Women…why is it that he always became fixated on those he could never have? The throw-away types were always plentiful with their sultry voices in seedy nightclubs and Marilyn Monroe-esque deep plunging necklines and blonde locks. His thoughts that Monday morning, however, centered on the chocolate brown eyes and chestnut curls of a certain friend's wife as he leisurely climbed the winding staircase in the Stratford building in New York City. Of course the woman with whom he felt a connection was Bill Mulder's wife. Of course. How typical. He chastised himself for obsessing over something so trivial. She wasn't the first intelligent, beautiful woman to dance across his path and she wouldn't be the last; and with that thought, he firmly pushed all traces of her out of his mind. Or rather, he attempted to. Good enough.
Chris ran his fingers through his dark hair and took an exceedingly unpleasant gulp of the bitterest cup of coffee he'd quite possibly ever tasted. He wrinkled his nose in protest but forced a swallow anyway before chucking it into a waste basket, knowing that in order to survive hours of covert summits, a healthy dose of caffeine would be necessary. And nicotine. Always nicotine, and especially for breakfast. He'd already acquiesced to that particular morning repas. One would think his life would seem more fulfilling due to the status he'd acquired—the power of knowing and dealing in secrets and lies of which the vast majority of the world remained blissfully ignorant. Knowledge, however, just like everything else, came with a price, and Chris often wondered if it was worth the trouble. Sometimes he would lie in bed at night, trying to remember the reasons he'd decided to climb this ladder, and more often than not, the answers didn't exist. He believed what hedid was right, and that conviction propelled him forward through days of monotony and living his life fifty years from now, as opposed to the present. The Earth could sleep a bit easier because of him, even if nobody knew or cared who to thank.
When he came to the set of oak hand-carved double doors, Chris pressed the eye of the little wooden cherub in the center, just above its triangular nose—the Syndicate's tribute to the Bhavarian Illuminati. The triangle flipped around with a mechanical buzz, revealing a palm-sized keypad. Chris quickly typed the 5-digit code—24601, and pushed the heavy doors until they swung open and brusquely locked behind him with a slam. He trudged down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway to the common parlor at the far north end, where a fire blazed in the hearth against the winter chill. A set of black leather winged-back chairs formed a semi-circle around the fireplace. The rich, spicy aroma of imported cigars floated about the room, whispering to Chris that he was not the only member to arrive early. Bill Mulder sat in a chair nearest the fire, puffing lightly on a Cuban while staring into the flames.
"Good morning, Chris. Lovely day, is it not?" the voice came from the bar at the opposite end of the high-ceilinged parlor.
He turned to see Ronald dressed in his typical blue pin-stripe with a bottle of Russian vodka dangling in one hand. Chris gazed at the grey morning outside the large rectangular windows, icy sheets of rain pattering against the glass.
"I am sure it is a great mistake always to know enough to go in when it rains.
One may keep snug and dry by such knowledge,but one misses a world of loveliness," he replied.
"Enough of the poetic crap, please. Would you like something to drink? Tea or coffee? Or perhaps a refreshing gin and tonic?"
"No thank you. I'm quite well."
Chris took a seat at the fire beside Bill.
"What bothers you this morning?" he asked.
Bill startled slightly, seeming to notice Chris' presence for the first time.
"An argument with my wife, actually."
Chris flinched at the mention of her and felt a flush emanating from his collar.
"What sort of argument?" he inquired cautiously, resting his gaze on the flames that rolled and licked over the logs.
"The usual…she wants me to tell her 'the truth' about my life. Of course, I'm away most of the time, so she's lonely. I told her we could see about getting a dog, but no, she wants a baby."
"And you don't want children?"
"Of course I do, it's just that we've been married for four years and it seems that children would have already arrived if we were to have them. I told her this and then she suggested we adopt an orphan or something, which is just ridiculous…Well, she'll get over it in time, I suppose. It's only another phase."
"Phase?"
"Like I said, she gets lonely all by herself in that large house, so she finds little projects to occupy her time. She took up the violin last year, and she writes constantly," Bill snorted.
"What does she write?"
"Damned if I know…You're not scheduled to attend the next parlay, are you?"
"No."
"Great, then how about Teena and I have you over Christmas Eve? She loves preparing small dinner parties, especially during the holidays. I'm sure the cleaning and planning would cheer her right up, and she'll enjoy getting to know you. She doesn't really have any friends of her own."
"Um, sure Bill. That sounds fine."
A low hum of chatter permeated the silence as the men began filing into the room for the business of the day. One by one the chairs around the fireplace filled, and after a few minutes, Frank took his place before the group, leaning one elbow against the mantle. Light from the hearth shined in his neatly-gelled jet black hair.
"Our first order of business today, gentlemen, is to discuss the newest development in our Purity Control plan. The vaccination against the black cancer is still in its earliest stages, of course, but there will be a need to test its effects. One of our scientists has suggested distribution through a control group via small pox inoculation," Frank announced in his clipped, British accent.
--
"Chris, before you go, our superiors informed me earlier that they wish to meet with you privately downstairs," Frank said quietly, placing his hand on Chris' forearm to stop him at the door.
"What for?" Chris asked, breathing out a small sigh of annoyance.
"I don't know. They certainly don't tell me everything, but they've taken a liking to you, I think. It sounded like some sort of side assignment."
"I don't go on active duty for another three months."
"Well, perhaps it isn't military related. Once again, I have no idea. Cheers."
--
"Mr. Spender, please take a seat."
Chris decided to comply instead of retorting that he preferred to stand. The power that these three men nonchalantly slung around intimidated him. Best to remain on their good sides. The three 'superiors' of the Syndicate operated deep within the secret bowels of the U.S. government. Men without lives. Men without names. Chris couldn't imagine such an existence. He sat across the desk from the man with snow white hair and coke bottle glasses, while the other two remained looming near the door. The old man lit up a clove cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke calculatedly into Chris's face, but he didn't flinch. This seemed to please the man; a wry smile curled over his thin lips as he flicked ashes onto the surface of the antique desk.
"Mr. Spender," the old man grumbled in a deep, graveled voice, "You have shown a dedication to the project exceeding that of the other members. You possess strength and wisdom beyond your years, and you are clearly devoted to the service of your country."
Chris raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this might be going. "Thank you, sir."
"Therefore we have decided to give you this assignment, because you will surely handle it with the utmost respect, importance, and urgency."
"I will do my best, sir. What is it you want me to do?"
The old man sighed as he glanced at the sheets of slushy, grey rain pounding against the windowpane.
"We have a problem in Africa. As you probably know, the Congo is a key area of the geopolitics of the country, and because of its wealth and size, it would pose a serious threat to western society if the regime were to become radicalized."
"Yes, and there is reason to distrust the prime minister since he received aid from the Soviets," Chris replied.
"Exactly. Communism poses a serious threat not only to our country but to our work as well. This is the reason the problem must be eliminated as soon as possible."
"And how do you propose I do that, sir?"
"I am appointing you task force leader in the assassination plot of Patrice Emery Lumumba."
"You want me to kill the prime minister?" Chris asked shakily, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
"You are quite astute, Mr. Spender."
--
Teena sat curled over the baby grand piano with her legs tucked beneath her. She wore Bill's flannel sheepskin robe but still found her teeth chattering due to drafts in the old house. Outside the large bay window, the world snuggled under a blanket of white. Thick gusts of snowflakes danced in the air, several of them sticking to the thin sheet of ice covering the glass on the window panes. She squinted into the blizzard, but it was no use, the ocean was invisible at this distance. The water was always so beautiful when it snowed; it transformed into a mixture of midnight and ice blue glass in place of the typical grey-green froth. Bill had called her earlier to tell her that his flight was delayed until late tonight on account of the storm, and he had also demanded that she remain indoors.
Teena hated staying in the house alone at night. All of the open spaces still made her feel uneasy, as though her movements were being watched from the shadows. The building was designed in the antebellum period, and the property on the Vineyard had been occupied by the Mulder family long before then. Creaking of floorboards upstairs and wind whistling through shutters spoke of the long history of the house. Once, in a waking dream, Teena swore she had heard anxious whispers in the hallway outside her bedroom door, along with the faint weeping of a small child. She knew that somehow echoes of the past lived within these walls, and she believed that lost spirits might wander the halls at night. The thought was both frightening and fascinating, and Teena found herself shivering in the light of day as a chill traveled the length of her spine.
She padded across the Oriental rug in her bobby socks to turn up the volume on the television. Double Indemnity had been playing silently on the screen, which was her favorite way to see a movie. It was more fun to guess what steamy words of deceit could be flowing from Barbara Stanwyck's luscious mouth as opposed to actually hearing them, but today the silence was becoming a bit overpowering. On her way back to her perch at the window, Teena grabbed the leather-bound journal from the bookcase. She lifted the hidden flap in the back to reveal a tiny silver key that would open the lock to her most treasured secrets. Grabbing a pencil from the inside pocket, she flipped through pages of her dainty, cursive script that spanned the previous ten years, until she at last came to a blank page. Without pondering what to write, her hand instinctively glided over the cream-colored paper.
The little boy waits outside his mother's bedroom. He wears a blue overcoat and deerskin britches—his Sunday best. His hair is rich chestnut brown and his eyes sparkle with flecks of green. He refuses to let the tears spill over. The grandfather clock chimes the third hour of the afternoon. Suddenly, Father rushes out of the room with the doctor, and they speak in hushed, frightened voices in the hallway. She doesn't have much time…Fox cannot cease the flow of tears.
"Pardon me…Mrs. Mulder?"
Teena gasped in surprise and looked up to see Laney, the housekeeper, standing in the entryway from the foyer, her arms folded across her large chest.
"What do you need, Laney?"
"I finished the dusting and polishing upstairs, ma'am. I was wondering if I might go on and leave now instead of at nine, since the weather might be harder to journey through later. There's a casserole in the fridge. You just gotta heat it up."
"Thank you. You're welcome to stay the night, though, if it's too dangerous outside. The visibility looks pretty bad."
"Oh no ma'am, I'll be just fine. I've been living in the north for nearly sixty-five years now."
"All right, but be careful. I'll see you in the morning, weather permitting."
"Oh! One more thing before I go. One of the floorboards gave out on me upstairs right outside the door to your husband's office. I found this trapped under the floor."
Laney extended an open palm to Teena, revealing an old-fashioned, golden key.
"I figured you or Mr. Mulder must've dropped it through the floorboards."
"That's fine, Laney thank you," Teena replied, brusquely taking the key and shoving it into the pocket of her robe.
After the old woman bustled out the front door, Teena realized that her pulse was thudding rapidly in her ears. A spare to his office, no doubt, since none of the other rooms upstairs had keyholes in the doors. In the four years she had been living in this house, she'd never seen the inside of that room. How could he have made such a mistake to leave it in an obvious place if what he kept hidden was so sacred? She quickly stood, the journal sliding off her lap and landing in a heap on the hardwood floor. Slowly she walked to the foot of the staircase and gazed up into the heart of the mystery.
Teena's fingers delicately brushed over the smooth oak surface of the door until they reached the brass knob. Her hand shook in anticipation as she placed the key in the lock, discovering without surprise that it was a perfect fit. She told herself this was wrong, that it would be an infringement of his privacy. But he refused to tell her anything. For years he'd been lying, and she knew it. Wasn't it her right to know, as his wife, who her husband really was? Small secrets were one thing; every marriage had small secrets, but husbands and wives should not be estranged to this degree. And on top of that, this was her home too, and he had left a spare key under a broken floorboard.
Teena held her breath as the lock clicked harshly in the silence. She pushed the door open with a creak and groped along the wall for a light switch. Immediately, she came upon a small end table near the door and pulled a lamp cord. The room looked ordinary enough; it was filled with typical office furniture: a desk, a filing cabinet, floating bookshelves. However, the shutters on the windows were sealed from the inside with black paint, the room remaining hidden from the outside. Having no idea where to start, Teena strode over to the filing cabinet and pulled a stack of folders from the top drawer. She plopped onto the oversized wine-colored swivel chair and spread the papers across the desk. The first manila folder contained a cover sheet in the front that read—
BRIEFING DOCUMENT: OPERATION MAJESTIC 12
PREPARED FOR PRESIDENT-ELECT DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER: (EYES ONLY)
18 NOVEMEBR, 1952
WARNING: This is a TOP SECRET - EYES ONLY document containing
compartmentalized information essential to the national security of
the United States. EYES ONLY ACCESS to the material herin is strictly
limited to those possessing Majestic-12 clearance level. Reproduction
in any form or the taking of written or mechanically transcribed notes
is strictly forbidden.
TOP SECRET
This wasn't a big surprise; she knew Bill worked on classified projects all the time. She flipped the first page over and scanned fervently, though she did not understand much of the cryptic information.
On 24 June, 1947, a civilian pilot, flying over the Cascade Mountains
in the State of Washington observed nine flying disc-shaped aircraft traveling in formation at a high rate of speed. Although this was not the first known sighting of such objects, it was the first to gain widespread attention in the public media. On 07 July, 1947, a secret operation was begun to assure recovery of the wreckage of this object for scientific study. During the course of this operation, aerial reconnaissance discovered that four small human-like beings had apparently ejected from the craft at some point before it exploded.
Teena glared at the words in disbelief. Surely this was some kind of false testimony pertaining to the weather balloon crash in New Mexico over a decade before. She remembered all of the flying saucer craziness that came up in the news before the rumors were finally dispelled. What could Bill possibly be doing with these documents? Her brows furrowed with unease as she tucked the papers back into the folder and reached for another labeled "Project Blue Book and the Roswell Incident". These papers consisted of strings of letters that looked like nothing more than gibberish; so she grabbed another file with the phrase "Purity Control" penciled across the front with Bill's scrawled hand writing on notebook paper inside—
Paper Clip failing more quickly than anticipated
Vaccine?
Ruse in place to earn their trust
"TEENA? Sweetheart, I'm home early! Are you upstairs?" Bill's voice suddenly boomed from the foyer. Teena froze, her blood running cold.
--
AN: Official excerpt from MJ Documents
