Useful Idiots

In the end, she came to us.

It was a bit of a surprise -- and yet, it should not have been. In retrospect, we should have realized that the steps we were taking in an effort to break Mulder's spirit could also have the effect of alienating Scully from him. And that's exactly what happened.

She first came to me three days after the El Rico massacre -- the morning after Jeffrey Spender died. I still don't know how she found me, but things were understandably in a turmoil right then. Most of the leaders of the Project -- at least, those in North America -- had just died, and no one had yet moved in to fill the vacuum.

I still didn't even know if that black-lunged son of a bitch who thought I worked for him was still alive. Not that I cared all that much, but he had been a good conduit into the organization these past few months. A "useful idiot", as Lenin used to say.

I barely had the door open that morning before Scully started talking. "Just one thing, Krycek," she said flatly, as she stood in that doorway. "I won't work with Fowley. Not under any circumstances. Is that understood?"

"Uh, sure, fine," I said, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. Automatically, I gestured her into the room, while my mind worked frantically, trying to figure out what was going on.

My first instinct, of course, was that it was a trap of some sort. There's no love lost between me and Mulder, and I had no reason to believe Scully thought any better of me than he did. She didn't know that I was involved in the death of her sister, of course, but she knew enough about my other activities that the only reasonable response she could have to me was hatred and contempt.

And I was right about that. Let's get that up front right now. But as she sat there in my room in that Motel 6 that morning, pouring her heart out to me, I came to realize that all of our plans from the previous summer had finally borne some fruit after all. The pressure we had brought to bear on Mulder had actually worked, despite the debacle at El Rico, and this woman had finally cracked.

Of course, she didn't put it that baldly. One thing that is rock solid bedrock is that Dana Scully does not share her emotions with anyone. Not even with Mulder; not even when they were close. Not even when she was dying. But I like to think that I'm not a stupid man, and I was able to read between the lines.

The tale she told me was, of course, cloaked in a facade of rationalism. During the buildup to the slaughter of the Project's leadership, she'd done some in-depth research into the background of the man she knows as C.G.B. Spender, and in the course of that, she'd uncovered a lot of things that had previously been hidden from her. I was frankly surprised at the wealth of material she'd been able to dig up, and I made a mental note while she was telling me about it that we had to find whatever security hole she'd exploited, and close it. Permanently.

But the problem of the moment was that Dana Scully had succeeded in putting together a reasonably complete and accurate outline of the Project -- its origin, the motivations of its leaders, and their goals. And in the process of doing so, she'd actually managed to convince herself that these men were in the right.

This is more than I've ever been able to do, to be quite honest. Even in the early days of my involvement, before they tried to kill me, I had my doubts. Nevertheless, I recognized her agonizing intellectual journey for what it was, and I couldn't help but sympathize with the pain I saw behind her eyes as she laid it all out for me. I'd been there, and I'd done that, and before the morning was over I found myself sharing some of my own doubts and uncertainties with her.

That was all we did, that first morning: trade stories of our respective epiphanies regarding the Project. By the time we were finished only two things were clear and solid. The first was that Dana Scully had had a change of heart. The second was that this change of heart did not include Diana Fowley.

I understood the animus there, of course. Fowley was, after all, the most clear and obvious cause of the final breakdown in Mulder and Scully's relationship. She wasn't the *only* cause, of course, but most of the others were hidden down there beneath the surface, where Scully couldn't see them. So it was natural that she focused most of her attention on Fowley.

I even shared her reaction, on a personal level. I still do. I have little use for the treacherous bitch, and if she dropped off the face of the earth, I would not be among her mourners. But again, like the Smoker, she's served a purpose in the Project's ongoing activities. Another useful idiot.

The next couple of weeks passed in a blur of frantic maneuverings. There was, as I said, a power vacuum at the top of the organization, and this caused a mad scramble as people rushed to fill the void. That Mulder and Scully would get the X-Files back during this period was inevitable, since there was no one there to stop it from happening -- other than that chickenshit Kersh. But I was already seeing possibilities for the Project that might emerge from having their status restored. Possibilities that stemmed from having Dana Scully as a conduit for information -- and, eventually, action, if such became necessary.

As things settled down into a new equilibrium, I began the slow, delicate process of bringing Scully along. Having her come to me in the heat of the moment with the news that she had had enough was one thing. It would be quite another to turn her into an active player. It would take a lot of careful, delicate negotiation -- but if I was successful, it would be worth it.

And I've been successful. And it *has* been worth it.

It's been three months now, since that cold February morning when she first knocked on my door. Three months of working her, cajoling her and gradually easing her into the role of a double agent. What began as a series of intermittent, casual contacts in various out-of-the-way places around the city has slowly evolved into a set of regularly scheduled meetings, in which she has provided me with increasingly detailed reports and analyses of Mulder's activities as he reopened the X-Files and resumed his investigations.

There has also been an evolution in our relationship -- a slow, steady drift from hostility towards something warmer. I'm no psychologist, but I've handled enough people in this situation to know that she needs support, and reassurance that what she's doing is right. So that part, at least, is no surprise. The surprising part is that I've started to become attached to her, as well. That's not something I'm entirely easy about, but in this business you take such comforts as you can find.

And now the day has finally come to nudge her into taking that final step. Today, she will become a player, in the fullest sense of the word.

She has resisted this, of course, and the nature of her first real job as my operative is understandably distressing to her. Even though she no longer carries Mulder in her heart, the way she clearly did right up until El Rico, I knew that I'd be demanding a lot when I told her she had to kill him. Perhaps too much.

"I don't know, Krycek," she said, as we walked last night through Rock Creek Park. "That's ... that's more than I bargained for when I accepted this ... assignment." She was much more calm and subdued than she would have been if she'd been presented with this proposition three months ago. And I reflected -- not for the first time -- on how very beaten down this woman has become. This last year has been very hard on her.

I also had to remind myself that one of her coping mechanisms is to continue using the language she learned in her work for the Bureau. And so I nodded soberly, and responded, "I understand that. But this was foreseeable as a possible consequence of your decision; I'm sure *you* understand that." She nodded, slowly and reluctantly, and I pressed a little harder, lowering my voice.

"We still don't know if Cassandra Spender is alive or dead," I said. "If she's alive, and in the custody of the Colonists, none of this matters anyway, because we'll all soon be dead. But if she's dead, then we can't afford to have *any* attention drawn to her medical history, or to the possibility that another hybrid like her might be created."

I didn't tell her that we already knew that Mulder, himself, is such a hybrid. I didn't dare. That would have started her asking too many questions, and might have caused her to rethink her position yet again. Bad enough that the Smoker thought for a while that he could harvest whatever it is in Mulder's brain that makes him the way he is. This way is better. Simpler. Cleaner.

"I understand," she said at last, her voice very low. "I understand. But it's ... it's hard."

"I know it is, Dana." I laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and for the first time in our association she didn't flinch at my touch. Of course, she had other things on her mind, but I still couldn't help but view it as a positive step. "But you know it has to be done," I persisted after a moment. She nodded, but otherwise she did not respond. She seemed to be waiting for something, but I wasn't sure what. At last, I said, "You're the only one who can do it, Dana. You're the only one he trusts. No one else can get close enough to him; no one else can catch him off his guard. You know that, too."

And it was all true; every word of it. Through the weeks that I'd been working with her, Scully had carefully maintained the facade of her old relationship with Mulder. From the surveillance we'd maintained on him -- and on her -- we knew that he did not suspect her. He seemed to be completely oblivious to the hurt he'd caused her in the days leading up to El Rico, and he'd accepted without question her professions of renewed loyalty, both to him and to the X-Files.

Which was, of course, exactly how we'd planned it.

"Yes," she said at last, her voice even lower than before. "Yes, I know." She sounded so hurt and lost that for a moment I wanted to draw her into my arms and offer her such comfort as I could. But I knew that would be a mistake. That wasn't Scully's way. Perhaps later, after it was over, I'd be able to give her something -- and maybe she'd even be able to tend to a few of *my* wounds. But not now. Not like this.

"Okay then," I said, forcing my voice to remain casual. "Tomorrow morning. Six o'clock. I'll pick you up, and we'll take him down while he's jogging."

"Running," she said, seemingly by reflex. "Mulder doesn't jog. He runs."

"Okay, running," I agreed. We were both silent for a moment, and I realized that my hand was still resting on her shoulder. Feeling suddenly awkward, I let it drop to my side. "Six o'clock," I repeated. And she nodded, and after another moment she turned and walked away.

That was last night. Now we're sitting together in the car I stole before I picked her up this morning. It's a nice car, perfect for this purpose: not too new, not too old, no distinguishing dents or other markings. Just another dark blue sedan, parked down the street from Mulder's apartment building on a rainy Tuesday morning.

And it is a rainy morning, and somehow that seems perfect for what's about to happen. I'm not normally one to wax poetic, but even I can see the artistic justice in Scully putting the final closure to her partnership with Mulder on a day like this. In a way, I think, it's almost like the consummation they never had.

But then, I've always been a sick bastard.

"I don't know if I can do this."

Scully's voice is low, but her words are not entirely unexpected. As I said, she's been showing some resistance, and I rather thought she might need some more persuading once we were finally here and ready. And of course, I have all my arguments lined up and ready to go.

"You have to," I say calmly, keeping my voice even and level. I decided three days ago, when I received this assignment from the Smoker, that I would appeal to her logical side. With Scully, logic and reason are the only things that really count. "You have no choice," I continue. "We talked about this last night, and you agreed."

"Yes, I agreed," she says, but then she shakes her head, refusing to meet my eyes. "But I hadn't thought it through; I hadn't truly realized what it meant." And she repeats, in even lower tones than before, "I don't think I can do it."

I turn in my seat and look at her for a moment as I consider my response. She's seated next to me, her hands folded in her lap, her head bent, with her hair hanging forward, shielding her face from my gaze. She doesn't want me looking at her, I realize. She doesn't want me to be able to see her, and this is the only way she has to hide. And that insight tells me what to do to break the impasse.

"Scully," I say, firmly and with as much authority as I can muster. She doesn't move, and after a moment I repeat her name, more sharply than before. "Scully!" Slowly and reluctantly, she turns her head to look at me, and I go on, just as adamantly as I began, "You know what's at stake here. You know what has to be done, and why."

I raise my hand and place it gently on her shoulder, as I did last night in the park. "Think of your family, Dana," I urge her. "Think of your nephew and your mother. You *know* what lies ahead, if Mulder isn't stopped. You worked it out for yourself, before you ever came to me. You can't back out now."

She shakes her head, slowly and deliberately. "That was theoretical," she replies. "That was ... a hypothesis. This --" she hefts the unregistered .32 I gave her a few minutes ago "-- this is real. And that makes everything different." She cocks her head slightly, and looks at me again. "Don't you understand, Krycek? I've ... I've come to realize that you're not the thug I thought you were. That you pretend to be. Don't you understand?"

"Of course I do, Dana." The lie comes easily to my lips -- and deep down inside, it's not a complete lie. Like I said, I've been there and done that, and I really do understand how emotionally traumatic this is for her. But for me it was a long time ago, and far away -- so long ago that it almost seems as if it happened to another person.

At least, sometimes it does, says the little voice, the one that comes to me in my dreams, and most especially in my nightmares. Other times--

"How do you do it?" Scully asks, forcing my attention back to the present. She's looking at me curiously now, the gun still resting in her lap. And she goes on, "How do you walk up to another human being and just ... wipe him out of existence? How do you make yourself do it?"

I shake my head. "It never gets easy," I say -- and that's another lie. It *does* get easy, and after a while it even gets to be routine. But she's not ready to know that yet. I continue, "At least, not for me, it doesn't. I always have to feel it's worth it, that I'm serving some greater purpose. There always has to be a reason, or I couldn't live with myself."

Lies, I think to myself, as I wait for her response. More lies. It's been so many years since I needed any reason other than the convenience of the moment, that I've almost forgotten what it felt like, way back then. But again there's that little voice, way in the back of my mind, that does not agree. The voice that doesn't want to leave me alone. The voice that's been screaming in my mind ever since the first time I killed.

"What's the hardest thing you've ever had to do?" she asks, and then she amends herself. "Who's the hardest person you've ever had to kill? I don't mean the most difficult in terms of the mechanics -- I don't care about that. I mean emotionally. Morally."

She lays a hand on my sleeve, and I realize that this is the first time in our work together that she has initiated physical contact. She's reaching out to me, seeking reassurance, and I have to give her something -- something she can cling to as she carries out this act. And for once, I settle for the truth, because it's easier that way. And maybe, a little, because that voice in my head is tired of all the lies.

"Your sister," I say simply -- and I see her eyes widen in shock. But before she can interrupt, I hurry on. "I didn't pull the trigger - I think you know who did." She nods, her eyes still wide with a special kind of horror. "But I was there, and if Cardinal hadn't done it, I would have. Because it had to be done. Because we thought she was you."

She swallows, and manages to stammer out, "But ... why --"

"Because we thought she was you," I repeat, cutting her off. "And at that particular moment, it would have served our purpose very well if you had died." I deliberately soften my voice a little, trying to lessen the impact. "We thought Mulder was dead," I say. "And you were the only person who might have carried on in his place. With both of you out of the way, the X-Files would have been closed, permanently, and a lot of risk would have been avoided. It would have been clean. Simple. Final."

But Scully is now miles away; I'm not even sure how much she heard of what I just said. She's staring out the window at something in the distance, something only she can see, and there are unshed tears in her eyes. Glancing down at her lap, I see her fingers clenching and unclenching around the butt of the gun, and for a few seconds I wonder if I might have made a mistake in telling her this. And after a moment, she speaks.

"He said there would be two of you." Her voice is soft and meditative. "And all this time, I thought he was mistaken. Or lying."

"Who said there would be two?" I ask. "When?"

She turns to look at me, and her lips quirk slightly. "Just a man I met once," she replies, as she shakes her head. "It really doesn't matter anymore. He's dead now, too." And again, she falls silent.

And now, for some reason, I feel the need to justify myself, and again it's my turn to reach out to her. "Scully, it was an accident," I say- and again, I'm speaking the truth. "That's what I was trying to tell you; that's why it was so hard for me. Everyone else I've ever killed, it was for a reason. Hard as it was for me, I knew there was a reason. But your sister -- that was an accident. It wasn't supposed to be her coming through that door, and that's an ... error that I'll carry with me until the day I die."

And now, suddenly, we're out of time. Mulder has emerged on the front stoop of his building, wearing his usual running clothes. He steps easily down to the sidewalk and begins his stretching exercises, and as he does, I notice absently that the rain has stopped. Somehow, that seems like an omen.

"It's time."

I turn my head again and look at Scully. She's staring out the window, now, watching her partner, and her shoulders are set with seriousness and purpose. She's made her decision, I realize, and in a few more seconds I'll know what it is. And I'm almost sorry when she says, "I'll be back in a minute," and opens the door and climbs from the car.

It seems to take forever for her to cross the intervening distance. Mulder sees her coming, of course -- he seems to have a special radar, where Scully is concerned. Once again I congratulate myself on the work I've done. No one else could have carried this off. No one else could get close enough to him to do this.

And then, finally, she's standing in front of him. The hand with the gun is buried in the pocket of her trenchcoat, and she's talking to him -- about what, I don't know. The ball's in her court, now, and I have no choice but to wait and see how she plays it out. Of course, if she fails to follow through, I'll just have to do them both. Then I see her gesture to him with her free hand, and he bends down a little closer --

"Get out of the car, Krycek."

My head whips around at the sound of the man's voice, and my eyes widen in shock as I see Walter Skinner peering in the driver's side window at me. Automatically, I reach for the Palm Pilot I keep in my jacket pocket, but before my hand is even halfway there, I find myself staring down the barrel of his SIG. "Don't try it," he advises, his voice hard and cold. "And get out of the fucking car. Now."

I have no choice but to comply. I don't know what's going on across the street; at the moment, Skinner has all of my attention -- along with the half a dozen other men and women, obviously agents, who are now surrounding the car.

"You're making a mistake, Mr. Assistant Director," I say calmly. I nod my head in the direction of my jacket pocket. "If you think that's the only one of those --"

Skinner nods to one of the other agents, and I'm abruptly spun around and slammed up against the car, my arms stretched out across the hood. In the space of a few seconds the man briskly pats me down, finding both of my guns, the knife I keep in my boot and the razor blade that's always taped into my collar. And, of course, he takes the Palm Pilot. Then my hands are being pulled roughly behind me, and I feel handcuffs being roughly snapped into place, before I'm finally turned around to face Skinner again.

"This is your lucky day, Krycek," he says, as he finally holsters his weapon. "*She* still believes in justice, rather than revenge. If it had been up to Mulder and me ...." His voice trails off, and I hear footsteps approaching. Two sets of footsteps, of course. "Agent Scully," he says, speaking past my shoulder. "Would you care to do the honors?"

I turn in the direction he's looking, and I see her standing there, just three feet away. Mulder is with her, of course, and even as I watch he's slipping his hand under the collar of her blouse, and unclipping the microphone she has hidden there. Her expression is cool and professional; the lost, uncertain woman I've been working with these past three months is nowhere to be seen. And then she's stepping forward, and extracting a small card from her hip pocket, and I recognize what it is just before she begins reading from it.

"You have the right to remain silent --"