White Marsh, Maryland, 7:01 a.m.
By the time Coke arrived in the pleasant Baltimore suburb of White Marsh, he had sufficiently recovered from his initial surprise to turn his attention back to the immediate problem at hand: Christine Kiviat. He had been careful to mark out the address from his file in bold yellow highlighter and had checked the directions thoroughly on mapquest, familiarizing himself with Kiviat's neighborhood. He didn't expect to have a particularly difficult time of the assignment but ever since he had been alerted to the fact that Mulder was on the case, he had decided to be a little more cautious. Coke knew from hard experience that it didn't pay to take chances and as far as he was concerned, official meddling on the part of the FBI was reason enough to use extra caution.
Coke had never had to deal with Mulder personally; for that matter he hardly knew anything about him, other than the usual snippets of barroom conversation with his friends and coworkers after hours. Generally the brass frowned down on this sort of fraternization between coworkers, viewing it as a potential security breach. Indeed, it had been hard enough for Coke to make any friends at the Department of Energy: he hardly saw anybody long enough to really get to know them. He assumed that it was standard policy to rotate agents as often as possible in order to ensure none of them ever got to talking together. However, the little that Coke did know about Mulder was not encouraging. The agent apparently had a particular fondness for unusual cases and was certainly not above breaking protocol when he felt the situation warranted it. Why Kiviat would decide to contact Mulder made little sense to Coke. From what Coke knew, Mulder was the sort of guy who never really got involved in a case unless it had some sort of paranormal angle to it. Of course, it was always possible that the data Kiviat had managed to grab involved some sort of hush-hush data involving a super-secret government project or another. Coke took all such allegations with a healthy sense of skepticism of course, but just the same his façade of indifference had begun to crack. Coke had never actually seen anything extraordinary himself, with the exception of a few lights in the sky that time he had been assigned to the Oregon office, but at the same time, he wasn't altogether ready to dismiss it out of hand. One way or another, the brass provided their own explanations and Coke knew better than to ask too many questions, no matter how ludicrous those explanations might be. In any case, this assignment appeared to be utterly devoid of any potential UFO encounters. Unless of course Kiviat herself happened to be an alien in disguise. The thought made him chuckle aloud, but it was a nervous chuckle just the same.
The town of White Marsh was a fairly standard American suburb as far as Coke could tell: prosperous, fairly small, predominantly white, and full of trees and grassy open spaces. The drizzle had largely cleared up during his drive up north, although the sky remained overcast and gray. Traffic was a little heavy as Coke drove through town, but that was to be expected as more and more people left home to drive to their jobs in Baltimore or Washington. It would undoubtedly clear up soon, and then the place would be deserted. Kiviat's apartment (or was it a townhouse? Coke didn't feel the term apartment really did it justice) was a modest if pretty red brick building on the wooded outskirts of town. The area immediately behind it was the Honeygo Run Park, the map informed him. Coke drove past the apartment building and parked his car along the curb a few blocks up and over. While he certainly could have parked in the open across the street from the apartment building, he didn't want to risk the exposure. In a small town like this one, a car with DC plates parked in such a conspicuous location would be sure to attract unwanted attention. While Coke had government identification, a routine stop by a local police officer would effectively end his mission early.
Coke pulled up to the side of the road and unclipped his seatbelt, turning off the ignition as he did so. He took a deep breath and flipped open his notebook, checking over his plan one more time. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, Coke opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. Now that he had finalized his plan of attack and was ready to put it in motion, Coke was oddly enough at peace. The hard part was over. Now all that remained was to get Kiviat, recover the data, and make his escape. Coke checked his watch. It was 7:18. Mulder had probably just gotten into the office and was checking his messages. Good. In terms of driving time alone, that gave Coke at least an hour and a half head-start.
Looking both ways to make sure no one was in a position to see him, Coke reached under his trench coat and jacket and delicately eased his service pistol out of its holster. It was a standard government-issue SIG pistol, 12 rounds of .40 cal ammunition leaded and ready to go. Looking both ways again Coke reached into his trench coat pocket for the leather case he knew was in there. Once his fingers found it, he pulled it out and undid the snap, sliding the long, blued silencer out of its sheath. He briefly toyed with the idea of screwing it on then and there, but he thought the better of it, fully knowing that the extra length on the weapon would not only make it harder to draw but more noticeable. Instead, he slid the attachment into his pants pocket. Coke racked back the slide on the weapon, chambering the first round with a satisfying click. Thumbing the safety to make sure it was still set, he slide the pistol back into the clip-on leather holster at his waist and adjusted his coat and jacket.
It took Coke less than five minutes to get to the front of the building. "Clinton Gardens Apartments" read the sign at the front door. He glanced up to ensure there were no security cameras in place. Confirming that there were indeed none, he then proceeded to try the front door. To his dismay (but not his surprise), he found that the heavy glass door was locked and required a key card to gain entry. Below the key card slot was a callbox with the words "For Superintendent's Office, Please Press 0."
Coke looked around. A few blocks down the street he could make out smallish house with a sign reading "Clinton Gardens Apartments, Inc." posted in front of it. That had to be the enterprise's headquarters. At this time of the morning, the night attendant was probably just finishing up his shift, Coke mused. This could be a pleasant surprise.
He quickly punched the button marked 0 and after a brief pause a young, sleepy-sounding voice answered. "Clinton Gardens Apartments. This is Matt. How can I help you?"
"Hi," Coke replied, trying his best to sound like a flustered and slightly embarrassed businessman. "I'm here at building-" he glanced up, "- building 2B and I'm late for a meeting, but I'm afraid I left my briefcase with my key card inside. I was wondering-"
Before he was even able to finish his sentence, the door buzzed loudly. Coke quickly pulled it open and walked in, calling out what he hoped was a grateful-sounding "Thank you" at the callbox, well aware of the fact that the attendant had probably clicked off before even unlocking the door for him.
Coke pulled the notepad out of his pocket to confirm the address: Suite 308, Clinton Gardens Apartments, Building 2B. Suite 308, Coke thought to himself. That would make it the top floor. Coke refolded the now thoroughly creased yellow sheet and slid it into his shirt pocket. Cracking his knuckles, he made his way towards the closest stairwell.
By the time Coke arrived in the pleasant Baltimore suburb of White Marsh, he had sufficiently recovered from his initial surprise to turn his attention back to the immediate problem at hand: Christine Kiviat. He had been careful to mark out the address from his file in bold yellow highlighter and had checked the directions thoroughly on mapquest, familiarizing himself with Kiviat's neighborhood. He didn't expect to have a particularly difficult time of the assignment but ever since he had been alerted to the fact that Mulder was on the case, he had decided to be a little more cautious. Coke knew from hard experience that it didn't pay to take chances and as far as he was concerned, official meddling on the part of the FBI was reason enough to use extra caution.
Coke had never had to deal with Mulder personally; for that matter he hardly knew anything about him, other than the usual snippets of barroom conversation with his friends and coworkers after hours. Generally the brass frowned down on this sort of fraternization between coworkers, viewing it as a potential security breach. Indeed, it had been hard enough for Coke to make any friends at the Department of Energy: he hardly saw anybody long enough to really get to know them. He assumed that it was standard policy to rotate agents as often as possible in order to ensure none of them ever got to talking together. However, the little that Coke did know about Mulder was not encouraging. The agent apparently had a particular fondness for unusual cases and was certainly not above breaking protocol when he felt the situation warranted it. Why Kiviat would decide to contact Mulder made little sense to Coke. From what Coke knew, Mulder was the sort of guy who never really got involved in a case unless it had some sort of paranormal angle to it. Of course, it was always possible that the data Kiviat had managed to grab involved some sort of hush-hush data involving a super-secret government project or another. Coke took all such allegations with a healthy sense of skepticism of course, but just the same his façade of indifference had begun to crack. Coke had never actually seen anything extraordinary himself, with the exception of a few lights in the sky that time he had been assigned to the Oregon office, but at the same time, he wasn't altogether ready to dismiss it out of hand. One way or another, the brass provided their own explanations and Coke knew better than to ask too many questions, no matter how ludicrous those explanations might be. In any case, this assignment appeared to be utterly devoid of any potential UFO encounters. Unless of course Kiviat herself happened to be an alien in disguise. The thought made him chuckle aloud, but it was a nervous chuckle just the same.
The town of White Marsh was a fairly standard American suburb as far as Coke could tell: prosperous, fairly small, predominantly white, and full of trees and grassy open spaces. The drizzle had largely cleared up during his drive up north, although the sky remained overcast and gray. Traffic was a little heavy as Coke drove through town, but that was to be expected as more and more people left home to drive to their jobs in Baltimore or Washington. It would undoubtedly clear up soon, and then the place would be deserted. Kiviat's apartment (or was it a townhouse? Coke didn't feel the term apartment really did it justice) was a modest if pretty red brick building on the wooded outskirts of town. The area immediately behind it was the Honeygo Run Park, the map informed him. Coke drove past the apartment building and parked his car along the curb a few blocks up and over. While he certainly could have parked in the open across the street from the apartment building, he didn't want to risk the exposure. In a small town like this one, a car with DC plates parked in such a conspicuous location would be sure to attract unwanted attention. While Coke had government identification, a routine stop by a local police officer would effectively end his mission early.
Coke pulled up to the side of the road and unclipped his seatbelt, turning off the ignition as he did so. He took a deep breath and flipped open his notebook, checking over his plan one more time. Once he was satisfied that everything was in order, Coke opened the door and stepped out onto the curb. Now that he had finalized his plan of attack and was ready to put it in motion, Coke was oddly enough at peace. The hard part was over. Now all that remained was to get Kiviat, recover the data, and make his escape. Coke checked his watch. It was 7:18. Mulder had probably just gotten into the office and was checking his messages. Good. In terms of driving time alone, that gave Coke at least an hour and a half head-start.
Looking both ways to make sure no one was in a position to see him, Coke reached under his trench coat and jacket and delicately eased his service pistol out of its holster. It was a standard government-issue SIG pistol, 12 rounds of .40 cal ammunition leaded and ready to go. Looking both ways again Coke reached into his trench coat pocket for the leather case he knew was in there. Once his fingers found it, he pulled it out and undid the snap, sliding the long, blued silencer out of its sheath. He briefly toyed with the idea of screwing it on then and there, but he thought the better of it, fully knowing that the extra length on the weapon would not only make it harder to draw but more noticeable. Instead, he slid the attachment into his pants pocket. Coke racked back the slide on the weapon, chambering the first round with a satisfying click. Thumbing the safety to make sure it was still set, he slide the pistol back into the clip-on leather holster at his waist and adjusted his coat and jacket.
It took Coke less than five minutes to get to the front of the building. "Clinton Gardens Apartments" read the sign at the front door. He glanced up to ensure there were no security cameras in place. Confirming that there were indeed none, he then proceeded to try the front door. To his dismay (but not his surprise), he found that the heavy glass door was locked and required a key card to gain entry. Below the key card slot was a callbox with the words "For Superintendent's Office, Please Press 0."
Coke looked around. A few blocks down the street he could make out smallish house with a sign reading "Clinton Gardens Apartments, Inc." posted in front of it. That had to be the enterprise's headquarters. At this time of the morning, the night attendant was probably just finishing up his shift, Coke mused. This could be a pleasant surprise.
He quickly punched the button marked 0 and after a brief pause a young, sleepy-sounding voice answered. "Clinton Gardens Apartments. This is Matt. How can I help you?"
"Hi," Coke replied, trying his best to sound like a flustered and slightly embarrassed businessman. "I'm here at building-" he glanced up, "- building 2B and I'm late for a meeting, but I'm afraid I left my briefcase with my key card inside. I was wondering-"
Before he was even able to finish his sentence, the door buzzed loudly. Coke quickly pulled it open and walked in, calling out what he hoped was a grateful-sounding "Thank you" at the callbox, well aware of the fact that the attendant had probably clicked off before even unlocking the door for him.
Coke pulled the notepad out of his pocket to confirm the address: Suite 308, Clinton Gardens Apartments, Building 2B. Suite 308, Coke thought to himself. That would make it the top floor. Coke refolded the now thoroughly creased yellow sheet and slid it into his shirt pocket. Cracking his knuckles, he made his way towards the closest stairwell.