July 5th, 1992
I walked down the steps of the apartment building, carefully watching my step. It was early in the morning, and I was still tired. I left him to continue sleeping, leaving a note with my phone number on it. This was only the beginning. I needed to gain his trust, to turn him into putty in my hands. I had no other choice, because if I failed, I didn't know whether or not I would make it out of this mission alive.
There were few people on the streets this early in the morning, and I was among them. I turned left at the intersection, walking faster now, to the bus stop. I had woken up a bit later than I should have, and writing the note took longer than it should have. I could remember, waking up to see him asleep, peacefully laying on the bed.
Awake, I turned around to face him. I exhaled shakily as I took in the sight of him. His face, with wrinkles etched into them as a map of his life, were strangely beautiful. His dark gray hair was disheveled against the pillow. My hand stroked his hair lightly. But, I took my hand back as if something had bitten me—I couldn't wake him up. Though, I wanted to hear his voice, I wanted to listen to whatever sarcastic comment he could conjure upon seeing me still in bed with him. Something about his age, my age, something about the insanity of this all; but, I couldn't indulge myself like that.
I stood from the bed and put on my clothes, trying not to think too much of last night. But, it was to no avail. My eyes open, I could still see his body over mine, sweat glistening on his chest as he rocked in and out of me, his eyes meeting mine as we were brought to the brink. I shuddered, putting my dress on. "Damnit," I whispered, realizing that I was in a dangerous position.
I left the room in search of a pen and paper, only to find myself at his small desk where a typewriter lay. He seemed to be writing something, but I didn't pay much attention to it. I sat down at the desk and took the pen into my hand. My handwriting was sloppy; my hand was shaking too much. I threw the first page into the trash bin next to the desk and took another piece of paper, trying again. "This doesn't have to be so difficult," I told myself.
"Sorry—I had to leave for work. 857-555-9293, Call me!" I wrote, each stroke of the pen harder than the last. I placed the note on the pillow where I had slept. I lingered there for a moment, listening to him snore quietly. Why did it have to be me, out of all the other women that could have completed the same mission? Why me, when I was so new to the organization, with a heart that was still too soft?
I boarded the bus, taking a seat in the front and looking out the window. It was several miles to the Pentagon, giving me enough time to compartmentalize and push the thoughts associated with last night aside.
Her note wasn't what I was expecting to find when I woke up, but I had expected to wake up to an empty bed. The note itself served as proof that last night wasn't some half-drunken dream, something my mind concocted just to give me a push to keep on going. I stuck the note in my coat pocket before I had left for work, thinking that I would call her from a payphone later. Yet, I wondered why a woman around fifteen years my junior would want anything to do with me. I was fifty three, and I looked about sixty some years old because of the cigarettes. I was a difficult man who had never had luck in love. But here she was, giving me here number. Was it fake?—I wondered.
I couldn't spend the day thinking about her; I had a meeting to attend to. She was not about to become top priority to me. Maybe, after a few weeks, this would all dissolve. After another liaison or two, maybe even three, she would realize her mistake and go off and find someone else. This was a fleeting lust, but I would take it while I could. After all, God knows when the next chance would come for me, if one ever would.
I set my briefcase on the large, oval table. Staring at the five men before me, I began to speak, glancing at the table from time to time. "Good morning gentlemen, I hope you're all well rested, because we've got a lot to do today."
"Before we get into anything, we need to talk about Mulder." Kingsman interrupted, leaning forward in his chair.
"I've told you all before, I will handle him," I spat out, angered by Kingsman's brazenness.
"I know. But I fear that through the X-Files, he will find out more than he should ever know."
"And who are you to judge what Mulder should and should not know? I have my ways of keeping him in check. Now, don't make me have to find ways to keep you in check too." I sat down, tapping my fingers against my left knee under the table.
"Excuse me, sir, but how exactly are you keeping him in check?" Hoffman asked, taking a cigarette out of his breast pocket. "Up until now, we've only seen him investigate X-Files matters with unprecedented freedom."
"I've assigned him a partner through Blevins. Someone skeptical enough to impede his work, to hold him back so that he is always three steps behind us. You see, Mulder can be a great asset to us, if we utilize this situation correctly. Now, I would appreciate it if you would stop questioning the way I handle Mulder and focus on more important matters." I removed a cigarette from the breast pocket of my black suit jacket and played with it in my hands.
"I understand, but we have reason to believe that Scully may not be as effective as you think," Kingsman countered, nearly fuming.
"Kingsman, tell me. How would like an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii—first class seats for your family and all?" I put a cigarette in between my lips and lit it carefully, staring at Kingsman. "You know, of course the plane will be checked over and everything. Clean inspection. But, that doesn't mean that they wouldn't happen to…" I took the cigarette out of my mouth and waved it, letting the ashes drop to the floor. "Miss something.
"I understand, sir. Thank you for clearing that up for me."
"I'm glad." I smiled threateningly. "Now, what else is there?"
"The situation in the Balkans has been escalating steadily. Genocide is inevitable, and the U.S. should intervene before it gets much worse," Kolinsky spoke, pulling a file out of his brief case. "Intel has reported that the vote for Bosnian independence will cause conflict. War is going to break out soon. We need to be prepared." Kolinsky walked to me, handing me the file.
I opened it, only to find pictures of a secret meeting, captioned "Midnight in Moscow". I flipped through the pages quickly, skimming through details of unwanted Russian activities. America wouldn't stand for this, not so soon after the resignation of Gorbachev.
I sighed, looking at the clock above my head. "America couldn't care less."
"But sir—"
"When America cares, we'll do something. But, for now, the Yugoslav conflict will be treated as an isolated dispute until further notice. It'll distract the world, giving us a guise for American plans that would otherwise be widely protested." I stuck the cigarette back in my pocket, saving it for later.
"And the Rwandan Civil War?" Kingsman asked.
"Will be a U.N. matter." The meeting continued on like this, until the hours passed and all was cleared up until the next meeting. But, left were the file he had been given and the fear of another Russian conflict.
I had gained an important secretarial position in the Pentagon—the secretary to the Director of the Pentagon. My forged documents had provided me with the credentials to blow the other candidates out of the water. Securing the position, I now had ample opportunity and access to a database that the Russians knew would be risky to hack in to. When I obtained a higher level access card, through one way or another, I would find what the Russians wanted. But, for now, I had to play the part of an innocent little secretary, keen on helping America in any way that she could.
I was home, alone, waiting for them to call me. I plugged the phone into a device that made it impossible to trace calls to and from the apartment I lived in. I had little to worry about, other than the events of last night. Sitting with a glass of wine on a charcoal ottoman, I was completely unnerved. Like a petty schoolgirl, I longed to see him again. I took a sip of the wine, trying to calm my nerves, but all it did was spread warmth through my body, a lustful elixir.
The phone rang, and I jumped out of the sofa, placing the wine on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I picked up the phone, my hand trembling. "Hello?"
"Vy vstupili v kontakt s kuritel'noy chelovekom ?" Have you made contact with the smoking man? A female voice said on the other end of the phone.
"Da, vse idet po planu." Yes, all is going according to plan. I replied.
"Kogda vy uvidite yego dal'she?" When will you see him next? There was a sense of urgency filled in her voice.
"Ya zhdu yego sleduyushchego vyzova . Skoro , ya schitayu ." I am waiting for his call. Soon, I believe. I took a deep breath, audaciously asking my next question. "Pochemu ty tak bespokoites' ?" Why do you sound so worried? I held my breath for her answer.
"Tam, vozmozhno, imelo mesto narusheniye v nashey sisteme. On mozhet znat' bol'she , chem vy dumayete . Bud'te ostorozhny , Mariya ." There may have been a breach in our system. He may know more than you think. Be careful, Maria.
"Spasibo. Dobroy nochi." Thank you, good night. I hung up the phone, and put my back against the wall. How could it be that so soon in my mission I was already dealing with more than I was prepared to deal with? Had this been anticipated, I would have had back up, I would have had protection. But now, I was treating dangerous waters with a man who would not hesitate to kill me. But, it was my job, and like a good soldier, I would complete my mission at all costs.
I flinched at the sound of the phone ringing again. I hesitated for a moment and then picked up the phone. "Hello?" I asked, hoping it wasn't the organization calling me again.
"I tried calling you earlier today. You didn't answer." It was him. He laughed at the end of the line, his voice breathy and his laugh nervous.
Butterflies erupted in your stomach, impatiently bursting out of their cocoons. You bit your lip, wondering what to say. "I was at work. I guess you wouldn't have known that. We hadn't talked much about our personal lives last night, considering…"
"I was thinking, if you still don't regret last night, that we could go out to dinner soon."
"Does tomorrow night at seven work?" You held your breath, waiting for his answer.
There was a pause. "That should be fine. Wear something nice, but not over the top."
"Alright, I'll try my best. See you soon."
"Martha?" He asked, a flicker of hope in his voice.
"Yes?"
"What are we doing here, exactly?"
I curled my toes, thinking of the right answer, but quickly coming to the conclusion that there was no right answer. If anything, there was a complicated truth that could never be told. "We're doing what we feel is right," I finally said, hoping that the answer was night.
"Okay. Good night."
"Good night, Charles." I hung up the phone and looked over the room. I walked along the edges of the room, analyzing ever crack. My hands slid over the walls, searching for odd holes. On my hands and knees, I meticulously searched the carpet. Finally, I lay on the floor of the tiny living room and looked over the ceiling, keeping an eye out for the oddest bit of light. I repeated this process for each room, looking for cameras or recorders. Every night, I would search my room. There was no room for error now.
A/N: I hope you liked this chapter! Feel free to leave a review if you have a minute. All comments will be appreciated.