it was Skinner who had ordered opened the X-Files again, and Mulder suspected the Director hadn't had much support.
It was confusing.
Skinner was neither all-out enemy nor all-out ally. Despite the profile of his position, he was a shadow, and Mulder was never quite sure what the shadow was, or what cast it.
"Excuse me, sir," he said carefully. "Am I being reprimanded for lending requested assistance?"
"No, Agent Mulder," the Director said wearily. "No, you're not." He rubbed the bridge again, this time without removing the glasses. "The record shows I called you in. It doesn't have to say what we talked about. But next time, do me a favor—save me some trouble and phone calls, and let someone else figure it out for a change. As Agent Scully suggested, be the guide."
He didn't smile.
Neither did the others.
Finally, he slapped the folder closed and indi-cated with a nod that they could leave. But as they reached the doorway, he added, "Greek, Mulder?"
"Classical Greek, sir."
The man nodded. "Of course."
Mulder resisted the temptation to salute and followed Scully into the hall, where she suggested coffee in the cafeteria, iced tea for him.
"You know," he said as they made their way down the hall, "I appreciate the support, Scully, bu11
don't need defending. Not really”
She looked up at him and sighed. "Oh yes you do, Mulder."
He looked back blankly.
'Trust me," she said, patting his arm. "On this one you'll have to trust me."
His temper didn't flare until later that after- noon.
He had been halfheartedly sorting through a half-dozen new cases dropped on his desk for evaluation.
His Oxford-trained expertise in criminal behavior, and his natural talent for discovering patterns and traces where none seemed to exist, were natural magnets for investi-gations that had suddenly or inevitably run into a roadblock.
He didn't mind it; he enjoyed it.
What made him angry now was the admittedly unfounded suspicion that Bournell and Neuhouse had deliberately set him up for a reprimand. They were not incompetent. They were definitely not stupid.
Given enough time, they would have undoubtedly seen what he had seen; and the Bureau was crawling with experts—either here in the city or out at Quantico—who could have reached the same conclusions.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and stared at the closed door, A droplet of sweat rolled untouched down his cheek.
He couldn't help wondering if They were after him again—the unseen powers he had labeled the Shadow Government; the people who knew more than they let on about the truth he himself knew existed in the X-Files.
It wasn't paranoia.
On more than one occasion, they had tried to discredit him, and thus have him fired.
On more than one occasion, they had tried to kill him.
And Sculy.
Only the fact that he had somehow attracted
friends in that same gray land of shifting shad-ows kept him alive and functioning, and he knew it.
Now it was possible They were at it again. Nibbling at him this time. Distracting him. Possibly hoping to force him into a careless mis-take on one of the eases he needed to study. He had learned the hard way that there was only so much Skinner and the unknowns could do to pro-tect him.
"I should have told them it was Russian” he whispered to the floor.
And laughed.
Suddenly the door slammed open, nearly spilling him out of the chair. Bournell stood on the threshold, pointing at him.
"Mulder, who knows old Greek?" the agent demanded hoarsely.
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Old Greeks?"
Bournell blinked slowly, took a step into the office just as a hush of cold air spilled out of the vents. He made as if to close the door behind them, and changed his mind. Instead, he slipped one hand into a pocket.
"Priests, Mulder. Seminarians. Teachers in a seminary. Preachers, Mulder. Ministers." His free hand took a slow swipe of his tie. "People, Mulder, who study the Bible."
Mulder waited patiently, unmoving. He
It was confusing.
Skinner was neither all-out enemy nor all-out ally. Despite the profile of his position, he was a shadow, and Mulder was never quite sure what the shadow was, or what cast it.
"Excuse me, sir," he said carefully. "Am I being reprimanded for lending requested assistance?"
"No, Agent Mulder," the Director said wearily. "No, you're not." He rubbed the bridge again, this time without removing the glasses. "The record shows I called you in. It doesn't have to say what we talked about. But next time, do me a favor—save me some trouble and phone calls, and let someone else figure it out for a change. As Agent Scully suggested, be the guide."
He didn't smile.
Neither did the others.
Finally, he slapped the folder closed and indi-cated with a nod that they could leave. But as they reached the doorway, he added, "Greek, Mulder?"
"Classical Greek, sir."
The man nodded. "Of course."
Mulder resisted the temptation to salute and followed Scully into the hall, where she suggested coffee in the cafeteria, iced tea for him.
"You know," he said as they made their way down the hall, "I appreciate the support, Scully, bu11
don't need defending. Not really”
She looked up at him and sighed. "Oh yes you do, Mulder."
He looked back blankly.
'Trust me," she said, patting his arm. "On this one you'll have to trust me."
His temper didn't flare until later that after- noon.
He had been halfheartedly sorting through a half-dozen new cases dropped on his desk for evaluation.
His Oxford-trained expertise in criminal behavior, and his natural talent for discovering patterns and traces where none seemed to exist, were natural magnets for investi-gations that had suddenly or inevitably run into a roadblock.
He didn't mind it; he enjoyed it.
What made him angry now was the admittedly unfounded suspicion that Bournell and Neuhouse had deliberately set him up for a reprimand. They were not incompetent. They were definitely not stupid.
Given enough time, they would have undoubtedly seen what he had seen; and the Bureau was crawling with experts—either here in the city or out at Quantico—who could have reached the same conclusions.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and stared at the closed door, A droplet of sweat rolled untouched down his cheek.
He couldn't help wondering if They were after him again—the unseen powers he had labeled the Shadow Government; the people who knew more than they let on about the truth he himself knew existed in the X-Files.
It wasn't paranoia.
On more than one occasion, they had tried to discredit him, and thus have him fired.
On more than one occasion, they had tried to kill him.
And Sculy.
Only the fact that he had somehow attracted
friends in that same gray land of shifting shad-ows kept him alive and functioning, and he knew it.
Now it was possible They were at it again. Nibbling at him this time. Distracting him. Possibly hoping to force him into a careless mis-take on one of the eases he needed to study. He had learned the hard way that there was only so much Skinner and the unknowns could do to pro-tect him.
"I should have told them it was Russian” he whispered to the floor.
And laughed.
Suddenly the door slammed open, nearly spilling him out of the chair. Bournell stood on the threshold, pointing at him.
"Mulder, who knows old Greek?" the agent demanded hoarsely.
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Old Greeks?"
Bournell blinked slowly, took a step into the office just as a hush of cold air spilled out of the vents. He made as if to close the door behind them, and changed his mind. Instead, he slipped one hand into a pocket.
"Priests, Mulder. Seminarians. Teachers in a seminary. Preachers, Mulder. Ministers." His free hand took a slow swipe of his tie. "People, Mulder, who study the Bible."
Mulder waited patiently, unmoving. He
Similar Books
Lethal Lineage
Charlotte Hinger
Beyond the Sky and the Earth
Jamie Zeppa
Fail Safe
Eugene Burdick, Harvey Wheeler
The Snares of Death
Kate Charles
The Outcast
Calle J. Brookes
Summon the Bright Water
Geoffrey Household
Darkness Rising (The Endless War Book 2)
D.K. Holmberg
Versace Sisters
Cate Kendall
Apprehended
Jan Burke
Scala
Christina Bauer