Chapter 6

The ancient radio crackled and hissed with static. Yves Harlow adjusted the tuning dial but when the sound didn't improve, she gave up and settled back in her chair to listen.

"I'm standing on a rooftop, looking out over London. At the moment, everything is quiet. For reasons of national as well as personal security, I am unable to tell you the exact location from which I'm speaking. Off to my left, far away in the distance, I can see just the faint red anguished snap of anti aircraft bursts against a steel blue sky. But the guns are so far away it is impossible to hear them from this location. About five minutes ago, the guns in the immediate vicinity were working."

Letting out a discouraged breath, Yves snapped off the radio. While she rarely missed Edward R. Murrow's broadcasts, the reports from her country left her tense and on edge. Pushing the chair back, she stood up and decided to do another circuit of the house and check the locks and windows, saving the living room for last.

Professor Langly had claimed a windowless corner for himself and was even now engrossed in his work. She thought back to when she first met him. She had been astonished by his one-track thinking and then irritated that he could so easily forget the rest of the world. But she soon realized he was far more aware then he let on.

"Langly," Yves said waiting for a response. "Professor Langly," she repeated louder when he gave no indication he heard her though she knew otherwise. "I'm going out. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Yes, yes, fine." He waved his hand at her without looking up.

"Please, do not answer the door…" she continued before he cut her off.

"Or the phone or go outside." He looked at her and grinned. "I remember the drill." Her grim expression told him she wasn't in the least amused by his attempt to lighten the mood. His expression turned serious. "Be careful," he said, turning back to his equations but even the familiarity of his work couldn't still the sudden chill that ran up his spine.

Yves watched him a moment longer then rechecked the front windows. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, she headed for the back of the house.

Where the front had a view of a long, gravel drive leading to the highway, the rear opened to a spacious, outdoor wooden deck. It contained a patio table, four chairs and two chaise lounges. A set of stairs led to a white, sandy beach.

Stepping onto the deck, the breeze ruffled her long hair. The crisp, autumn air felt good on her skin after the recycled heat in the house. She paused at the railing and watched the surf play a game of tag with several sandpipers. The small birds raced the water line snatching sand fleas as they burrowed into the ground.

Ever alert, she descended the stairs to the sand and walked down to the water's edge. The wind was stronger, the cold biting. Since she hadn't planned to stay out long, she'd left her jacket in the house. She wrapped her arms around herself in defiance of the chill and stared into the distance where white-topped waves rolled and crested with the wind.

Ever since she was a little girl, she had loved the beach. It had always given her pleasure and contentment. But today, even the beach couldn't quiet the unease that plagued her soul.

She didn't like leaving the Professor alone for any length of time but there was someone else whose safety was also very much on her mind.

She was aware of the fact that she was stalling.

If she was to return by nightfall she had to leave right away.

Taking one last lingering look at the ocean, she turned and scanned the beach, the dunes and finally the house. Everything appeared to be as it should be. Satisfied, she headed for the deck. Once on the stairs, she glanced quickly around then hopped over the railing, the sand cushioning her landing. She jogged to her car, which was parked in a neighboring driveway. Opening the door, she slid inside, started the engine and headed for D.C.

A man in the long coat and dark hat drew back into the shadows of an empty storefront allowing the darkness to conceal his presence. With the clouds obscuring the moon and a broken streetlight overhead, the recessed doorway made him nearly invisible to the casual observer.

He pulled his hat lower over his face so that even his eyes didn't show.

He waited.

No one noticed him as they passed: a couple laughing and talking together as they walked: a woman obviously in a hurry, a man with a little dog. The dog sniffed Frohike in the doorway, but its owner jerked on its leash to keep it moving which allowed the private investigator to remain unobserved.

Monica Reyes walked briskly down the opposite side of the street, her heels making a distinct click, click, click on the pavement. Their cadence slowed as she neared her building. She fished around in her purse to find her keys. Locating them, she climbed the stairs to her apartment building and, unlocking the door, went inside.

Frohike carefully scrutinized the other pedestrians. No one seemed to have any interest in where Monica had gone. They all went about their own business. His attention was drawn to one slow moving car. The driver stopped near another vehicle that was pulling away from the curb as if waiting for the parking spot.

A tall man in a dark coat and hat came around the corner: his collar was turned up and his hat pulled low over his ears. This made Frohike suspicious since it was not that cold an evening. The man approached Monica's building, stopping near the bottom of the stairs.

Frohike tensed when he saw the man turn to scan the street as if searching for someone. He then glanced up at the building before checking his watch.

Suspecting that this was his man, Frohike stepped forward out of the shadows to get a better look.

"Dennis!" a female voice called out. Both the man and Frohike turned to see a woman running as quickly as her high heels would allow towards the man at the bottom of the stairs. She joined him, linking her arm in his. They walked off together.

Irritated but not discouraged, Frohike refocused his attention on the car that had been waiting to park. It was now tucked nicely up to the curb but the driver was still sitting behind the wheel. He had shifted in his seat so he was facing Monica's building making it impossible for Frohike to get a good look at him.

Slipping back into the shadows, Frohike waited for the driver to turn his way.

The night was getting colder and it began to drizzle. Frohike buttoned his coat then shoved his hands deep into his pocket. He seriously considered just walking up and confronting the man but knew that, if he was wrong and this was not the person following Monica, he would give himself away to the real stalker.

Deciding that he did not have all night, Frohike searched for some way to create a distraction to get the man to turn around. He spotted an empty beer bottle set atop a newspaper box. Quickly retrieving it, he returned to his hiding place.

He was hesitant to throw it out into the street leaving broken glass for people to drive over. A beat-up, old garbage can became his target. The bottle did not break as it entered the can but made a respectably loud noise.

The man in the car was startled by the racket and swung around in his seat to discover the source.

"Got ya'!" Frohike declared under his breath. He strode out into the street toward the car.

The man watched him cautiously at first then with growing wariness. He reached inside his jacket as Frohike yanked open his car door. "If your hand comes out of your coat with anything more than the fingers it went in with, I'll break your arm!" Frohike declared grabbing him by the forearm and twisting out and away from the man's body.

"Hey!" the man yelled in pain. "I'm a federal agent! I was just going for my identification!"

Frohike loosened his grip a bit saying, "All right. Slowly then."

The man reached farther into his coat to retrieve his wallet. Frohike could tell he had a holstered gun under his left arm. Releasing him, Frohike took the wallet.

The man waited while Frohike carefully studied his ID. "Special Agent John Doggett of the Federal Bureau of Investigations," he said looking from the photo to the man before handing it back to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here in an official capacity for the FBI and you're interfering with my investigation."

"And how is Monica Reyes involved in your investigation?"

"That's none of your business," Special Agent Doggett declared.

"Monica is my business," Frohike explained none too patiently. "She's my client."

"Your client?" the federal agent snorted. "What are you, her lawyer?"

"No," Frohike said reaching into his own pocket. He handed the man his card. "I'm a private investigator. My client came to me asking for help when she realized you were following her. Is she suspected of some crime?"

"I'm not at liberty to say. Now, leave here before I have you arrested for interfering with official FBI business," the agent said attempting to shut his car door. Frohike grabbed it making this impossible.

"Look," Frohike said, "I'm not leaving here until you tell me why you are stalking my client and what you were looking for when you broke into her apartment."

The door suddenly swung wide throwing Frohike off balance and forcing him to step backwards. Special Agent Doggett got out of his car. "Someone broke into her apartment?"

"Yeah. It wasn't you?"

"Was she hurt?" Doggett asked taking a step closer to Frohike.

"No," Frohike said a bit bemused to be answering questions instead of asking them.

"What was taken?"

"She's not sure," Frohike admitted.

Agent Doggett turned suddenly and got back in his car. Frohike had to jump out of the way as the FBI agent pulled away from the curb and, with a squeal of tires, drove off leaving Frohike standing alone in the street.

From her vantage point in the alley of the old apartment building, Yves saw Monica Reyes before she heard the sharp click of her heels on the pavement. She waited patiently for the one brief moment where she could step out and hustle Monica into the building where they could talk safely and privately.

When the moment came, instinct forced Yves back into the shadows, letting Monica pass. Once she heard the door close and the soft audible 'thunk' of the lock engaging, Yves stepped foreword to scan the street.

She made a disgusted sound as she watched a car pull away from the curb and then another car pull into the same spot. It was obvious that the occupants of the cars were working in tandem, watching Monica's apartment. She herself had been part of many such stakeouts. She knew they were professionals. What she didn't know was whether or not they were the enemy and, if they were, how much information they had.

Maybe, she thought, she would discuss the matter with them.

Before she could do anything more than remove her gun from its hiding place, there was a loud clatter. Then to her surprise she saw a shape step from the shadows. It was a man, she could tell that. And he was short. But his features were hidden by a fedora.

Yves watched as the man strode across the street, yank the car door open with one hand and grab the man behind the driver's seat.

"Not bad," Yves mused, but it didn't answer who this new player was. There was a vague familiarity about him that worried her. Russian, perhaps? She heard the Russians were racing to unlock the secrets of the German codes before anyone else.

"Hey! I'm a federal agent!"

Yves heard the shout clearly from her hiding place and took notice. The voice, though tinged in pain, was one she recognized but she couldn't put it with a face. She stepped out of the shadows as far as she dared, listening. She couldn't hear any part of the two men's conversation except for the differing timbre of their voices.

Dammit! She needed to see their faces. She needed to know who they were.

Then there was a squeal of tires as the car shot forward. When the other man jumped out of the way so he wouldn't get hit, she saw his face illuminated by a streetlight. She did know him. He was a private investigator. His name was… she thought for a moment. His name was Melvin Frohike.

Yves didn't have time to fully digest this information. The car was racing toward her hiding spot. She shrank against the wall as it passed and caught a quick glimpse of the driver.

Yves clenched her gun as a wave of fear swept through her. She knew the second man as well.

He had been part of the trap from which she had narrowly escaped a few days earlier. It was Special Agent John Doggett of the FBI.

Frohike hesitated outside Fast Eddie's Bar and Grill. Eddie was an old friend of his: a relationship that extended beyond that of a bar's owner and his best customer. They had known each other as boys in high school and had remained friends over the years. So, when Frohike's life began to fall apart, it made sense to come and visit with this old friend and toss back a few. Unfortunately, these visits became far too frequent causing more complications in his life. All too soon Frohike had nowhere else to go in the evening.

He opened the door and went inside. Scanning the place with a critical eye, it became clear to Frohike that his favorite spot was really only a couple steps above Kimmy's. At least the furniture matched and Eddie made sure the tables were properly cleaned. The people here were better dressed and sat together talking and laughing in small groups.

Sitting down at the bar, Frohike motioned to the bartender. "How's business, Mel?" the man asked as he poured the P.I. his usual whiskey on the rocks.

"Business is good, Nick," Frohike answered watching the amber liquid slip down around the ice causing the cubes to settle into the bottom of the glass.

The bartender held the whiskey bottle up in a salute. "Here's to good business then," he said with a grin before moving farther down the bar to serve another customer.

Frohike watched him go, glad to be alone. He picked up the glass, swirling its contents around. He held it up at eye level and watched, as the water from the melting ice didn't quite mingle with the whiskey.

He set the glass back down on the bar without tasting the alcohol. He stared at it for a couple moments longer before pushing it away. This wasn't helping anything. He needed to get a grip. Because of his drinking, he'd lost everything he'd loved or held dear, everything that was important in his life: Michelle, Emma, his job on the police force and his self respect.

For years he'd blamed that one on-the-job incident: the pursuit of a suspect that had gone horribly wrong resulting in the death of an innocent by-stander. The whiskey dulled the guilt he felt making it possible for him to live day to day. But these attempts to obliterate the pain had blinded him to what he was doing to his family.

"I won't stand around and watch you kill yourself, Mel!" his wife had finally told him in desperation, "And I won't allow Emma to watch it either." Three weeks later, they were gone.

In hindsight, he could see that she was right. He was slowly, but surely, killing himself.

And he had too many people depending on him at the moment to get off that easily.

Monica was going to search her entire apartment for anything that might be missing and report back to him in the morning. No matter how insignificant it might seem it would at least give them an idea of what the burglar was looking for. The FBI agent seemed surprised that Monica's apartment had been broken into. Maybe it was that Fletcher guy. Frohike needed to check him out.

He figured he'd have time to do that before going with Mulder to talk with Kimmy. The snitch had agreed to track down the person he thought might be Molly's murderer. If Kimmy could talk the man into meeting with them, he would. Frohike knew Kimmy to be a good liar so had no doubt that this would be possible.

Lost in these thoughts, Frohike absent-mindedly picked up the whiskey glass again and brought it to his mouth. But as the cold liquid touched his lips, he stopped then put it back down.

He shook his head. This movement drew his attention to the mirror behind the bar. He studied his reflection. Taking off his hat, he could see what Walter Skinner meant when he told him he needed to take a couple of days off. He looked like one of the corpses in Dr. Scully's morgue.

Dr. Scully.

Now there was something else to regret. He had shown up at her office drunk and barely able to walk. She had filled him with the worst coffee he had ever tasted and then, when he was finally able to put two coherent thoughts together, she had taken him out for breakfast.

They talked until the sun came up. They talked about everything and nothing. He asked her about her life. She shared some of her experiences in medical school and her residency and how she had gotten her current job.

She eventually turned the conversation to a discussion of his life. He told her about being a police officer then about becoming a private investigator. If she noticed there were a few years missing from his narrative, she didn't let on.

Then, when they finally got up to leave the all-night diner, Dr. Scully had insisted on paying, stating that it had been her idea in the first place. Frohike didn't feel right allowing a lady to pay but she had been adamant.

Frohike took one last look at his untasted glass of whiskey, pulled money out of his wallet to pay for the drink and left it on the bar.

He wanted to get to the morgue before it was too late and Dr. Scully went home for the evening. He just didn't feel right leaving things as they were between himself and the redheaded doctor. He wanted to return the favor of the meal as soon as possible.

At least that's what he told himself as he left the bar.

Yves slipped her key in the lock and let herself in. She allowed herself the luxury of one last look at the turbulent waves before entering the beach house. The broken cloud cover allowed the moon to shine through. There was enough light that she could just make out the breakers. Closing the sliding glass door, she cut of the sound of the surf.

During the entire trip back she had considered the ramifications of the meeting between Agent Doggett and Melvin Frohike. She dismissed the idea that Frohike was working for Nazis. They wouldn't need him, not when they had F.B.I. agents at their disposal.

Then why was Frohike there? It had to have something to do with Monica.

And Monica didn't understand the dangerous situation in which she was mired. She still needed to be warned about Agent Doggett. A phone call was out of the question; her phone could be tapped. Meeting Monica was now also out of the question. It left her with one solution: one that she detested but she didn't see a way around it.

While thinking, she headed to the living room. The professor was right where she'd left him only now he was tinkering with the Enigma machine itself. She pushed her concerns to the back of her mind. It wouldn't do for him to see her worried. They both had their jobs and his was to concentrate on the Enigma.

She watched him for a few moments as he slowly turned one of the dials. He'd removed part of the wooden casing so he could see how the internal gears affected each other as they spun. The machine made a faint tick-tick sound as the inner works settled into each new setting.

"I'm back," she finally announced.

He didn't look up or acknowledge that he'd heard her. When she turned to leave he said, "How was it?"

"How was what?" she asked, perplexed by the question.

"D.C." he replied, still focused on his work, "it's so lovely there this time of year."

She shook her head then asked. "Does the befuddled scientist routine serve a purpose?"

He did look up at her then. "It saves me from having to put up with tiresome conversations during parties." The admission earned him a faint smile.

"But seriously," he said turning in his chair so he could face her. His sober expression couldn't hide his concern. "There's something I need to know." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I've trusted you with my life. When you said we needed to leave DC, I left knowing it must be for a good reason. But now I'd like to know the whole story and I would hope you'd trust me with the truth."

He deserved the truth, Yves thought. He needed to know otherwise she wouldn't be able to protect him.

"The Nazis have learned your identity." His face became the color of spilled milk at this news. Yves continued. "Due to the Blitz, there is a communication blackout. I'm totally cut off from my superiors until our rendezvous." She paused. "We're alone."

"Surely the F.B.I…?" He began.

"I set up a meeting with them. It was a trap. Someone within the organization is leaking information to the Nazis or the SS." She thought of Agent Doggett sitting outside Monica's apartment.

"And now, because I was slow to act in retrieving the pictures from that newspaper photographer, they know what we look like." Her anger bubbled to the surface and Langly winced. Yes, he had called the Gazette in a rush to announce the truth but she should have been watching him more closely. She should have stopped him.

"We're alone," she repeated. She met his gaze, a steely determination in her eyes. "But I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you alive."

Langly broke eye contact first.

"Good to know," he replied turning back to his work. Pulling down one of the many papers he had tacked up on the wall, he added more equations to those already on the page.

Yves watched him a moment, understanding that in his own way he was thanking her for the truth and the vow she had made to him. Letting him work, she went to the desk, sat down and opened a drawer. She removed a single sheet of paper, an envelope and a pen.

She still had to warn Monica.