Title: Rongbuk
Author: Ravenscion
E-mail: ravenscion@hotmail.com
Rating: R (language, violence, sex)
Category: XR
Keywords: Mulder/Scully romance, some angst
Spoilers: possible for seasons 1-5 and the movie.
Date of First Posting: 29 August 1998
Author's website: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/6767/
Archiving: Please archive at Gossamer.  Others, please email for
permission.

Summary and notes: see chapter 1.

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder and Dana Scully, and all of the other characters
and situations related to the X-Files, belong to Chris Carter, 1013
Productions, and the FOX network.  I am using them without permission
but intend no copyright infringement.

[begin part 3 of 11]
************************************************************************

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, 15 September, 9:00 a.m.

Dana Scully tapped Frohike's bundle of copies on her desk and slid them
neatly back into the folder they had come in, glancing around the
refurbished office that she and Mulder shared.  She noticed that he had
replaced the small candid photo of the two of them that had been on his
bulletin board before the fire, and she herself had gone out and found
another "I Want To Believe" poster, which she had hung over her
partner's desk after they had been reassigned to the X-Files from the
counter-terrorism unit to which they had been exiled.  Though Mulder had
not commented on the poster directly, Scully had seen the subtle look of
pleasure that had crossed his features when he had seen it, and that had
been all the reward she had needed.

She had spent the morning reading over the copied pages of Randolph
Sales' journal -- difficult going, given the shaky hand in which the
post-Rongbuk sections had been written -- while Mulder had made phone
call after phone call, attempting to turn up any indication that John
Leslie had returned to the United States.  So far, he had met with no
success, and frankly, Scully did not foresee any likelihood of that
situation changing, despite Mulder's already fixed determination.

The previous night, after they had left the offices of 'The Lone
Gunman,' she and Mulder had headed for her apartment, by silent, mutual
consent.  Upon arrival, Mulder had plunged into the papers provided by
Frohike, seating himself at her kitchen table with the folder and a
glass of ice water.  He had remained there for hours, surfacing just
long enough to share a light dinner with her, while she had gone through 
her after-work routine.  She had eventually settled on her sofa with a
book, reflecting on the fact that, although she had spent her evening in
much the same way that she would have before entering this deeper
relationship with Mulder, just his presence in her apartment had given
her a sense of contentment, making every small moment somehow richer,
more complete.

Just before midnight, she had coaxed him to bed, and he had come without
argument, falling asleep moments after his head had hit the pillow.
Lying next to him, she had remained wakeful a bit longer, listening to
the steady rhythm of his breathing, and then dropped off herself, her
last coherent thought a resolution to get to the bottom of this
mysterious affair they were suddenly faced with.

Tomorrow, she had thought, settling deeper into the sheets.  We'll deal
with it tomorrow.

The next day had dawned all to soon, and it had been with some
reluctance that Scully had untangled herself from Mulder's embrace and
begun the process of preparing for work.  Their relationship had not
affected their work so far, she mused, but there was no denying that it
had an affect on her willingness to start her morning routine.

Scully put aside this line of thinking and looked over at her partner,
who, having at last abandoned his telephone campaign, had read through
the morning message traffic and then settled into a posture of deep
concentration.  He had been that way for some time, stirring only once
in a while as though to begin searching for an X-File, and then sitting
back once more as he remembered that virtually all of his files were
gone.  Of course, some of the data had been backed up on microfiche or
diskette, but much also had been lost forever, to Mulder's endless
frustration.

He sensed her gaze on him and returned it.  "Well?" he asked, gesturing
toward the file.

"There's not much to go on, here," Scully said.  "Judging from the
degradation in Sales' handwriting subsequent to his explorations near
Rongbuk, I'd guess he suffered a mild stroke, or something."

Mulder nodded.  "I'd wondered about that.  We know his mental health was
affected by that trip.  Maybe there was a physical cause."  He paused
for a moment.  "What about his account?  What do you think it means?"

"Well, it's terse, even a little incoherent.  It doesn't provide much
information at all about where and when certain critical events took
place, but..." she trailed off.

"But what?"

"But the aerial phenomena he describes do seem to resemble some of what
we've seen over the years."

"So you think it's worth investigating?" Mulder asked.

Scully chose her words carefully.  "It's worth looking into -- with
caution.  I still think we can't overlook the possibility that we're
being manipulated."

"Agreed.  But if we know a trap may be present, we have the key to
avoiding it, right?"

"I suppose so," she said doubtfully.  "I'd like to know more about this
Florescu person, though."

"So would I," said Mulder.  "He's probably legitimate, though.  The
'Gunmen' have plenty of odd acquaintances, but most of them are harmless
enough."

"Mulder, I can't understand why a man who wears a bullet-proof vest to
bed...."

"Scully!  How do you know what Frohike wears to bed?"  Mulder affected
an astonished look.

"How did you know I meant Frohike?"  She smiled back at him.

"Hey, I've know those guys for seven years.  I think I know most of
their habits by now.  You didn't answer my question."

"I took the tests I ran on the boy, Gibson, over to them."  Scully felt
her mood become somber at the memory, despite the inherent humor in
Frohike's choice of night-wear.  "It was late, and Frohike met me at the
door dressed in PJ's and body armor.  Anyway, why do they accept this
Florescu at face value?"

"I don't think they do, necessarily. They tested the books, and Langly
did mention that they tried to check up on Florescu as well.  But
remember, for all their caution, they're in the publishing business.
When they get a lead, they go with it."  He made a dismissive gesture.
"Anyway, Leslie is the real key to this."

Scully considered that, not replying.  She was not sure that Florescu
wouldn't prove a factor.

Mulder studied her, reading her concerns.  "Look, we won't take any
chances on this one."

"Is that a promise?" she asked.

"Promise.  Shall we go see Skinner?"

Scully cocked an eyebrow his way.  "Have you filed paperwork for this
already?"

"This morning.  I sent him a preliminary write-up of what we know while
you were going over Frohike's papers."

"Mulder, we hardly know anything.  Do you think he's going to accept
that?"

"I just made 25 phone calls to see if I could informally turn up any
information on Leslie, and since I didn't get so much as a nibble, I
think we have to put Bureau resources into this.  As for Skinner?"  His
shoulders twitched.  "Only one way to find out."

* * *

Walter Skinner raised his eyes from the paperwork on his desk and
surveyed the two agents seated in front of him.  Mulder slouched in
his chair, somehow managing to look serious and insouciant all at once,
a trick that only he could pull off, as far as Skinner had seen, at
least.

Scully's expression remained guarded, neutral, but was not the hard,
bleak mask that had subdued her beauty for so long.  Something had
changed in her life, something that had returned a hint of softness to
her features and smoothed away some of the worry writ on her face.

Skinner had an idea what that something might be.  A long-awaited
development had finally come to pass.  He looked carefully at Mulder,
searching for evidence to support his hypothesis, but Mulder's
demeanor betrayed nothing -- well, perhaps just a hint could be
detected, enough to satisfy Skinner that his conclusions were correct.

Good for the both of you, he thought, not letting his approval show.
Just be discrete about it, and we can all look the other way
indefinitely.

When he spoke, Skinner employed his most severe conversational tone,
one that had served to intimidate underlings and colleagues alike since
his service in the Marine Corps, but which had never had quite the
desired effect on Mulder, his most difficult subordinate.  Skinner for
the most part liked Mulder, but he would have preferred that he toe the
line just a bit more carefully than was his wont.

"Agent Mulder, I've reviewed your proposal for an investigation and I
have to say I find it awfully thin."

Mulder opened his mouth to respond, but Skinner cut him off.  "I'm not
finished.  Not only do you lack hard evidence to warrant the opening of
an investigation, but frankly, in my view this entire scenario shows
every characteristic of a set-up."

"Sir, I understand that," said Mulder, "but if you'll just consider the
implications of the evidence that we do have, and for that matter the
possibility of a set-up itself...."

Skinner silenced him with an abrupt gesture.  "I read what you
submitted, Agent Mulder."  He turned to Scully, who had not spoken.
"Agent Scully, do you want to give me your view on this matter?"

She lowered her gaze, revealing her discomfort with the situation,
then raised her eyes to meet his once more.  When she spoke, her words
were deliberate, carefully phrased.  "Sir, I agree that the physical
evidence is lacking, and that there exists the possibility of deliberate
deception...."  She trailed off, glancing at her partner, then resumed.
"But Agent Mulder's instincts have proven correct in the past, quite
often, and while I have some reservations...given the facts of our
recent investigation of the Blackwood...."

Skinner cut her off as well.  "Understood, Agent Scully."  He could
tell from the precision of her enunciation that she in fact had serious
reservations, but loyalty to her partner, and faith in his intuition,
led her to support him.

He had faith in Mulder's intuition as well, but it was not without
limits.  "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, I'm afraid I have serious doubts
about the wisdom of opening a casefile."

Mulder looked as though he would speak again, but Skinner did not let
him begin.  "Your report on the Blackwood case was not appreciated by
the powers that be, in the Bureau, in the Justice Department, and in...
other places.  It may have forced the re-opening of the X-Files, for
now...."  Skinner leaned forward for emphasis: "But believe me, there
are plenty of people who would take any excuse to force me to close
you down again."  He indicated the file on his desk.  "You're going to
need more to go on."

This time it was Scully who began to speak.  "Sir, with an
investigation, we can acquire more evidence, and then we'll be better
positioned to...."

He cut her off once again.  "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, but I am
officially denying Agent Mulder's request to open an investigation."  He
spoke the word 'officially' with only the slightest trace of emphasis.

Anger and resentment flared on Mulder's face, then vanished as Scully
reached out and laid her hand lightly on his forearm.  That was new,
Skinner thought.  Scully and Mulder had long shared the silent
communication that often developed between partners, though theirs was
more intimate than most, but Mulder was not usually so compliant.  Yes,
the signs were there, he thought.

Scully turned her attention back to Skinner.  "Sir, we may need some
time off in the near future."

He nodded.  "Not a problem, Agent Scully.  You both have it coming."
He turned to Mulder, pinning him with a glare.  "Give me something to
stand on, and then we can discuss this."

He dismissed the two of them with a curt nod.

* * *

Outside of Skinner's office, the door shut behind them, Scully turned to
her partner.  "Now what?"

Mulder looked annoyed.  "Now we start digging again -- informally."  He
sighed.  "We never get to do things the easy way, do we?"

Scully studied him.  "Did you expect anything else?"

"Just once," he said, "I'd like a case to go by the numbers.  Really.
It could happen."

Scully did not answer.  She placed a hand on his elbow and steered him
toward the elevators, back to their basement refuge.  She was certain
of one thing: Mulder put off would be more determined than ever to pry
this affair wide open.  She hid a sigh of her own.  It promised to be a
long week.

************************************************************************

Near Rongbuk Monastery, Tibet
Wednesday, 16 September, 10:00 a.m.

Nawang Tsering slouched in the back of an oxcart and watched as Rongbuk,
his uncle's monastery, dwindled in the distance.  He stretched, relaxing
in the hot sunlight and enjoying the slow sway of the vehicle, now and
then answering the idle remarks of the drover with whom he had caught a
ride.  Around him, fields of barley and stony, moss-covered slopes rose
gradually away from the road at the valley floor, extending to the
distant mountain ranges that marched along the horizon, grey and black
rock giving way in turn to permanent ice and snow at the highest
elevations.

The hard, bright light of the Tibetan sun baked everything not in the
shade, and cast sharp, dark shadows behind boulders or the squat, square
houses in the valley's scattered villages.

Nawang hoped to catch a bit of sleep, because the trip to Lhasa would
take all of a week, with many stops and transfers once he made it to the
first bus station, and he was dead tired, having made the journey three
times already in the past couple of months.  If anyone other than his
uncle had asked him to do so much traveling, he would likely have found
some excuse not to.

But Jamyang Dorje had been insistent, and Nawang, 25 years old and a
dutiful nephew, had done as he had asked.

Nawang was eager to return to Lhasa, though the city did not feel much
like home any more.  It had become more Chinese than Tibetan, and like
many Tibetans of the educated class living there, Nawang had a sort of
love-hate relationship with his country's foreign overlords.  From them,
he had his education, in Chinese and English, and a job with a private
tour company, but like most Tibetans, he would have just as soon seen
them leave and never come back.

He did not tend to waste time worrying about the matter, though.  There
was really nothing he could do.  Besides, he had plenty of other matters
that required his attention, these days.  His life had taken a definite
turn toward the bizarre.

First had been getting the foreigner, Leslie, back to Lhasa.  The trip
itself had been uneventful, but his traveling companion, whom the
Rinpoche at Rongbuk had insisted be protected from the authorities, had
been grim and silent, offering nothing though it had been clear that his
Tibetan was excellent, if a little old-fashioned.  When they had reached
Shigatse, one of Tibet's few modern cities, Leslie had finally shown
emotion, clearly upset by something he would not explain.

The Rinpoche and his uncle had not explained it either.  Nawang was not
normally impatient, but after days on the road between Lhasa and
Rongbuk, his nerves had become a bit frayed, in spite of himself.

Still, he had no inclination to defy the highest Lama of Rongbuk
Monastery, or to disappoint his uncle, and so he had swallowed his
complaints and finished the task given to him.

In Lhasa, Nawang had entrusted an increasingly disturbed Leslie to the
care of one of his colleagues, who was leading a tour bus to Kathmandu,
Nepal, the nearest city with an American embassy that one could get to
without flying.  Since Leslie had possessed no papers, it had seemed
best to avoid the airport at Gonggar, where no one escaped Chinese
official scrutiny.  The Nepal border was also a concern, of course, but
officials there were known for being infinitely corruptible.

Once he had seen Leslie off, Nawang had returned to Rongbuk, in accord
with his uncle's instructions.  There he had been received by the
Rinpoche, who explained the matter of John Leslie to him and, having had
time to consider the affair, gave him further instructions.  Nawang had
been by turns astonished and dismayed at what the Rinpoche had told him.

He did not understand how a man could go missing in the wilderness in
1934 and return, still young, in 1998, but that was what had happened,
the Rinpoche had assured him.  And by the time Nawang had arrived with
Leslie, Lhasa itself had heard the news, as the presence of the
foreigner, not to mention the intermittent light-shows north of the
monastery, had attracted the attention of the local villagers and nomads
in the vicinity of Rongbuk.  Tibet, for all its size, had ever proved a
fluid conduit for news, and the rumors had spread from village to town
and from town to city.  Even Nawang's name had come up in discussions in
the capital, though not too often, fortunately.

He had to keep a reasonably low profile if he were to accomplish the
latest task the Rinpoche had levied on him.

And of course there had been the matter of the nomad Kunga and his wild
tales of the yeti, which Nawang was not entirely sure what to make of.
He did not really give too much credence to that legend, and surely the
nomad's story had arisen from the general air of mystery and nervousness
prevalent in the area of Rongbuk.  Not that it mattered, though.  The
stories and rumors all melted together, until no one really knew the
truth behind them, and the yeti story dovetailed nicely with the tales
about Leslie in the mind of the average Tibetan.

On the other hand, Kunga had eventually found his yak, or what remained
of it, not far from the where he had seen the tracks the night before.
Whatever had attacked the animal, it had been vicious and strong.  Of
course, that did not make it a yeti -- the odd snow leopard also roamed
the remote fastness north of Rongbuk.

Nawang decided not to worry about the yeti.  It could presumably take
care of itself, if it existed.  The Rinpoche's instructions had not made
any mention of it anyway.

Nawang was to return to Lhasa and wait.  There would have to be a
reaction to an event with the karmic magnitude of Leslie's reappearance.
The Rinpoche had been very clear about that.  In Lhasa, Nawang would be
able to deal with that reaction, whatever form it took, and later he
would report what he had learned and done to Rongbuk.  The Rinpoche and
his uncle had both been confident that Nawang would know what to do when
the time came.

Nawang sighed quietly to himself.  Lamas were forever giving advice like
that.  Long on requirements, short on information.  Never mind, though,
he would do his best.  He just hoped that whatever was going to happen
would happen soon.

In the meantime, he had tourists to deal with.  His job also awaited him
back in Lhasa, and life went on.

************************************************************************

Kathmandu, Nepal
16 September, 5:30 p.m.

By late afternoon, most of the employees of Apogee Transport had gone
home for the evening, but Jill Whittaker, nominally an office manager
but in fact the local representative of a far more shadowy organization,
made it her habit to work well into the evening.  At 29 years of age,
she had her share of ambitions, and the people she worked for, a group
without so much as a formal name, so far as she knew, expected a lot of
overtime.  Jill wanted to get out of Kathmandu, one of the least
important postings that existed within the Consortium's operations, and
get herself stationed somewhere important -- someplace like London, or
Washington, or Tunis.

She lit a cigarette and considered the man in front of her, who had just
wandered into her office, having hopped off a truck that had driven in
from the Tibetan border.  He looked as though he had seen better days,
but that was no surprise.  A trip by road over the Himalayas, along the
so-called 'Friendship Highway' and through the terrifyingly high and
steep Bhote Kosi pass, remained an adventure, even at the end of the
20th century.

Jill dragged on the cigarette and blew smoke across her desk at the man
seated there.  John Leslie looked bad, but he sounded worse.  His story
made no sense whatsoever, and the way he told it suggested that he had
come unglued somewhere before reaching her office in Kathmandu.
However, his name was on The List, so that made him important, to
somebody.

Leslie wanted help getting back to the United States.  Jill thought she
could arrange that, though perhaps not entirely to his satisfaction.
She picked up her phone and waited while the Nepalese operators opened
an international line.  After a few minutes, a phone rang in a small
apartment somewhere in Washington.  The voice that answered sounded
smooth, almost devoid of emotion.  "Yes?"

Jill had only met the owner of the voice once, but she had no trouble
imagining him on the other end of the line.  He had made an impression
on her, and she had worked hard to cultivate a connection with him, a
connection that would ultimately lead to her own advancement, she hoped.

"This is Kathmandu.  I have a situation here," she said.

"Ms...Whittaker," there was a pause, in which she imagined a cigarette
being lit.  "What sort of situation?"

"Someone calling himself 'John Leslie' is here in my office.  He says he
wants to come home."

Another pause, then "wait there.  I will have instructions for you
within the hour."  The line clicked dead.

Jill looked across at Leslie.  "Don't go away.  He'll be right back."
She smiled mirthlessly, pushing a stray lock of raven hair from her
brow.  "We'll just have to wait a bit."

************************************************************************

Washington, D.C.
16 September, 9:05 a.m.

A man set down a telephone and drew deeply on his cigarette, pondering
the call he had just received.

Leslie's name he had not expected to hear, though he had sensed for some
days that something was brewing in Asia.  One of his agents in Hong Kong
had reported Alex Krycek's arrival there a few days earlier, and that he
had attempted to arrange to travel into Tibet.  The fool obviously
thought he was on to something, as he had taken some pains to be
discrete in his movements, but he would have been unpleasantly surprised
to learn just how thoroughly the Consortium's agents had reported on his
activities.

Krycek fancied himself quite the freelancer, the man thought, but in
fact the correct word was 'amateur.'  He drew on his cigarette again,
then exhaled smoke in a contemptuous puff.

The other element in this puzzle had turned up in Washington just a few
days before as well.  The Romanian, one of Alex's associates, had
actually contacted 'The Lone Gunman,' though what possible business he
had with the paranoid triumvirate responsible for that absurd rag the
smoking man could scarcely imagine.

He would find out, though.  Ms. Whittaker's call had certainly put a new
spin on the matter.

He slipped into his suit jacket and headed for the door.  He needed a
secure telephone to arrange matters, as well as time to think.  If
Leslie had really turned up -- and while the Consortium had considered
that scenario, they had never thought it likely -- that meant that some
of the more outlandish conjectures about Rongbuk might be accurate after
all.  And that meant the Consortium would have to investigate the
matter, with or without the approval of the Chinese.

It might be difficult, since Mao's Communist Party had been a less
cooperative player in the Project even than the Russians, but if it had
to be done, he would find a way.

He always had before.

Well, most of the time.  There had been occasions when treason within
the Consortium itself had led to set-backs, most recently the Wilkes
Land debacle brought on by his now-deceased colleague and Agent Mulder.

Mulder -- the name triggered a surge of anger in him.  Something would
have to be done about the troublesome FBI agent.

He briefly considered simply ordering him killed, but discarded the idea
almost at once.  He gave no credence to his late colleague's concern
about 'turning one man's quest into a crusade.'  That was palpable
nonsense.  The only person on the planet who cared enough about Mulder
to take up his quest was his partner, and she was no more bullet-proof
than he was.  However, taking out Mulder presented certain...
disadvantages.  For one thing, the FBI agent still had a few powerful
friends who could make life difficult for the Consortium if he were to
die under suspicious circumstances, and in any event, the smoking man
had reached a level of frustration that had brought his conflict with
Mulder to a unique level.

He knew that allowing personal concerns to influence his thinking was
not a good idea, but he nonetheless wanted to see Mulder completely
destroyed -- humiliated, discredited, and broken -- and alive to endure
every minute of the agony that would bring.

He had considered having Scully killed as well, but decided that it
wouldn't be worth the risk.  Mulder would never achieve his aims without
her, to be sure, but if she were killed...well, Mulder had already
demonstrated the lengths to which he would go to save her.  To avenge
her, he might at last become ruthless enough to accomplish something.

The smoking man cursed the ill luck that had turned his perfect little
spy into Mulder's best ally.  He had seen Scully as an ambitious young
woman in a man's agency, one who would most likely leap at a chance to
further her career by taking down one of the Bureau's one-time 'golden
boys.'  Mulder had been set up perfectly; who would have guessed that
Scully would have fallen in love with him, or made him twice as
effective as he otherwise would have been?

Mulder would have to be eliminated, somehow, and subtly.  But not now.
The current situation was not conducive to success.

And anyway, Jeffery did not have what it would take to become a player,
not yet.  Until he did, Mulder could serve a purpose for the Consortium,
in spite of himself.  He could always be dealt with later.

At the moment, the smoking man's pressing problem remained Leslie.  If
nothing else, he had to be evacuated from Asia, before Krycek managed to
figure out that he had left Lhasa.  After all, leaving Lhasa meant
arriving in one of a small number of places, and the last thing anyone
needed would be for Alex to track Leslie down and learn the location of
the site he had been sent to.

Better to let Mulder find him instead.

The smoking man paused before exiting the room, a sudden inspiration
lighting up in his mind.  Let Mulder find him -- that idea had real
potential.  It could solve a lot of problems all in one fell swoop.
Mulder's unerring instinct for self-destruction could be counted upon
in a situation like this.

Of course, he would have to accelerate Jeffery's education, but that
did not represent a major difficultly, and he would have to put certain
safeguards in place as well, just in case Mulder's recent streak of good
luck continued.

The corners of his mouth twitched as he left his apartment.  In about
15 minutes, he would set the next round in motion.  There was great
potential, here, he decided.

************************************************************************

Kathmandu, Nepal
16 September, 5:59 p.m.

The phone in Jill Whittaker's office rang.  She raised the receiver
expectantly.

"Whittaker."

The same voice from the earlier call gave her her instructions in a
smooth, modulated tone.  "Ms. Whittaker, see that Mr. Leslie has a seat
on tomorrow's Royal Nepal flight to Dubay.  He will be met there."

"He doesn't have any papers," she protested.

"You will take care of that tonight, Ms. Whittaker."

Jill squelched her annoyance.  Getting papers for Leslie on such short
notice would be a lot more difficult than her interlocutor seemed to
realize, but she knew he had no interest in anything from her that
wasn't a solution.  "Yes, sir," she said.  "Any other instructions?"

"Not at this time, but be available.  And be ready to travel."  He
paused significantly.  "There may be an opportunity for you."

The ambitious core of her heart responded to that.  "Yes, sir.  I'll be
ready."

"Good."  The phone clicked off once more.  Jill looked over at Leslie,
still waiting in her office, and sighed.  She had a lot of work to do
tonight, but she had her instructions.  Leslie would be on that plane,
and that was that.

"Let's go, John," she said.

"Where?"  It was the first thing he'd said in almost 45 minutes.

"Come on, you'll see," she said.

************************************************************************

Washington, D.C.
16 September, 9:38 a.m.

Thirty minutes after leaving his apartment, the smoking man lifted yet
another telephone -- a secure line, this time -- and dialed a number
that connected to an office within a US military installation at Diego
Garcia, in the Indian Ocean.

"Yes?"  The voice that answered was crisp and business-like, but came
after an odd delay, induced by the half-second time-lag inherent in the
satellite relay.

The smoking man recited an authentication code, then gave his orders.
"I have a person who needs an...escort.  He will be arriving via Royal
Nepal Airlines in Dubay tomorrow afternoon.  Have one of your teams in
the Gulf at the airport to collect him."

"Name?"

"Leslie.  Jonathan Leslie.  US passport."

"Alright.  What do you want us to do with him?"

"Put him on a transport to Andrews Air Force Base, as soon as possible.
Better make it the same day."

"That could present a problem," said the officer at Diego Garcia.

"Then solve it."  The smoking man did not raise his voice, but anyone
hearing it would have felt the steel in it at his core.

"Uh, roger that.  Shall I call with the arrangements?"

"Of course."  The smoking man hung up.

One more item taken care of, he thought.  He turned to an assistant.
"When Diego Garcia calls, take down their arrangements and have the
transport met at Andrews.  Have Leslie admitted to..." he thought for a
moment, then smiled slightly.  "...Arkham.  That should do nicely."

Now, he thought, we have to make sure that Krycek is left in the dark
about this, which means pulling Florescu's fangs.

He lifted the receiver and began dialing once more.
  
************************************************************************

Inter-Asian Trade Center, Hong Kong
Thursday, 17 September, 8:10 a.m.

Thursday morning found Alex Krycek in a vile mood.

A week and a half before, when he had first received word of the Rongbuk
affair, he had been ecstatic.  Long a student of UFO phenomena, Krycek
had known of the stories surrounding Leslie and Sales, and unlike some,
he had always taken them seriously.  In fact, during his time with the
Consortium, he had even proposed an expedition to the region, but the
plan had never received any support.  His employers in the Russian
government had never taken his ideas seriously either, until now.

Krycek strode into the skyscraper in which Wu Tseng-Li, a relatively
small-time gangster and narcotics trafficker whom Krycek had met during
an earlier sojourn in Hong Kong, maintained his offices.  He really did
not want to meet with the man, but he saw no way to avoid doing so.
Krycek's efforts to gain entry to Tibet had thus far been thwarted, and
now a little corruption seemed to be called for.

Besides, for a price, Wu might be able to supply a little strong-arm
support as well.  As competent as Krycek knew himself and Florescu to
be, he also knew it never hurt to have back-up, especially in foreign
territory.

It's time to have a tete-a-tete with a few bad elements, Krycek thought.

He nodded to the burly security guard at the desk, a body-builder in a
grey suit.  The guard's expression did not change; he just indicated the
elevator that would carry Krycek to Wu's private suite, 35 floors up.

Krycek pushed the button to summon a car and waited.

His operation had gone sour in a hurry, and he would have to be clever
if he wanted to salvage it.  Having lost Leslie, Krycek had attempted to
manipulate Mulder into finding him for him -- something of a desperate
measure, but Krycek had no interest in entering the United States to
look for him on his own.  Though he had made his way back into the good
graces of the Consortium -- to an extent -- Krycek knew he did not enjoy
their trust.  Without help, finding Leslie in America would be next to
impossible.

Florescu had reported that Mulder had taken the bait, but that had been
days ago, and since then, he had had no new information.  So Leslie
either had not gone to America, or Mulder's investigative prowess had
atrophied somewhat.

Krycek decided he would have to be patient.  He despised Mulder for a
spineless coward, but he had to admit, the man had a way of digging up
hidden information.  Too bad he didn't have the balls to do anything
with it, though in this case, that suited Krycek just fine.

Just find my guy, he thought.  Then if Florescu is worth his pay, I'll
have what I need.

The door to the elevator opened, revealing two more well-dressed thugs.
They beckoned Krycek into the car, patted him down, and then sent the
elevator on its way upward.  Krycek leaned casually against the wall,
affecting a subtly disrespectful pose calculated to annoy the triad men
in the car with him.  If it had an effect, though, the thugs did not let
it show.

Krycek's thoughts went back to Washington.  Florescu's reports about
Scully had been fairly terse as well, though Krycek had given him
explicit instructions to pay attention to her.  He was not entirely sure
why he had done so.  He knew he should not let himself think about
Scully, let her distract him from his real aims, but he could not help
himself.  Ever since he had first laid eyes on her luxuriant red hair
and give-me-head-'til-I'm-dead mouth, he had wanted nothing more than to
just push her down over a desk, thrust his cock into her, and fuck her
until she begged for mercy.

He enjoyed imagining that.  It was even more fun than screwing that
bitch Marita, and that was pretty damn fun.

Krycek shook his head, trying to chase the rather appealing but also
very distracting thought of Scully from his mind.  He wondered if Mulder
had ever worked up the guts to screw his partner.  Probably not, he
decided.  The man was too much of a pussy to try anything that bold.
Anyway, he sure as hell didn't deserve the pleasure.

One never knew -- if Mulder and Scully pursued the Rongbuk matter, he
might cross paths with them once more, and who knows what could happen
if he were able to acquire the upper hand.... 

Enough! he thought.  The meeting with Wu would require all of his
concentration.

The elevator doors opened then, and the triad men ushered him into the
presence of their leader.

************************************************************************

FBI Headquarters, Washington, D.C.
17 September, 9:00 a.m.

"Mulder, we're spinning our wheels."

Dana Scully set down her telephone and looked over at her partner, who
had almost disappeared amid the piles of books, papers, and files on his
desk.  Mulder had spent much of the last two days collecting every scrap
of paper, every book ever published, and every archived file that had
any reference to Leslie and Sales or Rongbuk Monastery.  And when he had
not been gathering and ploughing through his documents, he been on the
phone with every law enforcement officer in eastern North America who
might possibly owe him a favor, hoping to turn up some rumor, some hint
of Leslie's whereabouts.

Scully had done much the same, calling contacts in the medical and
scientific professions.  The results had been less that spectacular.

Mulder looked up, removing his reading glasses and rubbing his eyes,
weariness etched in his features.  His particularly handsome features,
mused Scully's less business-like side.  She resisted the temptation to
just stare at him and wonder how the whole of his visage could be so
much more than the sum of its parts.

Instead, she said "looking for this guy is a search for a needle in the
proverbial haystack."

For once, Mulder had no ready quip.  He just nodded and said "I know,
but I don't know what else to do.  Leslie is the key to this affair.
If only Skinner weren't being so...."  He did not finish.  Scully knew
full well that with an official investigation, they would have had
access to crucial resources that they could not employ now.

"I know, but I've been thinking," she said.

"About?"

"We could spend the rest of our lives making informal inquiries into
Leslie's whereabouts.  It's getting us nowhere."

"Do you want to give up?"  Mulder look surprised.

"No, of course not," Scully said.  "I just think we have to change our
approach."

"Florescu."  It was not a question.

Scully nodded.  "Our involvement in this case has been entirely due to
outside influences, right?"

"True."

"And we don't have any incontrovertible evidence that Leslie is even
real."

"Scully, he certainly is real," Mulder protested.  "He was a...."

"No, no," she cut him off.  "What I mean is, the only thing we have to
go on where Leslie is concerned is an anonymous email and a news
clipping."

Mulder nodded, conceding the point.

"The 'Gunmen' -- did they ever find out where that email came from?"

Mulder raised his eyebrows at her sudden digression.  "Yeah, Frohike
said it originated in Hong Kong, but at some sort of publicly
available computer.  Web-based email accessed through a cyber-cafe, or
something.  And he also said they identified the paper."

"How?"

"I didn't ask him to explain how, but it was the 'South China Morning
Post' -- a newspaper in Hong Kong."

Scully mouthed a silent 'oh,' then refocused on her original point.

"But the email -- you're saying there's no way of finding out who sent
it."

"Not really.  Not any easy way, at least."

"So Florescu is our only link to whoever wants us on this case."

"Maybe so, but how would he know anything about where Leslie has gone?"
Mulder frowned, clearly impatient with the idea of giving up the search
for the missing surveyor.

Scully felt frustration rising in her.  For all his intelligence, there
were times when Mulder became fixated on something to the exclusion of
everything else.  He had long since put Florescu, the one person about
whom they had solid, if limited, information, completely out of his
mind.

Scully shot a glance at their office door, making sure it was closed.
Satisfied, she turned her attention back to her partner.

She lowered her voice.  "Mulder, I love you, but you can be just so...
dense...sometimes."

"Scully, you wound me."  He gave her a disarming grin.

She felt her exasperation ease a bit, but didn't allow herself to be
diverted.  "Don't you see it?  Skinner wouldn't let us open a case
because we had nothing to go on, and here we are, two days of searching
later, and what do we have?"

"Nothing," Mulder admitted.

"So let's get something.  It doesn't have to be about Leslie.  If we can
open a case...."

"We'll have a better chance of finding him."  Mulder nodded.  "You're
right, Scully, I've been too close to this.  I got so wrapped up in
finding Leslie that I've been ignoring the obvious."

An imp took hold of Scully's tongue.  "Mulder, are you feeling well?"

He stood up, flashed her a grin, and headed for the door.  "Never
better," he said over his shoulder.

"Wait a minute.  Where are you going?"

"To the 'Gunman.'  Where else?"

Scully arched an eyebrow at him.

Mulder paused in the doorway.  "Think about it.  'Florescu' can't be his
real name, can it?"

She shook her head.  "Probably not."

"So it's not like we can look this guy up in the phone book."

"No, we can't.  What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to try and get a print."

"Mulder, you can't be serious."  Scully was truly astonished.

"Sure I can.  It's a long shot, but he was there...."  He shrugged.
"What else do we have to go on?"

"Mulder, we've been all over that place," she said, meaning the offices
of the 'Gunman.'  You'll never get a print of this guy."

"Scully, finding the print is going to be the easy part."

Scully was afraid to ask.  She waited for him to go on, encouraging him
with a look.

"The hard part will be getting the guys to let me take control prints
from them."  He grabbed his jacket from the rack, winked, and
disappeared into the hallway.

Scully shook her head.  I'm in love with Don Quixote, she thought, not
for the first time.  She rose as well and headed for the FBI's records
center.  Just in case Florescu had been using his real name, or an alias
he had used before, she would have his name put into the central
database.  If she were lucky, she would have something before Mulder
wasted the entire day.

Actually, that was not entirely fair.  Mulder had demonstrated an
uncanny ability to find prints in the past.  It was just one more of his
many talents that defied explanation.

Talents that included an aptitude in the bedroom that might not be
expected from one who had lived the quasi-monastic life that had been
his until recently.  A progression of warm, delightful images eased
through Scully's mind as she made her way through the corridors, images
of Mulder's hands on her, gently stroking her....

Stop it, Dana -- Scully brought herself up short -- you have work to do.

With some effort, she focused her mind on the problem at hand.  There
would be plenty of time for...other things...later on.

************************************************************************
[end part 3 of 11]