This Is How The World Ends

by Solia

In 2012 the invasion started, but no one saw it. This oversight cost them - his reputation, her purpose, each other... An unsanctioned case with a familiar threat puts everything at risk, and as they race to save what matters most, standing alone may not be an option. MSR. Angst. Novel-length. Alternative events diverging post-IWTB, ignoring/replacing S10&11.

25. XXIV - Mulder

Title: This Is How The World Ends

Fandom: X-Files

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I do not own The X-Files or any of its characters, and if it looked like I was making fun of a presidential candidate a little bit in the last chapter, it's true, unless you've got a kick-ass legal team and you represent a particularly vile candidate, in which case you misinterpreted and I was talking about the other guy.

Author's Notes: A month is as big a stretch on the term 'reasonable waiting period' as I can stomach, so I have your new chapter for you! I will try not to let lapses like this keep happening, and I thank everybody for your patience. I have been busy with the release of my latest book, which LAUNCHES IN THREE HOURS! :D If you like YA urban fantasy and don't mind my writing style, follow the link on my profile page to check out my series.

Thanks to everyone who has read, but thanks especially to those who take the time to give feedback. I read every review with a rush of gratefulness, because I know time's precious. Ship1013, thanks for the reminders that people are waiting! That gives me the motivation to open the document whenever I find a spare fifteen minutes instead of browsing my Facebook feed. Various readers called Guest, who may or may not be the same person (you can type another name, if you want to make it clearer who you are, when you write guest reviews) thank you for your reviews! I'm glad it was vaguely ambiguous enough that you didn't catch on immediately to the dream nature of the chapter. MSR is the core of this fanfiction, ultimately, so their awareness of their own and each other's feelings is an important step on the way to solving the real issue here – not preventing alien invasion, but getting these two into a room together! ;) Resh001, thank you for your detailed review. Those are my favourite kind! I love the parallels you draw between my fic and the series. It makes me feel relieved to know what I'm trying to convey is what people are reading from the subtext.

Enjoy, everyone. This chapter is a turning point in this fic and moves us into the next 'act' of my greater story arc.

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Russia and the United States have spent half their history being almost at war, it sometimes seems.

Gerard Dixon knew it better than most. His collection of questionably obtained government documents and his uncanny ability to garner more on request from any of his shadowy paranoid contacts made him Mulder's first stop in understanding how 'the Russians' played into this giant puzzle.

"Well, they're here, obviously," Dixon said blandly, voice muffled. His upper body was wedged into the roof cavity, copious waist filling the manhole that led to the ceiling space, booted feet splayed unsafely on an A-frame ladder. The refit at Stockton University was coming along swimmingly, and this particular lab was almost complete, meaning that again, he and Mulder had the space to themselves. The other techs and tradespeople on site were in other buildings or outside smoking. "You'd be crazy to assume otherwise. The United States has spy cells planted in the former Soviet Union, feeding back – naturally they have their boys here, too."

Mulder hadn't considered it before but realised it didn't surprise him. He stood at the bottom of the ladder and looked around the swiftly unfolding lab. His experiences with Russia had been less than consistently friendly and his visits to their land likely hadn't endeared him and his name to their government any more than he'd endeared himself to his own. He thought with disdain of Alex Krycek, the persistent pain in the ass that man was, and then of Major Dragomirov, who'd risked his life (and probably paid with it) to put Mulder on his current life path. He thought of the transcript that proved his own government had spies placed in Moscow that had witnessed and recorded his conversation with the major, and knew it was ignorant not to presume Russia was positioned and performing in the exact same manner.

"Makes sense," he commented. "But how does parallel covert military action tie in with the Worldwide Family of Hosts?"

Dixon stepped down one rung on the ladder to extricate his bulk from the square hole in the ceiling and offer Mulder an incredulous stare. "What about that creepy cult doesn't reek of covert ops? They helped sanitise Harvey Newman before he could blow the whistle on whatever the government is hiding – and it was definitely connected to Russia." He went back into the ceiling space to continue his work with wires. "Either an unsanctioned operation so dirty that it would equate to an international scandal they don't think they could ride out, or some uneasy alliance over some bigger secret. Or some middle ground between the two."

"So no one knows?"

Do you really not know? With effort he banished the keenly remembered words from his immediate thoughts, but, as he'd found every day since he said them and heard them thrown back in his face, the words and the feelings that lingered in their wake were never too far away.

"I don't know, but there are definitely people who know," Dixon disagreed. His hand appeared, squeezed uncomfortably between his plump stomach and the hard edge of the ceiling opening, a blue cable clasped in his fist. "Here." Mulder hurried to climb the ladder to reach it but slowed considerably when his first step on the lowest rung made the whole frame sway dangerously. "Whoa, careful," Dixon chastised, and Mulder moved with more caution, stretching his arm and shoulder to reach the cord so he didn't have to go any higher. He pulled on the data cable, and Dixon fed it down to him, talking again, "And those of us who don't know for sure still have some solid theories."

"Do your theories account for extra-terrestrial activity and alien abductions?"

Dixon smirked; this was where their beliefs diverged. "Somehow I doubt the Russians are handpicking Russian-American citizens and asking them to risk charges of conspiracy and treason to spy on aliens. Okay, stop pulling," he directed, starting to back out and glancing down the dangling cord to the pool of blue cabling at Mulder's feet. "That should do it."

Mulder cringed as the ladder swayed and tentatively caught it in both hands. The instinctive act was in essence a repeat of last week at the Dunn property, but the view of Gerard Dixon's backside descending toward him generated entirely dissimilar feelings to the blindfolded, hyper-sensitive experience of Scully's long-admired ass bumping into his chest and sliding down his body, her hands resting over his as she stepped down from that rickety ladder into his arms. He was mindful today to release the ladder and move away before Dixon got that far down.

"When will Wi-Fi be up and running in here?" Mulder asked. Functional on the rest of the campus, the range didn't yet extend this far from the main buildings, so in order to get a stable internet connection in here, there were two choices: personal data, or drag one of the data cables laid out in the ceiling space for the connections that would soon be made in this building through a manhole down into the lab and hook it up to your computer. This was Dixon's plan, and he insisted it would be a better connection and harder to trace – especially once one took into account all the other safeguards, both hard- and software-based, the overweight tech had prepared. Mulder didn't entirely understand what Dixon had excitedly explained he was going to do to the telecommunications in the building, but knew that it was meant to enable them to contact one of the technician's more paranoid friends.

"My company is nearly done with our initial fitting-out. Then all the other trades can get in here and do their bit. I'm contracted to come back sometime next year to install the wireless. April, I think." Dixon walked the cable over to his laptop, set up on a plastic-wrapped lab bench, and plugged it in. His thick fingers deftly worked the scratch pad, opening and closing programs, and flew across the keyboard typing passwords with surprising speed. Mulder moved to stand beside the younger man with a view of the screen. Using a VPN, Dixon was able to hide his geographical location and Internet Service Provider address from anyone trying to trace their communication. A box on the right-hand side of the screen let them know that their internet was being routed through Latvia, which was suitably obscure for their needs. "Landline is safer anyway. You know," he said, slowing down and casting a look at Mulder over his shoulder, "I was surprised when I saw your message. After our last conversation… Well, I thought you wanted to do this case alone? Just you and your fed girlfriend?"

"I knew you couldn't be trusted to do as you're told and stay clear," Mulder said lightly, getting a pleased smile out of the other, but inside he felt a twist of guilt. Yes, he'd discouraged Gerard from chasing this particular beast because it was dangerous, and yes, he would have preferred to have attacked it without the overeager technician's further involvement. Having very possibly, very permanently fucked things up with Scully, however, he was scant on trustworthy allies, and a fool in his position didn't get to be choosy and couldn't take the luxurious road of protecting everybody by refusing their help. Dixon didn't want his protection and he had resources. So, reluctantly, Mulder was here, endangering him further.

"You were right," Dixon confessed with a sheepish smile, fingers tap-tapping swiftly. "I found heaps more, and the others did, too. Holly found more money, and Dusty Underscore Kevin… It's a big mess, isn't it, this web between Dr Helens and Harvey Newman and the CIA and you?"

"It's a mess," Mulder agreed. He'd spent the past week since parting ways with Scully in rural Virginia chasing down the names and addresses on the list he'd photographed with his phone. It was indeed messy to have to approach strangers and warn them that there was a distinct possibility that they'd been targeted by a shadow government corporation wanting to test biological warfare on them, but, luckily, the sorts of people Dr Gray's employers were targeting were reasonably open to hearing Mulder's side of the story. A lawyer, a journalism student and a retiree, without a lot in common, until they heard they might be under scrutiny.

Troublemakers. The web their stories were helping to form between key names like Harvey Newman and The Worldwide Family of Hosts and The Clayton Building was getting messier, stickier and tighter with every word they shared.

"Your name's been coming up more and more," Dixon told him, trying to sound casual despite an undertone of discomfort. "I always see your name around, you know, just not… this often. Have you pissed anyone off lately?"

Cringe. Other than Scully? "No more than usual."

Dixon shrugged. "Maybe it's nothing. But when I got your message and you asked about Russian involvement, it was fate – I'd just sold a stack of passenger manifests between Russia and Syria to this particular contact. He's in with a group of undercover Russian sleeper agents here on the east coast, trying to get proof that Russia is instigating the war in Syria. It's his personal vendetta, lost a lot of his extended family in the bombings, and he comes across a lot of other data of interest in his digs. If anyone knows, it'll be him. It's ringing," he added, stepping back so Mulder could stand beside him in view of the webcam as the video call tried to dial across numerous diverted connections.

"What's his background?" Mulder asked quietly while it dialled, and dialled, and dialled. Dixon shrugged again.

"Originally? PR. Got sick of covering up after liars and traitors."

"And I can trust him?"

"Absolutely," Dixon promised sincerely. "I do."

The video call connected, and they were face-to-face with an unfamiliar young man of Eastern European descent. He was gaunt, narrow-cheeked with bulging big eyes, though these were keen, bright and intelligent. The wall behind him was hung with a sheet to hide any distinguishing features of the room he was in, and no doubt his ISP was as misleading as theirs.

"Thanks for meeting us, Sayid," Dixon said brightly. His cheer was not reciprocated.

"You're late. I can give you two minutes, Gerard," the other said brusquely, checking his watch. He jutted his sharp chin at Mulder. "I read up on you. You look better in your I.D. photo. Younger. Tidier."

Mulder forced a smile at the stranger's abruptness. He didn't sound like a public relations expert. "Time isn't always kind. Gerard says you might be able to help me," he said, gesturing at his acquaintance, getting straight to the point with awareness of his two-minute window of opportunity.

"That depends on whether you can help me," Sayid replied dourly. His American accent was only slightly warmed by the undercurrent of a Syrian one, hinting at a Western upbringing but in a bilingual household. "Nothing in this world is free, Mr Mulder."

Dixon had stepped back, like he was going to give Mulder the lead on this conversation, but now he frowned and moved back in line with the other.

"You didn't say anything about payment, Sayid. That isn't fair to bring up now."

Sayid shrugged delicately. "That's your oversight, and not my problem. Mr Mulder? Can I trust you?"

"I'd like to say yes, but I don't know what you're going to ask me to do. I don't even know if I can trust you."

"You can trust me if you can assure me you can deliver a professional, confidential service without spilling the details to that fed you fuck." Sayid paused long enough to make it clear that he knew he was being offensive and was waiting for Mulder's reaction. Public relations, huh? There might have been other factors behind his career change than the alleged ethical conflict. Mulder refused to even blink. He would be in better stead to negotiate with Sayid if he confessed he no longer fucked said fed, but Dixon was right there, and he'd expressly mentioned last time they met that half of Mulder's supporters only supported him because they thought he fucked a fed and she hadn't thrown him to the kerb yet. Sayid continued, "If you can't promise that, our conversation is done. If you can, we're in business."

Mulder said evenly, "Then I guess we're in business."

"I can't afford for the United States government to get involved in any way, Mr Mulder."

"I'm not the United States government. What do you want?"

The man on the other end of the internationally diverted video call glanced at his watch. He hesitated, then pushed away from the computer he worked at. He didn't stand; he rolled back in a wheelchair. Beside Mulder, Dixon stood straighter. He hadn't known.

"I need an errand run for me and my usual runner is starting to look suspicious so I'd rather reach outside my immediate circle. As you can see, my days of running are over."

"I want to know what the connection is between the Worldwide Family of Hosts, Harvey Newman, Henry Gray, the Russian and United States governments… and the abductions," Mulder stated boldly, gauging the contact's reaction to his request. "What kind of errand do you want run in return for that?"

"I can direct you straight to the foremost Russian spy cell in the country," Sayid said casually, rolling forward again. "All I need in return is for certain information to accompany you. I've got their ear, you understand, but this can't come from me or my cover's blown. So I'll tell you what I know, and send you on to them – and they can tell you more, if they don't shoot you on sight – and you deliver the news and leave my name out of it. How does that sound?"

"Sounds like you'll be talking fast for the remaining thirty seconds of our appointment."

"This guy, he really might shoot you, so we're clear. And if he does, I don't know you."

Dixon was getting uncomfortable. He fought government conspiracy with a keyboard. Actual bullets were too much. "Don't kid around, Sayid. You wouldn't send him on a job that dangerous."

"Why wouldn't I?" Sayid asked blandly. "He worked as FBI. They sent him on much worse missions." He levelled his gaze on Mulder. "Are you in or out?"

"I thought we were counting the seconds?" Mulder replied.

Sayid did indeed talk fast. "Mikhail Levin's a U.S. citizen by birth, owns a car wash in Richmond, Virginia, and pays his taxes but he spent summers growing up with his Pa in St Petersburg and did his undergraduate abroad there. He's an unofficial Lieutenant Colonel to the Russian military – no records, don't bother looking. He'll be at work tonight and I want you to knock on his door and tell him the Americans are onto his man Lenkov. That he spoke to the wrong people and they've got the beginnings of a scent. Do not drop my name, or I'll-"

"Where do I say I got the information?" Mulder interrupted, keenly aware of their time running short. They'd wasted all this time establishing what he would do for Sayid and he still was no closer to learning what he came here for.

"You fuck a fed. Surely you can come up with something convincing. Say you overheard it or something – you heard about their cell and realised they could help you if you did them this favour."

"Who exactly is onto Lenkov? Do you have an agent's name, a division?" Mulder asked, wanting to ensure he had his facts right. Sayid shrugged.

"You decide. Lenkov's clean – I need him sent home to be able to enact the next move in my case, and I need it done asap," he said. He glanced at his watch again. There couldn't be more than twelve seconds left. "Levin can tell you more, once you have his trust, but I can tell you this: They're exactly what you think, Mr Mulder," Sayid said frankly, surprising the other with the subject change. "Invaders. The Russians knew because they shot down a reconnaissance flight and interrogated the survivors, but they kept the details to themselves. Harvey Newman was liaison to an undercover team of operatives based illegally in Moscow tasked with digging out what the Russians weren't sharing. Got more than he bargained for. The Worldwide Family of Hosts is a front and what you find behind it will be ugly. Use the Russians before I use them, because after that they'll be out of reach. And keep the feds the hell away. And do it tonight. Good luck."

The connection was cut right on the two-minute mark, apparently the exact length of Sayid's trust in internet security. Dixon exhaled heavily, a loud phew to convey his overwhelmed state. Mulder scratched an eyebrow as his thoughts swirled, seeming scattered to the uninitiated but to his practised mind, organised, gravitating to a core, fundamental truth: that he was right. They're exactly what you think. Invaders. The Worldwide Family of Hosts is a front. It will be ugly. It was true, all of it, it was true, and here was someone to confirm it.

And right on schedule, her voice was there in his head too, dry and condescending, just the way he liked it apparently, since that was always how he imagined her sounding. Confirm is a strong word. She didn't have to be nearby, or even on speaking terms with him, to remind him that the second-hand word of surnameless, traceless stranger Sayid from the internet meant less than nothing to the case she was struggling to build. If Mulder couldn't prove it to a court, it wasn't evidence he could use to convince Scully back, either.

If that was even still a possibility at this point. He tried not to think about it.

"You… You don't think he meant that, do you?" Dixon asked, clearly taken aback by the whole discussion. "About getting shot? Sayid has never talked about things getting violent before."

Mulder shrugged. "You know him better than I do. He sounded like he meant it. It sounds like a serious case he's built for himself."

Dixon still looked dumbfounded for a second, then snapped into flustered action, pulling the cable from the laptop's port. "I swear to you, this is not why I put you in touch with him. I didn't know he was going to make such huge demands-"

"It's fine, Gerard," Mulder assured him, unheard. The technician was still insisting, still apologising.

"I'm sorry. I thought he'd be able to tell you more, not just send you on a wild goose chase. You know, you don't have to do it."

"It's not a big deal." Mulder followed his acquaintance as the overweight data technician hurriedly dragged the cable back to the ceiling cavity it hung from and climbed the wobbly ladder to stuff it back in. Gerard was hugely overreacting. "It's a job. He's a businessman. The information I'm asking for is sensitive and probably hard-earned. It's not a shock that he wants something in return."

Gerard Dixon sighed, lips pursed, and threw the last of the cabling into the ceiling haphazardly. "It is a big deal," he replied, "because Sayid runs in serious crowds – or rather, doesn't run – and if he says this guy might shoot you-"

"You said you trust him," Mulder reminded the other.

"I do," Dixon said hesitantly. "I do. But… surely there's an easier way… A safer way."

Mulder clapped a hand on the other's shoulder. "No one's going to shoot me. Do you know how many people have shot at me and missed?"

"And you do understand, I didn't know he was going to suggest such a dangerous form of payment," Dixon insisted, ignoring Mulder's assurance. "I don't want anything to happen to you."

Mulder tried to withhold a bemused smile. "Of course I know that." He paused. His smile wilted. "Why? Why do you say that?"

Again, Gerard Dixon looked uncomfortable. "It's probably nothing. I've just… noticed your name coming up a bit more lately, in some circles, like I said. It's probably nothing," he was quick to say again. "People talking about things they know nothing about. I just worry, sometimes, that the wrong people will take notice and decide to… take action." He clenched and unclenched his hands in discomfort. His admiration for Mulder was endearing, as was his heartfelt pride in being able to provide direct assistance to the Fox Mulder. Scully would roll her eyes so hard at devotion like Gerard's, or rather, at Mulder's patience for it and willingness to depend on it. She wouldn't stand for that sort of blind trust – she'd read it as incredibility and apply that to everything else he believed in, too.

Mulder took her lead and mentally disregarded Dixon's concerns.

"They haven't got me yet," he said with an assured smile as he walked away, grabbing his overcoat from the bench where he'd dumped it upon arrival. He checked his watch. "Richmond, huh? I'd better get going if I'm going to get there by tonight."

Dixon wasn't giving up that easily. He followed, suggesting sincerely, "If someone were trying to knock you off, they'd try to make it look like an accident, right? Or like you walked into your own trouble and deserved what you got. They might use a connection like ours, someone you trust, to send you into a situation where they could take you out. Sayid's proposition sounds like exactly that sort of thing. You read about this stuff in books, you know? Mulder?" He stopped, and Mulder had to do the same. Turn back to look at him. Poor Dixon looked so guilt-ridden, believing he'd put his hero in this position of having no choice but to walk into a death trap. "Tell me you're not going by yourself."

"Of course not," Mulder soothed automatically, digging in his coat pocket for his keys and his phone. He waved the cell at his concerned acquaintance as he slung the coat over his arm and started for the door. "I'll call Scully and pick her up on my way through D.C. She can cover me from outside the premises. This Levin won't even know she's there."

Dixon's tense expression visibly relaxed.

"And she's a good shot, right? She'll have your back."

"She isn't one of the ones who missed," Mulder promised wryly, opening the door and pausing. "Thanks for your help today – I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," Dixon said, waving dismissively, pleased. "Just don't get killed. That'd be letting them win. Get going," he encouraged. "Call her on your way so you don't run late."

Mulder made sure to smile obligingly but the minute he was out of possible sight he put the phone away. Like hell he was calling Scully, directly or otherwise, and asking her to come on a playdate with him to accost a cell of Russian spies this fine midweek afternoon. He could just imagine the thick, incredulous silence that would follow the proposal, and the heavy click of the phone being hung up.

Or worse, for her to say, yeah, alright. They'd survived so much together, but every time he watched her walk away he felt a very real chill of fear – what if that was the last time? What if there was no coming back from the last confrontation? It was always enough to keep him from seeking her out for a while, just in case his fear was proven correct. It would kill him if he ever wrecked things so badly that they couldn't at least put it all aside and just work together professionally. There was a mild terror associated with the idea of her saying yeah, alright, and then sitting in the car with him with nothing to say.

They'd never had awkwardness before. He never wanted to know what that was like.

He got into his car and closed the door against the crisp winter air. It was a beautiful clear day outside but the air had that chill factor and a pretty decent wind to it, too. He'd already resigned himself to spending it mostly in his car, and he'd already privately debated whether that day of driving would involve contacting Scully.

He'd already ruled it out and come up with another plan.

The timing of this job for Sayid couldn't have been worse, but he had only himself to blame. He'd filled the last week while waiting out the Dunns' mourning period with the names from the list. It had kept his mind nicely distracted from reflecting on the disaster he'd made of things with Scully, as well as ominously fleshing out the case. He'd gotten ahead of the infection schedule, warning all three of the month's remaining victims. The first two had managed to avoid their infection date by breaking their routine and declining interaction with strangers, and the third had put himself into hiding before his date could come to pass. Hopefully that meant Mulder had saved all three, and that he had a bit of time up his sleeve before the March victims could be singled out. He had planned to spend today chasing down leads on the Russians Dr Gray had hinted were his next clue to locating him once again, and then feeling out the Dunn family. He hadn't counted on adding a third task into the day.

He turned the key, thinking. Pretty much every place he needed to be today was in Virginia, and he was going to drive right past the capitol to reach his destinations. He really could pick up Scully on his way, but he wouldn't, and it would be hard not to think of her as he drove close by her location and then went straight on past.

He consulted his watch again. It was already into the afternoon. He had places to be, and hours of driving to contemplate Scully. He put the car into gear and departed the university carpark.

It was true – the closer he got to D.C., the more keenly he missed Scully, but it wasn't just because he was alone in the car and geographically proximate that he wished she were there. Aside from regrets about the last conversation they'd had, his mind was also filled with the unsettling truths he'd gleaned from the would-be victims he'd helped save, and what he wanted most right now was for Scully to be sitting in the passenger seat, listening to what he'd learned, dismissing anecdotal red herrings, connecting dots and suggesting links with actual studies and facts beyond the case. For years now, every time he fell asleep he missed the warmth of her beside him and the soft rhythm of her breath, but more than her body, more than her love, even, he missed her mind. He missed her organised, regimented, brilliant brain, a machine of the highest calibre, and the way it processed all that was amazing, or incredible, or crazy, or unexpected, and spat out the simplest possible explanation. She could strip the magic off anything – in a blink of those wonderful blue eyes, she could turn the tooth fairy into just a parent taking a tooth while a child sleeps and replacing it with a quarter – and hand it back to him, mundane and functional and bland. The lowest common denominator.

God, sometimes he'd hated that she could do that and that she insisted on doing that to anything and everything that he found fascinating, the killjoy she could be sometimes, but right now, data swirling in his head, clouded with bias and fear and prejudice, he would be so appreciative of that skill of hers. He needed to make sense of it all and cut the bullshit out. Streamline it into a basic, factual package.

He did possess the ability to think critically, like she did, and it did not escape his sense of irony that when he did, it was her voice he heard in his head.

As he drove south, Mulder reflected on the three would-be victims. On the surface, they seemed so safe and unconnected, but after walking up to their door and saying, "My name's Fox Mulder and I'm a freelance investigator. I found your name and address on a secret list of unconsenting subjects for illegal biological weapons testing. Can we talk somewhere safe about why anybody would want to silence you?" they were all very quick to suggest chillingly similar reasons for their selection.

The lawyer was a public defender. A very vocal one. His current clients were a volunteer group charged with nuisance and harassment for their recent peaceful protest against the land-clearing of a local woodland to make way for large warehouses. The defender had taken their cause to heart, and was fighting not only the charges, but now the construction itself. It didn't take him long to explain to Mulder why he thought he'd been chosen.

"There are millions of dollars tied up in this project, of course," he'd said, voice hushed, curtains drawn across sunlit windows, "and it's meant to be private money, but go back far enough, and it's not. It's government funds, I know it. It's this long string of account numbers, money moved from one to the next, including through Tannenbaum's, the same legal firm that's representing the other side. It would be very embarrassing for the federal government to be associated with this land clearing, especially considering the local tribal significance of the area, and they've been paying for this legal battle. I mean, I don't have the source yet, but I can feel it. I had to disclose what I have, that this investigation is part of my defence and, honestly, I thought there would be a bigger backlash. This is it, I suppose. A quiet assassination."

"Who are the warehouses for?" Mulder had asked.

"Publicly, they're for Fenchurch Transport Systems for temporary storage, but who knows what they're really for?"

There's no direct proof of government involvement here, Scully's voice warned him against jumping to the same conclusions as the lawyer. There are few blanks in that story.

The journalism student Cara filled in some of those blanks.

"I picked it for an assignment, and it just kept going," she'd admitted, "so I kept following the trail. Fenchurch Transport is linked with Tannenbaum Solicitors – they operate out of the same building in Alexandria and they both belong to some charity group, or more likely some money-laundering front, called The Worldwide Family of Hosts." She was reluctant at first to share her work, but as she spoke she opened a laptop and started guiding Mulder through the web of documents she'd collated. "Meant to be a support network for disadvantaged children, and their website is full of beautiful testimonials from smaller community groups, but every one of those groups I followed up on was a dead end. Each one either doesn't exist or isn't registered properly, and any money this Family of Hosts is funnelling into them for tax breaks is coming straight back to them as donations made out from other little made-up businesses and community groups. I showed my work to my professor. He advised it was too big for the purpose of the assignment but he said he'd take it to the board anyway. When he came back he was really edgy. He told me to delete it all and not tell anyone else. I thought it was weird but I never thought anyone would try to kill me over this."

"Obviously, you didn't take his advice," Mulder commented, glad, reading the screen. Cara shook her head.

"No, of course not. But I don't know what else to do with it. It's not done, and it's too big to release incomplete."

Mulder didn't leave until she'd printed the lot, and they agreed on a precautionary course of action that would transcend both of them, in case either was compromised.

Lack of evidence isn't evidence, Scully's voice intoned as Mulder drove into the afternoon. Not finding the community groups' registrations doesn't prove the groups and businesses don't exist. It's suspicious, definitely, but not proof of anything.

Frank the retired teacher was blunt on his reason for being targeted, and provided the first link with the former Soviet Union, reminding Mulder of the last prompt from Dr Gray.

"Harvey Newman was a student of mine," he said gruffly through the screen door of his home. "My best student ever, actually. Brilliant kid. We kept in touch for a few years after he graduated, until he was posted overseas. If they're after me, it's because I know what they've done to him, and I know why. I know what they sent him to Russia for. Don't worry, Mr Mulder. They won't find me."

The former educator was as good as his word, and had taken himself off the grid, but not before Mulder had encouraged him to leave his complete testimony in the same manner as Cara's investigation, just in case, as Scully's voice warily insisted, because no single one of these would-be victims could produce a story that would bolster her case, but together, the three started to corroborate one another, and that was getting closer to proving it in a federal court. The old man was reluctant.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

Why did that question keep coming up? Trust no one. The Dunns wondering if they could trust Scully and Mulder, Sayid unsure whether to trust Mulder and vice versa. Mulder shrugged.

"You have to decide for yourself."

He was doing the same right now. As he drove, the details of the ever-widening investigation swirled in his head, and Scully's voice helped to sort through it all. With everyone else, there was always the question – can I trust you and your motives? – but with her, that question had been redundant for twenty years. He didn't ask, he simply did. He trusted her judgement. It was why he let her voice boss him around in his own mental dialogue.

It was why he was going to do what he planned next.

The Dunn property looked much less ominous, though much grottier, during the day. The car parts looked more plentiful, the paint on the little house looked more worn, the rotten step to the porch looked even more splintered and dangerous than it had the other night. He pulled up, crossed the untidy front lawn and knocked on the front door. As before, he was met with the barrel of a shotgun through the window.

Ten undignified and tense minutes later, he was back in his car with a refrigerated cardboard box sitting on the passenger seat. Wendy Dunn wouldn't speak with him, but her son Ezekiel had sent one of his brothers for the box while Mulder stood at the door at gunpoint. For the most part, the Dunns would not answer Mulder at all, except when, frustrated, he asked pointedly, "Did you at least follow my advice?"

A brisk nod, but that was it. Their father's body had been destroyed, and there was no reason for anyone to come to the property now to disturb their peace. There was no evidence to be collected by Dr Gray's employers, nothing to be gained.

Except what was in the refrigerated box.

"You were true to your word and no one came for us," Ezekiel Dunn said flatly when Mulder thanked him. "Hopefully your friend will be true to hers, and find a way to use this to stop this from happening to anyone else."

Mulder hoped so, too, but Scully had firmly refused his offer to send the Dunn virus samples directly to her. Pride, or disdain, or any other natural negative human reaction preventing her from doing something sensible – she was no saint. He hadn't pushed the matter, and anyway, now he'd worked out a way around it.

People less paranoid than Mulder had a way of being findable. They told people where they were going, they put down their real names on forms, they signed up for gym memberships with their credit cards and gave their real addresses, they put their names on the buzzer to their buildings. In a matter of two phony phone calls, he knew exactly where to find Agent Natalie Harlow.

"Hello, can you put me through to Agent Natalie Harlow, please? This is Dr Kleinschmidt calling back from Stockton University… Yes, I'll hold… Hello Agent Collins, is Natalie Harlow there? No? Oh, this is her cousin, Jimmy – I locked my keys inside her house, I feel like such a prat. Do you know if I can get her on her cell? Left for the gym already? Which gym, do you know? Okay, thanks!"

"Hi, Amanda. Hi, I wonder if you can help me? My cousin Natalie is a member of your gym and I can't get hold of her on her cell. I assume she's in the middle of a session?"

In the parking lot of Better Life, a small twenty-four-hour gym in the middle of Quantico, Mulder opened his phone and ran another search for Harlow, Natalie, FBI, and again brought up the few images that matched. There were thousands of hits, really, but most of them were improperly tagged. Just a few contained photographs of a thirtyish Eurasian woman with shiny dark hair.

A social media profile picture from her younger days popped up in the search. MySpace. That would have to go if he was going to get involved with this woman. The others were less irritating. A college newsletter congratulating Honours student Ms Harlow on a faculty award. A thumbnail image of the doctor from an online journal of virology where she had published a couple of papers.

The same face appeared through the automatic doors of the little gym, hair damp and pulled back tight, and Mulder kicked open the car door and pocketed the phone. Scully had chosen to trust this agent. Harlow had opened the Engel investigation, identified the work of the Black Oil without knowing what she was stepping in, and apparently paid for her righteous mission with her career. Undeleted MySpace profile or not, she was already in, and Scully's judgement had to count for something.

Parked out of view of the door's cameras, Mulder waved to catch Harlow's attention. She noticed and hesitated. She looked uneasily around to confirm both that he was addressing her and not someone else, and that there was no person or camera around to ensure nothing happened to her. Mulder appreciated her healthy mistrust of strangers. Perhaps she could be retrained out of her casual findable ways.

He waved her over and got the box out of the car. Slowly, still glancing around for exits and possible back-up, Agent Harlow approached.

"Do I know you?" she asked curiously when she was in earshot. Mulder closed the car door and moved in front of the bonnet so she'd see he wasn't hiding anything.

"We haven't met," Mulder answered, "but we share a mutual acquaintance. You've spoken with Agent Scully."

At the name, Harlow's shapely dark eyes, so intrigued, went flat and slack. Fake smile. "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

"She visited you. Last Friday."

"I don't know any Agent Scully," the young virologist insisted, adamant, and he reflected that Scully would have warned her of this. No one can know we've spoken.

"It's-"

"I don't want to talk to you," Harlow said firmly, already backing away. Smile gone. She started to turn and Mulder resisted the urge to catch her. This wasn't Scully.

"I know you two are involved in a very sensitive situation and I appreciate your unwillingness to discuss it," he said patiently, following her across the parking lot at a respectful distance he would rarely have granted his former partner. She refused to look back; she dug in her gym bag for car keys. "I even expect Scully advised you against telling anyone she'd been to see you. It's good advice. There are people who will do anything to interfere with your work." Mulder raised the little cardboard box, unseen behind her. "I have the evidence you both need to prove yourselves right. To make your case."

He was taking a chance, one he would rather not take, but Scully didn't want direct contact right now and she'd chosen to let Harlow in. The younger agent stopped and spun on her heel suspiciously.

"How do you know what we need to make our case?" she demanded icily. She looked him up and down with as much contempt as she could muster. She did a good job but had nothing on Scully. "Who the hell are you?"

"Fox Mulder," he answered, deciding to be forthright. The name struck no chord of recognition in her guarded eyes. She shrugged haughtily, silently asking whether that was meant to mean something. "I was Scully's partner at the Bureau for nine years."

That resonated. "The wildcard in the basement."

"That'd be me," he said with a smile. Nice to know he occasionally came up in conversation, even if it was in strange ways like that. At least she still alluded to having known him, once.

"I didn't realise you were with the Bureau, Agent Mulder," Harlow said with a quick clear of her throat, the closest she was willing to offer in place of an apology. She straightened her back a little, wincing slightly, realising how poorly she'd handled this first meeting with what she gathered was a senior agent. Mulder was quick to put her conscience at ease.

"Drop the 'agent'. I've been freelance since 2002." He offered the box again. "If anybody asks, an anonymous contact gave you this."

"What is it?" Harlow asked, less aggressively now that she knew she was talking to a former colleague. Her expressive eyes betrayed the growing curiosity as she watched the cardboard box in his hand.

"Samples of the virus," Mulder answered frankly, watching with satisfaction as her eyes went wide in shock and she looked up at him from the box. "It's been out of the fridge for nearly an hour now, though, so you'd better have somewhere safe to store it."

"Dr Scully said she had this," Harlow murmured, eyeing the box eagerly.

"This isn't from her," Mulder corrected. "This is for her."

Agent Harlow regarded him for a moment. He could see the intelligence in her eyes, in her dollish, dainty features. A doctorate by thirty; she hadn't mucked around with her time, and that, if nothing else conveyed in her demeanour, reminded him of Scully. "So there are multiple subjects. She's got samples from other victims, and you're giving me – her – a new one." She paused. "Forgive my scepticism, but why would you trust something that dangerous and that valuable to a stranger like me? Why wouldn't you deliver it straight to your partner? I'm finding this a bit hard to swallow."

"Scepticism is a most attractive quality in a woman, believe me. The people you're afraid of, the people you suspect me of working for right now," Mulder explained, "know who I am. They know Agent Scully. I can't be seen giving this to her. But it's important she gets it."

"I'm your messenger," Harlow read between the lines. She didn't sound offended by the concept. Impressed, maybe? Mulder hefted the box lightly.

"This subject died last Friday night from the same affliction as the Engel family you investigated in 2014, but there have been others. Between what Scully has and what I'm giving you today, the two of you should be able to lay some pretty solid foundations for a case. But," Mulder said now, lifting the box clear of her hands, watching as disappointment flashed across her eyes, "this comes with strings attached. Nobody but Scully hears you got this from me. Understood?"

"Yeah, I get it," Harlow promised hurriedly. Mulder still didn't hand it over.

"This case she's brought you into, in whatever capacity she's decided to trust you with, it's very serious, Ms Harlow," he iterated. "People have been killed."

She frowned and turned her full attention from the box to him. "I know it's serious. I've been locked in a storeroom stacking shelves for the last eighteen months, where I can't get into any trouble telling the world what I saw that virus do to that family." She held his gaze with the full force of her attitude, which he gathered from the look was a pretty big thing. "I've learned how to keep my mouth shut, Mr Mulder, if that's what you're worried about. No one else will get their hands on this. I'm sure it was challenge to procure and I won't do anything to jeopardise this investigation. My career depends on this. A whole family depends on this."

Mulder finally lowered the box and let her take it. "Find a way to get that to Scully without drawing any attention to what you've got. You're in very dangerous territory, and it'll be much worse if anyone knew I was involved."

Harlow was already slitting open the box to check its contents. She dropped her gym bag at her feet to dedicate both hands to the task. She stared into the box for a moment, amazed by her strike of luck.

"You, uh, know better than to open that outside of a lab, right?" Mulder checked uneasily, watching closely as she lightly touched the contents, turning the vial to be able to read its label. She didn't answer, but she didn't make any move to do anything stupid, either.

"What stage of infection was this subject at when these samples were taken?" she asked, all business now. Mulder shrugged.

"That information is all with Agent Scully," he said. He didn't want to give too much to this woman. She was a messenger and an assistant to Scully's cause – he didn't like the idea of her off managing the case on her own, regardless of whether she was trustworthy. She was the wildcard here, not Mulder in his basement office. "Now for the second string. Promise you'll use what I've given you today to develop a cure." Harlow looked up at him again, calculating and guarded. "That's important, Agent. There will be more deaths. Maybe you can prevent some."

"How do you know so much about this?" she asked, both suspicious and full of wonder. Mulder smiled.

"I'm not your informant," he quipped, and her eyes narrowed, and not against the orange rays of the sun setting behind his shoulder. "Good luck, Agent. Oh," he added, pausing to interrupt her irritated demand that he not leave her hanging, "and about your old MySpace profile. One Google search and two phone calls and I knew what you looked like and where to find you. Next time, I hope you won't make it this easy for me – or for them."

He withdrew back to his car, noting the way Harlow's mouth, pursed tightly against her protestations at his departure, curved slightly into the tiniest of smiles. Game on.

Mulder decided he liked her. He liked the guarded curiosity, the runaway mouth and the loosely managed ego, and he liked the work ethic her academic history alluded to. He read a competitive personality from her behaviours and her history, and would be very surprised if his little challenge wasn't wholeheartedly addressed. From his car he saw her quickly unlock her own, throw in her gym bag and peel out of the parking lot. He hoped she was taking those samples straight to an appropriate refrigeration unit to begin work.

He hoped he hadn't misjudged her completely, and hoped she wasn't taking his hard-earned bounty from the Dunn misadventure straight to some new incarnation of the Syndicate.

The sun fell away behind the buildings and Mulder got his phone back out. Remember the days of paper maps? He still kept that rugged old map he'd plotted with Scully in their last years together, buried at the bottom of his backpack, but other than for recording events like that, he used his phones now. He snapped open the back of his current phone and pulled out the memory and the battery. The battery and the phone itself, he stowed in their zip-lock bag, disassembled, and tossed that into the backseat. He'd used it for weeks now, much longer than usual, and that was foolish. Anyone could latch onto his signal, follow him, track him down. He reached under the dashboard, fingers feeling for the crack in the plastic behind the steering wheel where he'd stashed another zip-lock bag. With the swift precision of someone who does this nearly fortnightly, he assembled the phone and transferred the memory he needed – the photographs of the CIA documents he'd burned with Scully, photographs of the documents he'd burned with the homeless on Christmas Day. Then he snapped the little card into pieces. He had a dozen such burner cards, waiting for their short life to begin and end.

He ran a search for Mikhail Levin and his Richmond carwash. Two hours, give or take. He had the map application plot a route for him, and laid the phone on the passenger seat where the refrigerated box of blood, lung tissue and alien virus had lain minutes before. He would be there tonight, and should get moving if he hoped to intercept the Russian business owner before the man locked up the carwash and went home for the night, but he couldn't resist the temptation to follow through with one of his pet impulses.

He dug in his backpack for the phone. The phone whose SIM card he never destroyed, the phone he never turned off, the phone he painstakingly kept charged even though nobody ever called it. It was old, no internet connection. He flicked on the screen. No calls. No messages. No activity at all.

No surprise.

It was low on charge, so he plugged it up to the cigarette lighter before he set off for Richmond. He had taught himself over the years not to be disappointed by the inevitable and repeated result. She never called. She didn't want to talk to him. He should know that by now. He should stop checking. He should turn the phone off, finally, and let it go.

But she was the only person in the world with this number, and if it ever rang, it would be her, and it would be dire. It would have to be, to prompt her to contact him, right? He imagined her ringing a dead phone after being promised it would always be answered for her. He imagined her, somewhere out there in the world, with him on her mind and her fingers on her phone screen, needing him, didn't matter in what regard, and whenever he had this thought, he knew he would never turn that phone off.

Waiting at a stoplight, he touched the gold cross at his throat. Hope was a powerful motivator. It had kept him focussed for years on the X-Files searching for Samantha, and had kept him alive in the months he spent in exile, and now, kept him checking that phone every day. The poster that had hung in his office, their office, had summed up his fundamental truth perfectly: I want to believe. More than anything, Mulder wanted to believe he could win in the end. He wanted to believe he could put this giant conspiracy, haunting him since he was twelve years old, to rest one day at long last, and he wanted to believe he could repair what he had with Scully. He wanted to believe he was heading into a reasonably safe and sensible situation tonight with this Russian contact of Gerard Dixon's contact, this contact who might shoot him without warning. He wanted to believe Gray and Reece weren't the only people back from the dead.

Could hope really bring about all that?

He drove on as the sunlight faded and night dawned, first grey, then black, always cold. He joined the legions of traffic headed for Richmond. He glanced several times at the clock on his dashboard, aware of the increasing lateness. Would Levin still be at work? A Russian spy was unlikely to be as lax about his personal security as newbie agent Harlow, and it would take more than a couple of calls to locate this man's whereabouts.

How much would it upset Sayid's plans if Mulder's message had to wait until morning? If Levin had gone home for the night? What was Sayid's wrath capable of? Mulder thought it best not to test the waters on that one.

The carwash was well and truly closed by the time Mulder arrived, and he drove once around the premises, despairing slightly that he may have missed his window of opportunity, but then he spotted a single lit window, glowing yellow in the little annex office behind the main building. Vague shadows indicated human movement inside. He parked, pulled on a jacket as he got out, and went to knock, only realising as his knuckles connected solidly with the wood of the door that he had no idea what was about to happen. He hadn't planned what he would say. He didn't know how Levin would react, or what he would say in return. He didn't know whether Levin was truly of the temperament to shoot him or whether he was walking into something extremely volatile that was worth killing an intruder for. He hadn't formulated an escape plan in case this went south. He'd just discounted Dixon's concerns and headed out.

He was here on the advice of a stranger from the internet because he was so desperate for anything, anything, to back up what he wanted to believe, and he was here alone and vulnerable because he was too proud to swallow his fears and front up to Scully's place like he should have. Hey, I know we aren't in the best place with each other right now, but I'm following a lead and I'm going in blind. This might be the break we need in your case. Come for a ride to Richmond? Be upfront and transparent. Isn't that what she was mad about last time – one of the things she was mad about last time – the way he'd supposedly misled her to get her to the Dunns'?

Why did he have to do everything the hard way?

The door cracked open and a powerfully built, friendly-looking moustached man of about forty looked out into the night.

"Yes?" Sounding perfectly all-American.

"Mikhail Levin?" Mulder checked, rolling his shoulders in his jacket to make it sit more comfortably against the cold. The man inside nodded, acting curious. He wasn't. Just like Agent Harlow's, his eyes were the giveaway. His instead were flat and unafraid, just playing polite. "I'm Fox Mulder, former FBI. Can I talk to you inside about Lenkov?"

No surprise registered on the bigger, younger man's face, but he did remain silent for a very long beat as he processed the information. Former FBI. Lenkov. Finally Levin nodded once more and stepped back, letting Mulder into the small office. The yellow-lit space was crowded with two cheap desks buried under receipts and crumpled paperwork, and the walls were lined with haphazard shelving and filing cabinets.

"I wondered when you would show up," Levin commented dryly, shutting him inside and turning to regard him with only the mildest interest. Definitely without fear. The man might have been a spy for the country's most contentious rival nation, but he certainly wore no concerns that he might ever be caught out. Mulder assumed he was armed, and assumed he was fast. The Russian leaned back on the door casually, blocking the only exit and ensuring Mulder made that realisation. "Are you wired?"

"No." Mulder removed the jacket he'd only just donned and began to lift his shirt, but Levin waved dismissively.

"The walls are lined. No signal's getting through. I was only asking." Nothing ruffled this man. "If you're here, my mission is compromised. Give me a good reason not to make you disappear, Mr Mulder," he said, and the hint of his Russian accent finally slipped through on those rrrs as he opened his coat to show Mulder his sidearm, fair warning. Mulder appreciated the opportunity to talk himself out of trouble – he'd always been a good talker and talked himself out of much worse.

"Your mission only has one leak," he said calmly, "so once you remove Lenkov from the equation, you're back on track."

"What do you know about Lenkov?" Levin asked, acting unworried. But the fact that Mulder even knew the name had to be throwing up red flags in his well-trained mind. It was enough to make him threaten to make Mulder disappear, anyway.

"I know the Americans are onto him," Mulder said, choosing Sayid's words. "An old contact at the CIA wasn't mindful of which files he had open on his desktop when I went to him for some information on a separate case… which, it turns out, mightn't be so separate after all. It's possible that you and I could be of use to one another, Mr Levin."

"Hmm." Mikhail Levin brushed his thick moustache with a thumb and contemplated the news. "Possibly you're right. Or possibly you belong at the bottom of the nearest river where you can't try to turn me against my own team and sell me out to your government. The infinite possibilities."

"You knew I was coming," Mulder said now, trying a new angle, eager to not find out what the bottom of the nearest river looked like. "You know who I am, which means you know how limited my relationship with my own government is. I have no motivation to sell you out to anyone. I'm just here to negotiate for information."

"And you thought you'd start off the negotiation by delivering me bad news? Solid strategy."

"I thought I'd start off by telling you that your operation has a breach so you can address it before it gets out of hand," Mulder corrected. "Consider it a favour. I could have let you all go down, which you will, sooner rather than later if you don't ship Lenkov out of the situation."

He was assuming the cell contained more than just Levin and Lenkov, otherwise he was going to sound silly. Levin regarded him heavily in silence, deciding.

"I didn't know you were coming," he said finally, turning to a filing cabinet beside the door. He opened the top drawer and dug around at the back; he withdrew a cheap cell phone. "When I took the mission I was given a list of names to watch out for. Yours was on the list."

"Should I be flattered?" Or was it a hit list?

Levin shrugged big shoulders as he calmly switched the phone on. Good to know other paranoids kept burner phones, too. "Depends. Do you like the label 'alien hunter'?"

"I prefer 'paranormal investigator'," Mulder replied, watching what the other man did. Levin's attention was on the cell in his hands. Better there than on his gun.

"I'm sure you do. I'm sure you've been called worse. What does Henry Gray call you?"

Mulder paused, thinking through his answer. Almost any reply would confirm that he knew the scientist lived again, and that he'd been in contact with him. His conversation with Dr Gray at The Lion's Share family restaurant had ended with a prompt for Mulder to go and find 'the Russians', implying some connection. He'd been chasing this connection, and now that he'd found it, he realised he wasn't sure if it was a connection he should make explicit.

He'd really run into this with his head up his ass, distracted with shallow and pointless cyclic worries about Scully and whether or not she hated him. Stupid, stupid. Short answer: yes, she hated him. She also loved him. There; no more pondering required. It was simple.

"He calls me an ally," he said finally, taking a chance, because by now, what did he have to lose? The other was still looking down at his phone, but now opened the door. "What does he call you?"

"A Russian," Levin answered dryly, pulling his gun and letting it hang casually at his side as he stepped outside, "though I was born here and lived here most of my life. Tell me. What would you call me, Mr Mulder," he continued slowly, precisely, lifting the gun level as he backed away from the office into the parking lot, "if I called in my friend to help me dispose of your body after I've put a bullet through you?"

Trick question? Mulder guessed not. "Prudent," he offered. "Assassinations in close quarters like these get messy."

Levin nodded slowly, thinking, and cracked a reluctant half-smile, apparently appreciating Mulder's humour even in dire straits. He raised the phone to his ear and listened to it ring.

One way or the other, Mulder vowed this was the last time he would ever take advice from a stranger on the internet over teaming up with Scully. He looked at the door uneasily.

"Don't do anything stupid," Levin warned, shaking the gun, then his call connected. "Daniil, I'm sorry it's late. Baba is sick. Go and take care of her."

He hung up immediately and dialled another number.

"Vashchenko, I have a Fox Mulder standing in my office. Report in an hour."

Again, Levin hung up quickly. He holstered the gun and this time dismantled the phone as he returned to the radio-silent office. Mulder watched in tense silence to learn of his fate. He gathered that the reference to an ill grandmother was code, but for what, he was unsure he wanted to know.

Mikhail Levin slammed the door behind him, put the pieces of the phone away and turned back to Mulder. "Daniil Lenkov has been a loyal and invaluable teammate. I trust I haven't sent him back to Russia for nothing."

Mulder tried not to sigh with relief. He offered a shrug. "You've got to do what you've got to do to protect the mission."

"You know what my mission here is, then?"

Honesty seemed the best policy. "Not really, no. I only know your mission involves several buzz words I've been chasing for my own personal investigation. The Worldwide Family of Hosts. Dr Gray."

"Lenkov has been my connection to Henry Gray," Levin admitted. "He's been pivotal to my team's work. Without him, I lose that connection." He fingered the lapel of his jacket, thoughtful, implication clear. "I think you might be of use after all, Mr Mulder."

Mulder smiled wryly. "If you're asking me to act as emissary between you and Gray, you don't need to threaten me into that. I'm happy with any in on this action. Anything that can help me answer my questions."

"Because of the aliens," Levin finished. Normally, when someone said that to Mulder, it was in jest, making fun of him, but Levin sounded perfectly serious.

"That's right," Mulder said cautiously. "Because I need to prove – to myself – I'm not crazy for chasing this my whole life."

"I can't guarantee you're not crazy, and I can't guarantee you've got a place working with my team. If Vashchenko comes back with anything less than right about you, we'll be dumping you in that river after all."

"If the options are to either kill me or conscript me, there's no harm in telling me what I want to know," Mulder reasoned. "I've just betrayed CIA secrets to a Russian spy and compromised a federal investigation. Nothing you tell me here is going to be any good to me except for my own crusade," Scully's word, not his, but after carrying her voice around in his head all day it slipped out like it would from her mouth, "so why not just tell me? My life will be over anyway if I try to sell myself back to my own government now."

Mikhail Levin considered. "I guess we've got an hour before Vashchenko rings to damn you with anything you've neglected to mention." He crossed the office to sit behind one of the crowded desks. He shifted piles of crumpled paper around so he could be easily seen over it, and gestured for Mulder to sit opposite in the small chair cramped into the little gap between the desk and the wall of shelving. "You want to know about the Hosts," he stated, still tidying. "That's what we've been conscripted for. To find out what we can about them. You've already started digging. Maybe we can help one another after all."

"You're investigating a private organisation on American soil? You're not spying on America itself?"

"Grow up, Mr Mulder," Levin said idly. "This is much bigger than little squabbles between two countries. There are plenty of other operatives, here and there, playing the Cold War spy game with each other, but my team is doing the real work – trying to prepare for wholescale invasion."

Mulder sat forward, gripped with interest. "I keep hearing it's already started."

"We've known for decades when it would start," Levin replied. "December, 2012. And it did."

Mulder felt a simultaneous burst of relieved knowing and a jolt of denial. "I was watching that night. I didn't see anything." We didn't see anything.

Levin thumbed his moustache again calmly. "Who said there was anything to see?" he asked rhetorically. "Who said they had to arrive in big spaceships and light up the sky?"

"How else do you stage an intergalactic invasion?" Mulder asked in the same tone. Levin shrugged his broad shoulders delicately, enjoying the position of power in knowing something the other didn't, and perhaps enjoying the opportunity to tell the exciting narrative he'd been living in secret for years now. "How do you get thousands of aliens onto our planet surface without a craft of some sort? They do have ships. I've seen them. I've been in them."

"Maybe the most viable way to achieve such a goal is to think outside the box – the physical box," Levin prompted Mulder's thought process. "When you're invading a planet with seven billion ignorant inhabitants perfectly suited to its environment, who said you have to bring your own bodies?"