Russian Roulette
by
Sydnie MacElroy
The dark clouds that hung low over the city seemed to be waiting to release their burden until the wavering temperature decided once and for all to dip below freezing or rise just high enough that the impending precipitation would be a frigid driving rain rather than an unpleasant but tolerable blizzard. A jet roared overhead, the sound of its engines ominous and chillingly reminiscent of the moans of the dying as it lumbered on uncertain wings toward its destination somewhere to the north.
Below, the narrow streets bustled with activity, though on closer inspection, all movement seemed aimless and wasted. As the daylight hours dwindled once more into dusk, men and women ventured into shops, lingered for a few minutes absorbing the warmth, and emerged empty handed to resume their individual treks toward home and comfort. The lucky ones wore heavy overcoats, thick gloves and warm hats, but these souls were few in this neighborhood, and though they posed a tempting target for the would-be muggers among the less fortunate majority, they passed through the streets unmolested. It was best not to risk harming one of *them*, because one never knew just who *they* might be, and the repercussions for such an error would be swift and final.
Fox Mulder moved down the street, constantly aware of the necessity of maintaining an air of self-important dignity, for at the moment, his only defense lay in his ability to convince passers-by that he was one of *them*. Just ahead, the man he was pursuing paused for a moment to converse with a group of young people gathered around a small bonfire that raged in a metal trash bin before ducking through a doorway and out of sight.
Following a few seconds later, Mulder found himself in a bar that gave dives a bad name. A bare light bulb hanging from a dangerously frayed wire hung from the ceiling at the center of the room and provided most of the illumination for the establishment. The wood floor, stained from years of patrons tracking in snow and mud, spilling their drinks and dropping cigarettes, creaked and groaned at the slightest shift of weight. The tables and chairs, arranged haphazardly and crowded into a space that would comfortably house half of the furnishings there were presently there, were worn and mismatched as though collected from second hand shops or gathered from the street corners where they had been discarded.
The people, too, seemed to fit this description. An odd assortment of honest laborers, thugs, professional men and women, bums and prostitutes mingled easily here as they would not in any other setting, discussing and lamenting the few things all had in common - despair, a festering fear of what the future might hold, that it might be even worse than the present, and the desperation of poverty that could not be escaped through legitimate means. Occasional laughter pierced the otherwise sedate melange of whispering voices, but this was not laughter of joy, but humor found in the embarrassment or misfortune of others.
Finding a vacant seat at the end of the bar, Mulder sat down and ordered a beer. The bartender regarded him suspiciously, shrugged and produced a glass of foul-smelling dark brown liquid and placed it in front of him. It was warm, Mulder noted with regret and a hint of nostalgia. He had learned many things during his years at Oxford, not the least of which was the peculiar custom of forcing oneself to drink warm beer, but he had never learned to like it.
The man he was following, Fedor Varvarinski, was seated at the opposite end of the bar. Staring intently at the door, Mulder was directly in his line of vision, but Varvarinski only glanced briefly at him. Perhaps he assumed that in this place, so far from where they first met, this man could not be the same one he had known years before. Perhaps he had forgotten, or maybe he just didn't care. Those three brief late night meetings in obscure locales might have been just another day's work for Varvarinski, but for Mulder, they marked the beginning of a very dark period in his life, one from which he was still recovering.
His judgment had been clouded by the promise of answers, and so he had betrayed everything he held dear, everything he was, and did just what was asked of him. The information he was able to provide seemed to please Varvarinski, and yet the 'answers' he got in return were far less than what he already knew. It had all been for nothing, and in the process, he lost his self-respect and risked his life, his freedom and his only real means of getting at the truth. Never again, he vowed at the time, but since then, he often wondered just how far he would go if the temptation was there and the promises grand enough.
A gust of cold air sent shivers down his spine as the door was flung open and two men entered the bar. Dressed in black over coats and fedoras, they looked like caricatures of Hoover-era G-men, except for the shaggy blond hair poking out at odd angles from beneath the hat of the taller of the men. Across the room, Varvarinski tensed when he saw the new arrivals and watched them closely as they walked slowly toward him. His smile and greeting were forced as he extended a hand when they were within range. They ignored the pleasantries and moved to stand on either side of him, effectively pinning him against the bar. The three spoke in hushed tones for a few moments, then the shorter man thoughtfully stroked the crimson scar that transversed his left cheek from his temple to his chin and finally nodded. Pointing to the back door of the bar, he leaned close to Varvarinski and said something. Even from his position twenty feet away and without hearing the words that were said, Mulder could feel the implied threat.
Varvarinski nodded in vigorous agreement. Shaggy and Scarface stared at him for a moment before turning to leave by the back door. Varvarinski considered the drink on the bar in front of him, picked it up and downed it in one gulp, then signaled the bartender for another.
While he was deciding whether to approach Varvarinski or just wait for the man to lead him where he wanted to go, Mulder noticed another man walking toward him from a table in a dark corner of the bar. Varvarinski appeared surprised to see him, but less alarmed than he had been by his other visitors. He greeted the younger man with a friendly wave and eagerly accepted an invitation to join him at his table.
From his place near the door, Mulder could see little of the two men sitting in the ring of darkness at the periphery of the room, but he could tell that the conversation was intense, with Varvarinski doing most of the talking and the other man listening and looking unconvinced. Finally, the younger man nodded in understanding, stood, and gripping Varvarinski's shoulder, gave him a solid pat on the back. At least, that's how it appeared.
Moving away from the table with exaggerated nonchalance, he slipped out of the bar unnoticed by anyone except Mulder.
Mulder had decided to confront this thing head on. He could wait around for days, even weeks and be no closer to his goal, and time was not something he had much of at the moment. Although the confrontation would not be pleasant, it was best to get it over with, the sooner the better.
Winding his way through the crowd, he rehearsed what he was going to say to this man. Varvarinski was dangerous and cunning, and he could not be trusted. Talking to him might send out signals to all the wrong people, but it would get things moving, and it was better than doing nothing.
"Fedor Varvarinski," he said in way of greeting. "I don't suppose you remember me?"
Varvarinski did not move. It was only then that Mulder realized that he couldn't. Blank eyes stared straight ahead, his face still registering shock at the knife in his back that had ended his life.
Instinctively, Mulder reached to feel for a pulse he knew would not be there. His light touch on Varvarinski's neck was enough to knock the dead man from his precarious position on the chair. The body slumped onto the floor. Someone screamed. At the same time, outside the bar, the wailing of sirens and screeching of tires heralded the arrival of the militia.
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J. Edgar Hoover Building,
Washington, DC
Something was wrong. The feeling had been nagging at her all weekend, but the source of it remained a mystery. If Dana Scully had believed in psychic phenomenon, if she had acknowledged the connection that existed between her own mind and that of her partner, and if she had tried to break down the barrier of her own skepticism, she might have seen the images of his nightmare. Half a dozen men, wearing strange looking uniforms and carrying rifles, shouting unintelligible commands and threats as they forced their prisoner down a long, dark corridor in a strange building half a world away. She might have felt his terror, his uncertainty and confusion, his frustration.
As it was, her mind saw only the familiar hallways of the Hoover building and she felt only her own uneasiness. An early morning summons from the Assistant Director seldom brought happy tidings. More than likely, she thought, Mulder would be there, too, and they would both be raked over the coals for some minor infraction on his part. It seemed to happen on a fairly regular basis, and it really didn't bother her anymore. She'd gotten over being angry or embarrassed about the reprimands. It was just a fact of life when one was partnered with someone like Fox Mulder. Still, it meant that it was going to be a very long day.
There was a routine to these meetings. She would enter the outer office, greeted by the stony stare of Skinner's secretary. Perhaps she would be kept waiting for a few minutes, then with no prompting from an intercom, she would be told to go in. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she would find Skinner sitting at his desk, both fists planted firmly on the desk top as he leaned forward trying to appear menacing. Mulder would be there, standing so as to maintain physical control of the confrontation, face placid, unmoved by the tirade that was now coming to an end. She would move to stand next to him, perhaps with a vague suspicion as to the cause of the problem, but usually feeling like she'd walked in on the middle of a movie, with no idea of what the plot was or who the players were. Then gradually, her part in the script would be revealed and she would be left to defend her position or deny knowledge or just stand there and say nothing - whatever was called for at the moment.
Occasional variations in the routine kept her guessing, but when she walked into the outer office to find that the secretary was not at her desk and Skinner's door was standing wide open, she had no idea what to do. A glance at the clock on the wall confirmed that she was on time. Eight o'clock sharp, just as Skinner had ordered when he called her at home early this morning. But had it been an order, she wondered when she really thought about it. Since when did orders begin with the words, 'if you don't mind'?
She stood silently in the doorway for a moment, watching the Assistant Director who, unaware of her presence, was leaning back in his chair with his feet up on the corner of his desk, reading a newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. She couldn't help a faint smile at this glimpse at the personal side of Walter Skinner. It was reassuring to know that he wasn't all business all the time, but it was something more. As much as she hated to admit it, even to herself, she liked him. He walked a fine line between what was right and what was expected of him, but he had come to Mulder's and her defense enough times that, if he ever fell off that line, she knew which side he would land on. It wasn't quite trust, but the potential for it, that she felt and a sort of perverse fondness. He was so tense and so professional, even on occasions when it wasn't called for, it was good to see that he was able to relax.
"Sir," she asked softly, so as not to startle him.
Skinner glanced at her over his shoulder, folded the newspaper, and setting aside, stood up. "Good morning, Agent Scully," he said with a smile. "Come in, sit down and don't worry. You're not in trouble this time."
His mood and tone were light and cheerful, but there was something else behind that. Concern? Scully was not reassured. On the contrary, she was very suspicious as she took a seat and waited for what was to come.
Skinner did not resume his seat, but instead came around the desk and sat in the chair next to Scully. Curiosity mixed with alarm as she watched the worry lines around his eyes deepen.
"Have you heard from Agent Mulder recently," he asked.
She drew in a quick breath and tried not to panic. "Not since last Friday. I was working in the lab, he called for some test results. Why?"
"Then you don't know where he is?"
"No, Sir."
"You weren't aware that he asked for time off?"
"No." She tried to push away the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, but all she could think of were the other times he had run off without telling her, the trouble he had a way of attracting when she wasn't there to help him fend it off, and how she had managed to find him, but not until it was almost too late. How long could their luck hold out?
"He came to see me on Friday and asked for a week of personal time, effective immediately. He refused to tell me what was going on, but he seemed... upset about something. Agent Scully, I may appear to be reticent, but I do care about my people. If one of them has a problem..."
"Did he say anything else?"
"He said he was booked on a flight to Helsinki. I assumed that was his way of telling me to butt out."
Scully didn't know whether to be relieved or more worried than ever. She just nodded. "It was probably true. And it is a personal matter. I won't betray a confidence. It's not my place."
"Of course. But if there's anything I can do..."
"Thank you," she said. There was something, but she wasn't sure if she should ask. "Off the record, Sir?"
He gazed at her quizzically and finally nodded.
"Just before Christmas, you called me into the office in regards to a matter involving a series of unexplained deaths and a skater named Dominika Krestyanova. At the time, you wouldn't tell me where the case had come from, who had reported it... I need to know."
Skinner considered the question. "You have to understand my position," he said, choosing his words with great care. He focused his gaze on something in the corner of the room.
Scully followed his gaze, her heart nearly stopping when she saw the large glass ashtray on the table in the corner. "Yes, Sir. I understand. Thank you."
"Am I to assume that you will be requesting some time off, Agent Scully?"
"I think that would be a good idea."
Skinner nodded. "The paper work has already gone through. Is this situation connected to..."
"Yes, it is. It would be rather difficult to explain, even if I were free to do so." She thought for a moment, torn between an unspoken promise to Mulder and the feeling that she owed Skinner more of an explanation in light of his cooperation and understanding. "He's looking for his daughter," she said softly. "But it appears to be much more complicated than just that.
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Zhelenograd Detention Center,
Moscow
As the sun began its downward journey into night, a few of its rays slipped through the iron bars on the window to illuminate the high stone walls of the cell, tempering for the moment the nauseating flickering of the dying fluorescent bulb recessed behind a pane of frosted glass in the ceiling. Time ceased to have any meaning in surroundings such as this, and yet this harbinger of nightfall was an unwelcome reminder to the prisoner in cell 1021. Huddled on his cot, wrapped in the rough moth-eaten woolen blanket he had been issued and watching his breath coalesce into puffs of tiny ice crystals, he thought about time - the time he had lost to this place and the time he would lose to it. He thought about all the mistakes he had made in his life, considered each individually and then together, marveling at how they combined like the scraps of cloth that would become a quilt to lead him to this fate. Some were glaringly obvious in hindsight. Others much more subtle, errors of omission, things he should have done but did not think to do or for which he did not wish to take time, or bits of advice he should have listened to, but disregarded out of hand because he did not trust the source or did not feel that the time was right. What a fool he had been. And if ever he got the chance, he would rectify all of it, assuming that it wasn't too late.
The silence was oppressive, settling around him like a poisoned fog stealing all sources of stimulation from his aural sense. His own voice, on the few occasions when he tested it, echoed off the walls and returned to him eerily distorted. From outside the cell, now and then the click-clack of heavy work boots on stone floors would greet his ears and he would wait anxiously in fear and anticipation for the door to be opened. More often than not, he would be disappointed - or was that relieved? - when the guard passed by his door and continued on.
He had not been mistreated. The cell was cold, the food was bad and the cot was uncomfortable, but it could have been much worse. From time to time, in the night, he would hear loud arguments and distant screams of protest. He suspected that the abuse of prisoners was more often at the hands of other prisoners than by the guards, although this was a hypothesis he did not wish to study firsthand.
For the moment, he was safe, locked away in what appeared to be a special wing of the facility. As long as his identity remained a mystery, as long as the officials were unsure of just who they had locked in cell 1021, they would see to it that he stayed out of harm's way. Once he was revealed, they would either be unimpressed and release him into the general population of the jail or they would believe they had found a treasure, release him into the general population anyway, and spark an international incident. Neither eventuality suited his plans.
His feet were getting numb from the cold. He slipped off his shoes and massaged his toes vigorously to keep the circulation going and ward off frostbite. It was a common sense approach to the problem, but one he had never considered until that time in Alaska, and then Scully had repeatedly pounded it into his head until she was certain he would never forget.
Scully. He should have told her where he was going and what he was doing. He should have told her a lot of things he never bothered to tell her.
She would know, of course, or she would figure it out. Once she even realized that he was missing, and how long might that take? Even if she did find him, what would she be able to do to get him out of this one? Moscow was a little outside of their jurisdiction. She could storm the place with the combined staff of the Moscow legat and the US embassy as backup, and knowing her, she was not beyond trying it, but it wouldn't really matter.
Mulder sighed as he put his shoes back on. The frame was imperfect, but carefully arranged. If only he could communicate with someone this whole matter could be cleared up, but after the first two days, it became painfully obvious that they had no intention of providing an interpreter. His only contact was with the guards, and all they did was bark commands in Russian and wait for him to figure out what they wanted. In time, he might learn enough of the language to offer a defense, but for now all he had picked up were a phrase that apparently meant 'get moving,' and another that announced the arrival of a meal.
Fearing sleep, but no longer able to resist, Mulder settled his head on his arms and allowed his eyes to close for only the second time since he was brought to this place. The nightmare would return. There was no doubting that fact. The terror, the loss of control. Fitful but much needed sleep overcame him almost instantly.
The dream image that came to him as he slept was not at all what he expected. A radiant fire, warm and inviting, and moving ever closer. He watched, unafraid, willing it to him, waiting for it to engulf him in its glow.
"Mulder?"
The sound of his own name whispered in his ear by a familiar voice, the sensation of a gentle hand caressing his cheek and the faint scent of jasmine hovering in the air around him. It was just a dream. It had to be, and he clung to it with the tenacity of a pit bull.
"Mulder." More insistent this time. "Wake up."
From behind the voice came the sounds of an argument, a man and a woman, their words intense but their voices hushed. Across the language barrier, he recognized a pattern to the conversation. Offer, counter-offer, a hesitation as each was considered, and finally agreement.
Eyes still closed, still holding on to the dream, Mulder sensed another form approaching him as the one already there stepped away, heard two distinct voices whispering, a few of their words reaching him.
"... sorry ..."
"... anything ... Mulder ..."
A muted snap, the rattling of paper, the click of heels crossing the stone floor.
"Scully?"
She was by his side before he finished saying her name. "I'm here." She grasped his hand and squeezed it to confirm her words.
He opened his eyes slowly, afraid of shattering what was surely an illusion, but when the image before him came into focus, he found Scully's smiling face looking down at him.
"How..."
"I'll explain everything. Later." She glanced over her shoulder at a dark-haired woman standing in the doorway. "Right now, we've got to get out of here."
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US Embassy, FBI Legal Attache Office,
Moscow
This was like no other field office Scully had ever seen. Sipping tea from a china cup while she waited to see the SAC, she studied her surroundings and secretly made plans to add a touch of class to Mulder's basement office when they got home. The leather chairs, antique tables and Persian rugs were out of the question, but he might relent to a potted palm tucked away in some remote corner, and that, at least, was within her budget. If she was feeling particularly daring, she might even relegate the old chipped mugs to the position of pencil holders and upgrade the coffee maker to something from this decade.
She could get used to working in a place like this, she thought. The dark oak paneled walls and rich colors were soothing and comfortable. It reminded her of her father's den in the house where she had grown up. Yet at the same time, she hoped that her career would never culminate in someplace like this. It was an office meant to impress visitors, not a place where any real work was to be done.
Special Agent Emery Marshall stepped out of his office and held out his hand to her as he introduced himself. A distinguished looking man of about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and thick horn-rimmed glasses, he carried himself with an air of dignity that would make it easy to mistake him for the ambassador himself.
"Agent Scully, glad to meet you. It's not often we get visitors from headquarters over here."
"Thank you, and I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice."
"Think nothing of it." He led her to his office and offered her a seat.
Marshall's private office was as grand as the reception area. Scully settled into a huge wing-back chair and briefly surveyed the customary framed photographs that adorned the walls. Most of the faces were unfamiliar to her, but she did recognize Yeltsin and Gorbachev as well as a few recent US presidents among the personages Marshall had posed with.
"So how are things back in the good old USA," Marshall asked.
"Aside from the occasional government shut down?"
Marshall laughed. "Politics as usual, Agent Scully. You think you've got it rough dealing with one government, try coordinating efforts between two of them. I'd trade places with you in a minute."
"No deal," Scully said.
"Very wise. Take my advice, if they ever offer you a promotion, run screaming into the hills and don't look back. The only place for a real agent is out in the field where something actually gets done. Leave the paper shuffling to the politicians and lawyers."
"I'll remember that."
"Speaking of desk jockeys, how's old Walter doing, anyway?"
Scully had to think for a moment before she realized who he meant. "Skinner? He's fine. He speaks very highly of you. He said I could trust you to be... discreet."
Marshall nodded. "He filled me in on a few of the details, but he was circumspect to say the least."
"You understand that this is not a Bureau matter."
He dismissed her concern with a shrug. "Chalk it up to a little professional courtesy. I understand that you're interested in information about Dominika Krestyanova. I did a little research after I talked to Walter." He opened a few desk drawers and rummaged in them for a minute, then paused to think until a thought occurred to him. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed an extension. "Woodrow, do you have those archive files I was looking at... Yeah, thanks." He replaced the phone with a self-satisfied smile. The appearance of order and efficiency was apparently only skin deep. "I'm afraid there's nothing too recent. We do know that she's affiliated with an organization known as the Russian Democratic League. It was formed as a secret society in the early eighties. In fact, she was one of the founding members, although she was just a child at the time. Twelve or thirteen, I believe, and an orphan. Their political activities, at times, border on terrorism, but there's never been enough solid evidence to do anything about it. I wouldn't say that they were instrumental in bringing about the dissolution of the Soviet Union, but they certainly had a hand in it."
"It sounds as though you don't entirely disapprove."
"Agent Scully, I've worked in this office since its inception at the height of the Cold War. Needless to say, at the time, we weren't very popular with the government or the people. I've seen enough to know my own heart on this matter, and I can tell you this. I applaud anyone who sees a better way of life and has the balls to get out there and do something about it. If it takes extreme measures to get it done..." He shrugged. "The Boston Tea Party was an act of terrorism. The signing of the Declaration of Independence was an act of treason." His eyes pleaded for understanding.
"I can't argue with that," Scully said. "In fact, my partner and I were discussing the very same thing not so long ago, although you state your case more eloquently than I did." Never mind that I'd had a recent brush with death, she thought. "Were you able to locate any personal information?"
"You probably know more than I do. Most of what I can give you is background information that comes from the Soviet Archives. Highly censored and most of it involving her father, the research he was involved in, his disappearance in 1977."
"So, at least that part of her story is true," Scully said thoughtfully. "What were the circumstances surrounding his disappearance?"
A knock at the door prevented his answer. "You can read that for yourself in just a minute. Come in, Russ."
The door opened slowly and a small man in a brown polyester suit and yellow bow tie entered carrying a stack of bound reports and multi-colored file folders. His hair was slicked back and very dark in contrast to his pallid skin. His actions were slow and methodical, yet he exuded a nervous energy. PeeWee Herman on Quaaludes.
"Russ Woodrow," Marshall said, "this is Special Agent Dana Scully, from Washington."
"How do you do," Scully said, extending a hand.
When Woodrow moved to respond to the offer, he lost his grip on the stack of papers, letting half of them slide to the floor before he caught the remaining pile against his chest. "Sorry," he mumbled. Dropping to his knees to collect the spilled reports, he lost his balance and the papers in his arms flew into the air as he landed face down on the floor at Scully's feet.
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Go to part two
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