The understated sedans stuck out like sore thumbs where they were parked on the far end of the wharf. Scully glanced down at her casual attire and realized that she was no less out of place. None of the dock workers wore a beige cashmere blend jacket over fluid matching trousers. Here, haute couture meant a clean flannel shirt and jeans and a two-day beard. Mulder's jeans and leather jacket were only a little less conspicuous. Next to most of their observers, the former FBI agent looked like a male model.
Reyes at least had worn jeans, her dark hair locked into a tight knot at the back of her head and her face free of cosmetics. Her creamy fisherman's sweater was loose enough to disguise much of her willowy figure, and her rubber-soled boots were an exact match for those worn by many of the fishermen. Something about Reyes's stance told Scully that the woman was no stranger to the sea.
Only Doggett looked like he truly belonged. With his wiry build, the weathered masculinity of his face, and the faded denim jeans and lined jacket, he could probably have moved easily among these men and women if he came alone.
"There's Sydney's jeep!"
Nigel's voice drew startled gasps from all three FBI agents, and Mulder nearly jumped out of his skin. The British bookworm had been transformed. His face was unchanged, but he'd acquired the slouch and attire – and the scents - of the crews that studiously ignored the better-dressed invaders. "I've learned a thing or two about blending in with the natives," the young man said defensively. "Sometimes you don't want to be seen for who you are!" He'd materialized seemingly from nowhere.
Inside the jeep, an envelope was taped to the steering wheel. It was addressed to Nigel, written in Sydney's hurried script. God only knew how or when the woman had written it. It was frustratingly blithe. "Nigel, I couldn't just stand around any more. The weight of the world was on my shoulders. We know all about Attila, about the Steppes, the horsemanship. The year was right then and it's right now. I know you're doing your best, but there are too many lives at stake. Sydney."
"Nothing helpful," Scully sighed, suppressing a moan. Her baby and her mother were in the possession of a murderous lunatic and Sydney Fox was still talking obscure history.
"All right, Sydney!" Nigel's grin belied the nebulous message.
Doggett frowned. "What, are you nuts? Your little friend might be dead."
"I know," Nigel replied softly. "But she drew us a map. See?"
"I don't see no map." The former New York cop wasn't in the mood for wasting time.
"Look, it's as plain as the nose on your face. She spelled it all out for us. The Steppes are steps. It means the upper level. Look, just follow me, okay? Let's see…" The four other men and women were hard pressed to keep up with the small figure who darted toward the row of ships. Here, hard eyes stared at them from the ships and the shore, but no one openly challenged them.
Scully was growing more edgy with every step she took. Shivering, she pulled her long trench coat closer to her. She unconsciously edged closer to Mulder, forcing herself to breathe, to walk, to pretend that she was still living, that her soul hadn't been ripped from her body,
"Damn," Reyes swore under her breath. "That's it. It has to be."
Scully's eyes rose up the steel arc of the boat. Across its bow was emblazoned a stylized horse and the name "Mongolian Stallion."
"What's the date today?" Mulder asked aloud. "The 18th, isn't it?"
"Yeah, why?" Doggett replied.
Nigel gestured to a marker. The ship was tethered to slip number 182001. A glance at the side of the vessel was further proof. Beneath the name, smaller numbers and letters were stenciled on, marking some kind of registration. The numbers read "432-453AD". The historian mumbled, "Of course. The years of Attila's reign. The year was right then and it's right now."
"They're on the ship!" Mulder gasped as he realized that the vessel was preparing for a hasty departure.
Two powerful strides each carried the larger men to the gangway, where their reception was understandably chilly. A man barked out a threat from the deck of the boat, snarling in a language neither Mulder nor Doggett understood. Nigel hurried in behind them, translating, "He says you don't look seaworthy." The young scholar yelled back to the captain in a halting variation of the guttural tongue. Nigel's phrase drew pouts and groans from most of the crew and a look of disgust from their challenger. "He's the captain," Nigel explained in an aside. "I told him you're health inspectors. I told him either you board with his cooperation or you can seize his boat and impound it for a month."
Playing along, Mulder nodded knowingly in the direction of the captain, whose frown deepened even as reluctant acquiescence seeped into the slouch of his shoulders.
The captain leveled an angry glare at Doggett and Mulder, but they were allowed to board. The young historian was blocked. Nigel shrugged helplessly. "They said I'm not a health inspector so I don't need to join you!" he called to the current and former FBI agents. He didn't look terribly disappointed at his exclusion.
Winds whipped the water into a frenzy, suggesting that a storm was on its way. There were shouts from inside and outside the boat, but Mulder and Doggett focused on a thorough search, winding their way through the narrow passageways, largely ignoring the scowls and unintelligible demands of their 'guide'. Their eyes skimmed over the refrigeration section, its ice makers standing ready. Both men were surprised to find that the storage compartments truly were clean.
They didn't really expect to find the hostages in the refrigerator, but it would be tricky to manipulate a tour of the crew quarters and all the niches and crannies. As tight as things were, there were still endless hiding places. Finally Doggett glared at their tour guide and sniffed, "You afraid we're gonna find something? Let us do our jobs!"
The scruffy young man let loose with a rapid-fire response and stalked away, giving them the opportunity they needed. The duo agreed to split up so they could do a better job of hunting. With the crew topside preparing to depart, Mulder and Doggett were pretty much left alone.
Half an hour later they met back at the door to the refrigeration unit. They exchanged glances. "Nothing?"
"Nope."
Mulder's jaw worked. "Taking any bets?"
"That we're out in the middle of the ocean? Nope. It's a sure thing." Doggett leaned against the bulkhead, pursing his lips. "I guess you could say we fell for it hook, line, and sinker."
"*The weight of the world… right then and it's right now…*"
Standing on the weathered wood of the pier, Nigel started to shake. "Weight… Wait. Oh god, WAIT! She said WAIT! We've got to get them off of there!"
Scully and Reyes stared at the young man. Reyes looked mildly amused. Scully was frowning. "What the hell are you talking about, Nigel?" The redhead's expression threatened serious consequences if the young man didn't answer her very fast.
"They're not on the boat! Sydney's note said wait, it also said it's right. We turn right from the boat and…" He turned, pointing. "There, that warehouse. It's to the right. They're in the warehouse!"
Scully didn't waste time trying to kill the historian. She lunged at the trawler, knowing even as she did that it was too late. The sailors smirked and whistled, laughing at her from several yards away as the engine revved and the vessel began to pull out from its slip. "Mulder!" she screamed. "Agent Doggett!"
Reyes and Nigel joined in her frantic calls a moment later, all of them knowing they'd never be heard. Even if their companions weren't disabled or unconscious, the sounds of three panicked voices would be lost inside the departing ship.
Reyes scribbled the name and registration onto a notepad while juggling her cell phone to call in a report. The FBI and the Coast Guard would set off on a cooperative effort and the fishing trawler wouldn't get far.
Now that Mulder and Doggett were out of reach, Scully turned her attentions to the little Englishman, who was loping toward the huge building. "Nigel, don't!" she yelled, her sense of duty overcoming the overwhelming desire to throttle him. "You could be –"
The shot rang out before she had the chance to complete her sentence. The impact of the bullet flung Nigel to the ground instantly, where he lay unmoving.
The shooting didn't stop there. Scully and Reyes scrambled for cover as the sniper fired round after round. Collecting the injured scholar was out of the question for now. A bullet shattered a corner of the wooden crate that sheltered the two female FBI agents, firing off splinters, tiny bits of shrapnel that pierced Reyes's and Scully's flesh.
"NIGEL!"Sydney's scream was cut short as a large, masked figure backhanded her, then pushed her into a waiting van. Effectively imprisoned by sniper fire, the female FBI agents watched helplessly while the hostages were driven away.
The van was abandoned less than two blocks away. The trawler was found, dead in the water and empty, a few miles out from the shore.
Not only had they not found William or Mrs. Scully, but Attila now had three more hostages with whom to negotiate, and their young historical consultant lay fighting for life in a Connecticut hospital.