kersh, who had finally joined the party. The Assistant Director hastily stepped out of his way and glared at Skinner, who matched his glare, daring him to comment. Before either man could say anything, though, the paramedics intervened, clearing the way for their patient. Once again, Kersh had to quickly move aside to avoid being trampled.

The paramedics hustled the injured Spender out the door. Scully and Skinner hurriedly followed, leaving Kersh to take up the rear. Behind them, the forensics team was already pouring into the office.

"Keep him alive, Scully," Skinner said softly, as they parted company near the elevators.

"Count on it, sir," she replied.

Everything was taking too long, as usual. Skinner dictated the preliminary report to his secretary; signed the 24/7 protection authorization form that Kim had prepared while he was still down in the basement; and pored over the duty roster, carefully selecting the agents he considered most competent, experienced, and above all honest for the duty of guarding Jeffrey Spender. He hastily scribbled down his final selections and handed the assignment schedule to Kim so it could be typed up and the agents notified of their new responsibilities. By the time he had finished, and had signed the preliminary report, close to an hour had passed since the shooting. Skinner was just packing up a few things to take with him to the hospital when his private phone rang.

Wondering who might be calling and impatient at being further delayed, he momentarily debated ignoring it; but his finely tuned sense of responsibility prevailed. "Skinner." He didn't try to hide the annoyance in his voice, wanting the call dealt with as quickly as possible. He continued to stuff papers into his briefcase as he spoke.

"It's me." Brief pause. "No names. Can you talk? Is the line secure?"

Skinner felt his stomach lurch as he recognized the voice. No name was necessary. That voice was embedded in his nightmares for eternity. Paper and briefcase slipped unnoticed from his hands.

"I'm alone and the line is secure. What do you want?" Skinner spat out the words. He hated this man with an intensity that almost frightened him. Hated the fact that he was powerless to do anything against him. Hated the knowledge that this amoral monster could pull his strings at will. The fact that he hadn't as yet chosen to use his power was no reassurance. Skinner knew the bastard was just playing with him; letting him grow accustomed to his helplessness. A rat playing with his cheese.

"Can the macho-man routine, Skinner. We don't have time for it." The man sounded every bit as impatient as Skinner felt. "I've got reason to believe that some of your agents might be in danger."

"Your warning comes a little late," Skinner said bitterly.

Dead silence for a moment. "Tell me!" his tormenter ordered. To Skinner's surprise, his antagonist sounded alarmed and angry.

"Someone attacked Agent Jeffrey Spender in his office at the FBI--."

"Spender?" came the incredulous response, interrupting his report.

"Yeah. Jeffrey Spender. You know him?" There was no answer, but curiously enough, it had sounded like the slimy bastard knew the agent. The surprise had come not from unfamiliarity with the target, but from surprise at the choice of target, he would bet the farm on that.

Ruthlessly, Skinner shelved his questions for a more convenient time. He was not going to be distracted now. Not that he would have gotten an answer anyway.

"Agent Spender was shot at point blank range in his own office," Skinner continued. "Miraculously, he survived. For now. Any idea who might have been responsible?"

Another pause. "I think we both know the answer to that. Don't jerk me around, Skinner. I'm not in the mood." There was a trill of danger in the voice, and Skinner swallowed hard. He considered himself a brave man, but when your own body could betray you at any moment, on the whim of a madman...

Okay, not a madman. A ruthless, amoral sociopath with a score to settle. A madman would have been preferable.

"I'm not jerking you around," Skinner forced himself to sound placating, hating himself for the effort. "Agent Spender hasn't regained consciousness, and nobody else saw the shooter. Sure, I can make an educated guess, but unless you can supply proof of the shooter's identity, or Agent Spender identifies his assailant, we don't *know* anything."

A snort. "Yeah. Sorry to fly off; I was forgetting that wonderful FBI mindset. Anyway, you should know that Agent Spender may not be the only one in danger. It's possible that Agent Mulder could be a target as well. Possibly even Agent Scully."

Skinner swore. "You're sure about that?" Unasked was the even larger question. <<And why are you telling me?>>

"Damnit, Skinner, I'm not sure about anything. But we're talking about a wounded predator on the loose, and it's best not to take chances. Understood?"

The words struck almost like a blow. "Understood. I'll convey your message. Thanks for the warning." He was surprised to realize he genuinely meant that. Whatever the bastard's motives were, Skinner wanted to know about any possible threat to his agents.

"I'm on my way to D.C. My record is squared away?"

Skinner sighed. "I told you the last time you asked. That was taken care of long before..." He couldn't finish the sentence, and the other man chuckled darkly.

"Yeah. The Englishman was a bastard and a hypocrite, but at least he kept his word. Unlike some others we both know."

"So? Will I see you this trip?" Skinner forced himself to ask. It was always better to be prepared for bad news.

"I don't know yet. Let's keep that a definite maybe. Try not to shoot me if I do turn up." The man now sounded positively gleeful. Was he relieved that his warning had come in time? Pleased that Spender had been the target, not Mulder? Or just enjoying the thrill of pushing his former boss around? Skinner mentally shook himself. Trying to psychoanalyze Alex Krycek was an exercise in futility. Even Fox Mulder hadn't been able to do it, and Mulder was the best profiler the FBI had had in decades.

"I'll keep that in mind," Skinner said drily. Polite of the reptile to phrase it as a joke instead of a threat. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for now. Just pass along my warning to Mulder and Scully. It wouldn't be a bad idea to put guards on them too. You *do* have guards posted on Jeffrey Spender?"

"They're at the hospital guarding Spender," Skinner admitted. "I've got other agents assigned to the case. They can protect all three of them."

"Is Agent Fowley one of them?"

The question stopped Skinner cold. He hadn't assigned Agent Fowley to the guard detail because she was still busy heading up the investigation into the events at El Rico. He'd called her, of course, to inform her about her partner's shooting. She'd expressed her concern for her partner and her regrets that the continuing investigation at El Rico made it impossible for her to come to the hospital at present. Skinner had assured her that she was welcome to check on her partner at any time. Why Krycek's sudden interest in Agent Spender's partner on the X-Files?

"Agent Fowley is currently on field assignment," he hedged.

"Keep it that way."

"Why?" Skinner demanded.

"Let's just say she has divided loyalties," wascame the annoyingly cryptic response.

"Are you saying she was involved in what happened to Agent Spender?" Skinner did not want to believe that. Especially since, given the source of the information, he could hardly act upon it.

"You heard what I said. If you want to keep your agents alive, keep her away from this case."

"I would imagine that Agent Fowley's duties will keep her occupied elsewhere for the foreseeable future," Skinner observed. Not that he entirely believed Krycek, but he wasn't sure he disbelieved him either.

"Good." The line went dead, and Skinner was left to stare at it. Finally, he replaced the receiver and slowly started to collect the papers he'd dropped earlier, placing them in his briefcase.

<<What the hell was *that* about?>>

Mulder showed his identification to the agents posted outside the hospital room, then quietly stepped through the door. Scully looked up at him from her chair beside the bed and put down the medical journal she had been reading. She rubbed at her eyes and offered up a weary smile of welcome.

"How is he?" Mulder asked softly. He was carrying a briefcase and a small paper bag, both of which he set on the table by the far wall. "Any change?"

Scully shook her head. "Same as before. Every couple of hours, he seems to wake up for a minute or two, mutters something incomprehensible, and then slips back to sleep. He could wake up any time now, but he started to run a mild fever about three hours ago, and that could delay things. Also, Mulder, don't expect too much at first. Even when he does wake up, remember that he's still getting a heavy dose of painkillers and antibiotics, and that's going to keep him pretty groggy."

Mulder checked his watch. "Seven hours." Seven hours since Spender's condition had been upgraded to serious but stable and he had been moved out of the ICU and into protective custody. Almost 14 hours since the shooting itself. "Have the doctors issued a prognosis yet?"

Scully nodded. "They expect him to make a full recovery. He's a very lucky man."

The surgeons had performed their magic, though miracles had fortunately proved unnecessary. Jeffrey Spender was a young man in excellent physical condition prior to the shooting, and the bullet had largely stayed intact and taken a relatively benign path of destruction. The internal damage hadn't been that bad, all things considered -- a perforation of the small intestine, a broken rib, and a ruptured spleen. A few hours in surgery; a few hours of observation in the recovery room and the ICU, and a move into secure quarters at the first moment the doctors would allow it.

Security was tight. Skinner was taking no chances. From the moment it became clear that Spender was likely to survive, the AD had erected a wall of secrecy around the shooting and its victim, forbidding the disclosure of any details except on a need-to-know basis. He and his agents performed instant background checks and scrutinized IDs on each member of the surgical staff before they were allowed into the operating room; and under resentful eyes, a gown-clad Mulder and Scully watched over Jeffrey Spender through every step of the operation.

In addition, from the moment Jeffrey Spender left the operating room, either Mulder, Scully or Skinner himself had been at his side, together with an FBI security team. Skinner had used the FBI's clout to clear the seventh floor of all other patients, making it a secure ward with only one entrance, plus the alarmed emergency exit. Guards were posted at the entrance and outside Spender's room. Not that Skinner deluded himself that he could keep Jeffrey's father and his friends at bay indefinitely, but he would throw as many obstacles in their way as possible.

In regard to the elusive CGB Spender, protocol required that, as Jeffrey's closest relative, he be notified as soon as possible of his son's shooting, hospital location and present condition. Skinner had remarked to Mulder and Scully after his arrival at the hospital that he had no current means of contacting Jeffrey's father. His relief had seemed almost palpable.

"Why don't you go home, get some rest?" Mulder glanced over at the youthful agent who had been his rival and antagonist. "I'll keep an eye on things."

"I could use a break," Scully admitted, forcing back a yawn. Both Skinner and Mulder had gone home for a few hours, but she had remained at the hospital ever since Spender had been admitted. And cat-napping in the vinyl-backed hospital chairs was a poor substitute for sleep. "When is Skinner coming back?"

The AD had initially arrived about seventy-five minutes after Mulder and Scully, with Spender still in the operating room. He'd taken some time to personally brief his hand-selected team of agents. After the surgery, he'd passed along a warning to Mulder and Scully "from an anonymous source" that they too were possible targets of a Consortium vendetta. Then he'd stayed with Spender in the recovery room and ICU until the young man was well enough to be moved into a private room and protective custody. Once the room change had been successfully accomplished, he'd gone back to the FBI offices.

"Probably not until early tomorrow morning, if then. He was still in the office when I spoke to him. He's been asked to attend a meeting tomorrow morning with OPR to discuss Spender's affidavit and the shooting, and he wanted to prepare. I told him to go home when he finished, and get some rest. He won't do himself or us any good in that meeting if he's asleep on his feet."

"Maybe I should stay here with you?" This time, the yawn escaped despite Scully's best efforts at suppression.

Mulder shook his head. "No. I can hold the fort for awhile. If he has time, Skinner'll come in before the meeting to spell me for a while. Go on, Scully. I'll be fine." He held up his paper bag. "I've got pork lo mein and orange beef, and enough magazines to keep me busy for hours. And my laptop." He patted his briefcase.

"Sounds like you've got all the comforts of home." Scully didn't even try to disguise the next yawn. "I'm going. Oh -- if Spender does wake up enough to actually recognize his surroundings, make sure you inform the duty nurse, so she can let the doctors know. The nurses' station is extension 4633."

"4633. Got it." Mulder made a mental note of the number. "Good night, Scully."

"Watch your back," she warned. "You know what these people are capable of --"

"Yeah. I'll be careful."

Mulder waited until the door closed and the footsteps receded before walking slowly over to the bed. He looked somberly at the injured man, face a ghastly shade of pale, strapped down for his own protection, tubes running in and out of him in all directions. "Get well soon, Agent Spender," he murmured, sinking into the chair Scully had recently vacated. "There's so much I still need to know."

After an eight hour absence, Scully returned to the hospital, fortified by almost six hours sleep, some peach yogurt, and two granola bars. Mulder was dozing in the chair when she arrived, but roused instantly at the sound of approaching footsteps. He made an abortive lunge for the gun lying on his lap, sending it flying to the floor; then, recognizing Scully, he gave her a sheepish grin and knelt to retrieve his weapon. She sighed minutely.

"Morning," he greeted her.

"Any change?" She walked over to the bed and pressed the back of her hand to Jeffrey's forehead. It was warm to the touch, indicating that the slight fever had persisted, but that was neither unusual or dangerous under the circumstances. She scanned his medical chart; everything appeared to be in order.

"Not really. He seemed to wake up a couple of times, but he was really out of it. I tried to question him, but I don't think he recognized me, much less understood what I was saying. They've still got him on the IV drip for the antibiotics, though I think the doctor ordered the dosage of painkillers cut last time he was here. But I don't think we're going to get any answers from him until the fever breaks."

<<If then.>> "Let me see." Scully took a closer look at the readings, which confirmed Mulder's suspicions. "You're right. He's still getting heavy antibiotics to combat the fever, but the Demerol has been cut in half." Scully frowned. "The fever isn't really that severe. I would have expected him to wake up before this."

"Maybe he doesn't want to wake up," Mulder suggested.

"What are you saying, Mulder?"

"Look, Scully, if we're right about what happened down in that office, it must have been pretty traumatic for him."

Scully raised an eyebrow over narrowed eyes. "You're suggesting that he's somehow staying unconscious on purpose?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's a possibility. Psychology journals are filled with cases of people remaining unconscious or even catatonic until they felt mentally strong enough to face up to some traumatic event in their lives."

"Assuming the problem is psychological, and not some medical complication that has yet to be discovered," Scully rejoined, unconvinced. She studied the chart again, but had to concede that there was nothing there to explain Spender's failure to regain consciousness. "I guess all we can do is wait." She looked around. The room seemed very much as she'd left it, except for the empty Chinese food tins in the wastebasket. "Any problems? Uninvited guests?"

Mulder shook his head. "Quiet as the proverbial grave. That's got me a little frightened, Scully, to be honest. They have to know by now that they failed; that Agent Spender is still alive."

"Maybe they've given up," Scully offered. There was no need to qualify the statement; both agents knew precisely what *they* they were talking about.

"More likely they're planning something. We just have to be ready for them."

"Have you heard from Skinner? Any word on today's meeting? Did he shed any light on why his informant feels you and I could also be targets?"

Mulder nodded. "He stopped by briefly on his way to the office; kept an eye on things while I took a short nap. He left about two hours ago. OPR wants clarification of several points in his preliminary report on the Spender shooting. It seems they're far more disturbed by the fact that the shooting occurred in the Hoover Building than by the possible reasons for the shooting. And no, nothing specific about the threat, except that he considered the source to be credible, and we should stay alert."

As if on cue, his cell phone rang. Mulder answered it hastily with a quick, guilty glance toward Spender, but it didn't appear that the patient had been disturbed by the noise. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, you and Agent Scully have been asked to appear before the OPR panel at 1 p.m. this afternoon." It was Skinner, his voice terse.

"One p.m.?" Mulder checked his watch. Less than three hours. "Sir, we can't leave Agent Spender unprotected." Scully moved closer, her expression asking what was going on. Mulder held the receiver away from his ear and turned up the volume so they both could hear the conversation.

"This is not a request, Agent Mulder," Skinner said coldly. "The OPR panel is presently disposed to be sympathetic to your request for reinstatement, given all that has happened, and in particular Agent Spender's affidavit. But it would take very little to turn them against you once again. A failure to acknowledge their summons would certainly fall into that category."

"But, sir," Scully interjected, "surely you've explained the situation to them? Agent Spender's testimony is the key to the entire proceeding. If we leave him here, unprotected, his life could be in danger."

"I have discussed the matter with the panel." This time, both Agents could hear the weariness and frustration underlying the matter-of-fact words. "I'm sorry to say that the panel was singularly unimpressed. They noted that Agent Spender is hardly unprotected. There are two agents guarding the corridors, and another two assigned to his door. If anything, OPR feels I am being ridiculously profligate with the FBI's valuable resources and manpower."

Mulder snorted at that.

"OPR is quite confident that the agents who will remain to guard Agent Spender in your absence are more than capable of providing adequate protection. You will both be here, in Room 256, at 1:00 p.m. sharp, or face the consequences. If you have any desire to remain in the FBI, I suggest that you both make it no later than 12:55." The phone clicked.

"Damn." Mulder glared at his cell phone as though it was responsible for this calamity.

"We have to go, Mulder," Scully observed. "I don't like it any better than you do, but we have no choice."

"Don't you realize this could be a setup, Scully?" Mulder argued. "This could be just the opportunity they are waiting for to get to Agent Spender."

"I don't like OPR any more than you do, Mulder, but I hardly think they would be party to a conspiracy to assassinate Agent Spender," Scully replied drily.

"That's not what I mean, Scully. I agree, they'd never get their hands dirty. But we have to assume that Cancerman has people watching the hospital by now. They may try to take advantage of our absence."

"I know, Mulder. But we don't have a choice. OPR doesn't care about our reasons or excuses. We've been ordered to appear, and if we miss this appointment, we might as well kiss our careers goodbye right now. Skinner handpicked the men on this floor. They're among his best, most trustworthy agents. They won't let anyone get to Spender."

Mulder shook his head, unconvinced. "I hope you're right, Scully. Since we're betting Spender's life on it."

Jeffrey Spender had been dozing in a semi-wakeful trance, flirting with the edge of consciousness, when a sound from outside his hospital room pushed him over the line into full awareness. As he tried to assess what had happened and figure out where he was, three white-gowned figures burst into the room, guns at the ready. Finding no opposition, they replaced their weapons.

Spender's mind was still trying to shake off the muzziness as he struggled to sit up. "Who? Where?" he croaked. Pain lashed at his chest and abdomen and he groaned as he sank back onto the bed. It hurt to move, it hurt to talk, and he barely recognized the hoarse voice as his own.

One of the white-coated men rushed to Jeffrey's side, duct-taping his mouth shut, forestalling further questions -- or cries for assistance. The others were maneuvering a stretcher into the room.

"Don't worry about it," one of the stretcher-bearers said coolly. "You won't be staying."

"You're going for a little ride, Jeffrey," Duct Tape Man told him. "Someone wants to say goodbye to you, in a more intimate setting. We've got to disconnect this shit," he hissed to his companions, waving at the medical paraphernalia connected to the wounded man and reaching for the first sensor.

His companion slapped his hand away. "Stop that, you idiot! I have to bypass the heart monitor first, or a resuscitation team with a crash cart will be on their way here in ten seconds." As he spoke, Electrician Man pulled something out of the small duffel he had brought. It looked like a cross between a radio and a Palm Pilot. He started to fiddle with the dials while Duct Tape Man identified and exposed the sensors that were connected to the heart monitor. The third man assumed a protective stance near the door, guarding against interruption.

Spender's heart was beating wildly. Adrenaline had pushed the clouds from his head, and he remembered it all now: his resignation, his father, the shooting. Obviously, he'd made it to the hospital somehow, and these men had been sent to finish the job. He struggled to free himself, but he'd been placed in restraints so he couldn't inadvertently dislodge the IVS and other tubes that had been administering treatment and disposing of waste and drainage while he was unconscious. He was well and truly trapped.

A sudden, undecipherable sound from beyond the doorway caused all of the kidnappers to draw their weapons. The sound was not repeated. Nobody tried to enter the room. Still, an uneasy miasma of tension settled over the place.

"I'll have a look." The third man, the one who had waited by the door, left the room. His companions grunted their acknowledgment and went back to work creating an endless loop of Jeffrey's heartbeat that would be fed into the heart monitor, leaving the medical staff none the wiser when they disconnected their victim from the monitoring equipment.

"I think that's done it," Electrician Man said after a minute or two, as he wiped his brow. "One more connection, and then you can rip away to your heart's content. It's not like he's going to need any of this shit where he's go--"

There was a sudden chuffing sound, and Electrician Man collapsed where he stood.

"What the --" Duct Tape Man went for his gun, but he never made it. A second soft spitting sound, and he joined his dying companion on the floor. The door, partially ajar to begin with, silently swung open.

Jeffrey looked up with wide eyes into the face of his rescuer.

"Alex?"