Chapter Two
Scully's Apartment, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
April 22nd, 2001, 7:49 p.m.
"I really appreciate your coming over here like this, fellas," Mulder called from the kitchen. He opened the microwave oven and retrieved a bottle of milk. Hopefully, it'd be warm enough to keep William satisfied, but not too scalding hot that he'd burn his tiny mouth on it. Well, there's only one way to check it out. Mulder stuck his index finger carefully in, and thankfully, the temperature was just right.
"Does Scully keep any beer in that fridge, Mommy Mulder?" Frohike asked and strolled over from the table.
"Not regularly, I don't think. She's always saying that it's got far too many calories." The gnome grunted and turned his back as Mulder screwed the bottle's nipple on. "But if you're really dying for alcohol, I think Scully's got some scotch stashed here somewhere. Good luck with that; you'd probably find the city of Atlantis first."
"I think we'll survive," Byers told him, shut her front door, and set his laptop upon Scully's dining room table. "Langly had a date tonight."
"I really should get my hearing checked by a specialist. Did you just say that Langly had a date?" Mulder questioned him and headed for William's crib. "Who's the lucky woman?"
"Think we should tell him?" Byers asked Frohike, who shrugged.
"He doesn't talk to anyone else but Scully."
"Yeah, but, she works with Scully."
"I think Langly said Scully consulted with her a couple of times. That's not the same thing."
"Do I know this woman?" Mulder came back from Scully's bedroom with a full bottle.
"Oh, ah...why's it still...uh-" Byers began and pointed to the object.
"He was sound asleep. Now, what've you got for me?"
"Well, we ran a standard FBI background check through our 'unofficial access', and Dr. Jarod Verne is who he says he is. He's got a clean record, too."
"Where'd he graduate?"
"Brown University, suma cum laude, pre-med, and then his doctorate came from Dartmouth."
"What about extra curricular activities?"
"Jesus, Mulder, he's a freakin' coroner," Frohike lamented. "We kind of stopped reading after the first ten letters of recommendation from his last job in Delaware."
"It's a well-known statistic that some serial killers have been part of the law enforcement community at one time or another," Mulder defended himself. "It's not like Scully to not answer her cell phone."
"Maybe she forgot to charge it," Byers offered.
"That's my excuse," Mulder rolled his eyes. "She's too responsible, anyhow."
"Well, we kind of had something else in mind to tell you, too, Mulder."
"Go ahead and spill it...unless it's going to cost me my Celebrity Skin subscription, too--Frohike," his eyes narrowed, and his friend held up his right hand in defense.
"I won that bet fair and square, Mulder. Are you telling me that--oh, I see." He frowned and stroked his chin. "How much longer must you wait, man? Grab a bottle of wine one night and go for it!"
"You make it sound like a game of Connect Four. I'm afraid Scully's a bit more complicated than those women you've been watching for the past two months, Frohike." Byers cleared his throat, and both men's attention returned to his laptop screen. "Sorry, John."
"We've been receiving some information from someone out in cyberspace that wishes to remain anonymous."
"There's a big surprise," Mulder mumbled.
"He won't even give us a pseudonym. That's how neurotic this guy is."
"Government employee?"
"That was the first thought that ran through my head until I read the information. Look at this file he sent us." He opened up Outlook Express and the attachment. It contained a drawn up agreement between some Middle Eastern terrorists and a few names none of them recognized. The next email that was sent to them contained some photos from the Chicago Tribune Online.
"Senator Ivor Neumann Assassinated" read the caption underneath the politician's portrait.
"Shootout Frees Organized Yakuza Crime Boss" and showed two police officers escorting a haughty Japanese man down a set of stone steps.
"Suicide Bomber Blows Federal Building Sky High" the last read. Two women held one another, covered with blankets amongst the remains of a gigantic and proud skyscraper.
"Got any more ideas?" Frohike asked Mulder.
"Langly tried backtracking—unfortunately, since this is a public anonymous address used by Hotmail, we can't find out anything about him or her," Byers stated. "We think the informant uses library and Internet cafes to send his information, but we're not totally sure."
"What does the original email say?" Mulder inquired.
"I'll let you read it yourself." He brought it up onto the screen, and the ex-FBI agent read it aloud.
"Your bravery for continuing to show people the truth is admirable. I want to do the same thing, but unfortunately cannot due to my transient lifestyle. So I will send my story to you little by little—about a place filled with people that are so insidious, it will literally curdle your internal organs. They care about nothing but money. And as long as someone will pay enough, sides do not matter, i.e., morals do not exist in this organization," Mulder narrated. "These very transactions occur even upon U.S. soil. You claim that you will always print the truth, regardless of the risks. Reply back in two days to this same email address. I will provide you anything you need except my identity."
"Holy smoke," Mulder marveled finally. "I think you guys just landed yourselves a huge story—and there are no strings attached. Interesting. Got a name for him?"
"Hold on, Mulder. I'm not finished yet. We replied to this guy and asked him for all the details he could possibly give us. So he started to tell us—today. The place is called 'The Centre'. It's a huge complex in a small marine town called Blue Cove in Delaware. We first tried looking officially for the business on the Net, but there's no address. So next we searched through the DOD accounting system..."
"Ah-ah, you boys have been naughty."
"Langly's been feeling optimistic more lately. His self esteem's gone up at least ten points," Frohike broke in.
"EFT payments have been made to a corporation in Blue Cove, Delaware for certain military contracts," Byers continued. "Looks like they were selling satellite technology that could help block an enemy fighter plane's transmissions to ground control."
"That doesn't sound so bad," Mulder reasoned.
"Then he told us to check into Libya's department of defense." Byers scratched his beard and brought up another window. "The Centre also sold the same contract to them—for more money."
"Houston, we have a problem."
"There's more, Mulder," Frohike's tone grew dark, and he lifted a hand to his friend's shoulder. "These people kept this poor man prisoner for nearly 35 years and exploited his talents."
"What kind of talents?"
"Watch and learn."
"Simulation 9911. Moderator: Dr. Sydney Green. Pretender: Jarod," a distinguished man with thinning hair and an amiable face informed the camera as he faced it. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but it became more difficult to tell for sure as he moved away towards a modeled city, and a much younger man, possibly in his thirties, leaned over it. "Jarod, we need—the U.S. Government needs your help. We're in the middle of a war to stop terrorists like Sadaam Hussein."
"What needs to be done?"
"We know that several American hostages are being held here." Sydney pointed to a skyscraper that almost was a dead ringer for Chicago's Sears' Tower. "But we don't know which floor. The terrorists have a post here—on the twentieth floor. Somehow, we need to get the hostages out and destroy their front at the same time."
"The real hostages are somewhere else, Sydney. The entire target must be taken out. No prisoners, or else there will be more innocent blood. I would recommend undercover work for a team of twelve men."
"All military, yes?" Jarod fingered one of the scaled trees and yanked it away from its glued position.
"Or bring in the police. It doesn't matter. Two outside window washers set up a diversion. They blow up a window somewhere near the middle of the building. This can be done with a remote mine," the Pretender continued.
"Why not at the top or bottom?" Sydney pressed.
"Too conspicuous and many would escape. If the explosion were in the middle, neither top nor bottom would be disturbed. Have about eight men in security guard or janitor outfits disguised, and as soon as that happens, they open fire. The other two come in like this: a TV news helicopter crashes into the roof. As the general public runs out of the building, have a large assembly of weaponry to open fire on the victims trying to escape."
"Why have the uh...kamikaze pilots?"
"The point of the staged crashes is to crush the building and all inside of it. Once it begins to fall, no one will survive."
"And you're sure that the hostages won't be in the building?"
"The only casualties that will be ours will be the team."
The short clip ended, and Byers closed the laptop. "Years later after this guy created this scenario...about ten months ago, exactly, someone did this...in Boston."
"You're kidding," Mulder exclaimed. "Why wouldn't I have-...I was gone for a while, wasn't I?"
"Yes, you were," Frohike remarked and sat down opposite Byers.
"My first question is: what is a pretender?"
"My guess would be that this Jarod guy did work on scenarios just like this and more. Maybe he put himself into someone's shoes, so to speak, so he could, you know, get into the person's mind," Byers suggested.
"Pinky, are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Mulder wondered as he glanced at them both.
"You're not about to imply that this Jarod is Dr. Jarod Verne, are you?"
"Did you get a picture with your background checks?"
"Well, you didn't say please," Frohike reminded him. Mulder's hands went to his hips after he placed the now lukewarm baby bottle onto the kitchen table. "Langly probably didn't think of it then. But it's no problem to look now."
"Actually, let's not be concerned with that. My main concern for now is that this Centre place will be brought to justice," Mulder shook his head and walked over to Scully's phone. He dialed a number that once before he never thought he'd dial willfully again.
"John Doggett," came the reply at the other end of the line.
"Agent Doggett, this is Fox Mulder. Are you busy right now?"
"I was just starting to watch the Bulls/Pistons' game on ESPN, actually."
"Save yourself the trouble. The Pistons are gonna win because they've got Dennis Rodman."
"Hmmph, well, the Bulls happen to have a couple of star players, too, I think."
"Yeah, but none of them are from another planet."
"I'm about to hang up in about five seconds or less if you've got nothing else to say, Mulder."
"Relax, Doggett, it was a joke. You know, funny ha-ha?"
The pause on the line might have just have filled a stadium up with a deafening racket of cricket chirping. "I'd like to send the boys over, if that's okay, since you're watching the game," Mulder continued.
Doggett sighed, but he knew very well before he had made a deal with Mulder for his advice what Mulder's terms were. There was to be no contact on the inside of the FBI, landlines, or over the Internet between the two of them. They never knew who was listening or watching.
"Now, wait a second, Mulder," Byers interrupted him from across the room. "We just showed you these emails because this guy wanted Americans to know the truth. We never asked you to involve the FBI in this. I'm sure if he wanted to do so, he could have sent this information to them...possibly even to you when you were still there."
"What's this all about?" Doggett's voice brought Mulder back to his side of the conversation. Mulder's lips curled, and he began to pace about Scully's living room.
"Byers, what do you hope to accomplish with this continuing article on The Centre?"
"Come on, Mulder, you know what we stand for," Frohike grunted.
"I want Byers to answer," he said curtly. "What's your goal?"
"To...tell the truth...to the people," Byers stammered.
"And what organization do the people in this country run?"
"You can't be serious," Frohike shook his head.
"I used to think it was the government. Now, I'm not so sure anymore."
"I'll admit, I've lost a lot of faith over the years, but there are still good people out there that we can ask to find the truth...to find justice. Agent Doggett is one of them," Mulder froze and spun on his heel to face his friend. "I know he'll do his damnedest."
"All right, let's go," Byers nodded to Frohike, who arose and shrugged.
"Tell your divine beauty of my undying love, which surpasses all boundaries," he joked on the way out.
"Including dignity?" Mulder inquired and hugged the phone to his chest.
The door slammed abruptly, leaving Mulder in peace. "Is this an X-File?" Doggett pressured him.
"Maybe, maybe not. Either way, it'll definitely win you some points with Kersh. I'm not going to say anything else; you know why."
"I can never complain about getting bored, that's for sure. Take care, Mulder."
DD Kersh's Office, FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
April 23rd, 2001, 8:13 a.m.
The faux leather sofa in Kersh's atrium was not comfortable. In Doggett's opinion, a futon would probably be more cozy—you were supposed to be able to sag into the cushions. There's nothing more professional than having to anchor yourself to an arm to be able to support yourself to get up to greet your superior, especially one you served in the Marine Corps with.
Magazines including Life, Newsweek, and Law Enforcement Professional Defense littered the freshly lacquered oak table in front of him. As Doggett picked up the gun magazine, a Sauer flier fluttered to the ground. Two seconds later, a booted foot stepped onto the advertisement, and Reyes retrieved it. "Don't ya hate these things?" she asked and lay the thin flap of cardboard back onto the table.
"I never really thought about 'em very much," Doggett returned. He tossed the publication down and slid as far forward on the cushion as he could. Reyes touched her head as a sudden pain shot through her temple. "What's wrong, Monica?"
"Oh, just a little headache. I just started cold turkey last night. So please forgive me of my jitters this morning," she responded and smiled nervously.
"How long has it been since you've had a smoke?"
"Well," she glanced at her wristwatch, "about twelve hours. You know, when I quit before, in college, it was a helluva lot easier. My body must be showing signs of its old age already."
"You're not old, Monica. But maybe you should see your doctor about this. Or maybe Agent Scully when she gets back."
"It's just a little nicotine withdrawal. Believe me, John, what I'm doing now is certainly better for my health than what I was doing twelve hours ago. And now I'm getting a craving." She reached into a suit coat pocket, unwrapped a stick of gum, and shoved it into her mouth. "So, can I ask what we're meeting with Kersh about? I'm really surprised he's here...at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning."
"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about it over the phone. The Lone Gunmen and Mulder came across a source on the Internet who's started to send them information of a secret corporation that's guilty of treason against the U.S."
"Wow, uh...is there any reason why this source didn't come straight to the FBI?"
Before Doggett could answer her, Kersh opened his door and motioned for them to come inside. "Good morning, Agents," he greeted them as they filed into his office.
"Good morning, sir," Doggett replied and Reyes simply nodded to Kersh submissively.
"I'd offer you two seats, but, I don't know how long you're going to be here. Might I even begin to ask what the hell this crap is?" Kersh signaled their attention to a lengthy email printout on his bureau. "Is this your idea of a prank, Agent Doggett?"
"Not at all, sir."
"What exactly does this place...The Centre do?"
"That's why I'd like to begin an investigation, sir. From the surface, it appears that this corporation is a military contractor."
"We hire companies to make our defensive technology. It's called capitalism, John, and that economic system seems to be faring well over the past fifty or sixty years."
"I did say that that was what they appear to be. But look at those headlines. They kept a man locked up in there for over thirty years to use his mind for these crimes," Doggett countered.
"And what's your take on this, Agent Reyes?"
"I just found out about it myself, Director Kersh. But Agent Doggett wouldn't bring up a questioning case like this without good reason."
"No, he wouldn't. It sounds more like something Fox Mulder would have done," Kersh's speech slowed on the last sentence and made complete eye contact with Doggett.
"Well, he did begin the department we work in," Doggett commented.
"This isn't an X-File."
"Perhaps we could bring the OCS in on this, then," Reyes proposed. "Don't you agree that the FBI should protect our country as well as uphold all of its laws?"
"You do have a point, Agent Reyes," Kersh's expression mellowed as he gave her a sidelong glimpse. "But before we spend the taxpayers' money, I want some more answers. Right now, there are too many questions." He shuffled around to his chair and sat down. "That isn't a "no", Agents. Give me some more tangible evidence, and I'll send it to their AD first thing tomorrow morning."