Truce
Chapter Two
Disclaimers, etc. in Headers
"Cold, my dear?"
The concerned question pulled her gaze from the
mist-swept streets beyond the car window. Her
companion, the wealthy and respected Mr. Robert
Luquet, sat beside her with a small smile, one
brow raised at her wandering thoughts.
"No, I'm fine," she answered, "just a bit
tired."
Which was the absolute truth. Ever since she'd
arrived in New Orleans a week ago, she'd hardly
had a chance to catch a breath. Between
pursuing her quarry via the Internet during the
day and the endless round of more hands-on
forays at night, she was working herself into
exhaustion. It hadn't shown up yet in her face,
but she knew it was only a matter of time.
Hopefully, she'd reach her objective before too
much longer and get the hell out of this city.
The second she'd stepped off the plane, she was
assaulted by memories. The anger and
frustration still hung in the chilly air, still
cried on the notes of piped-in, sultry jazz...
still sizzled in the red-pink sunset. As did
the love. And the eventual acceptance. It was
this that hurt most of all, scored into her with
every step she took on the ancient streets.
This was their place. She had no business
visiting alone; she saw him on every corner,
heard his sex-laced voice in the rustle of her
sheets at night, felt his warm touch in her
dreams.
Shaking off her sadness, she glanced at the man
by her side. An old friend of Walter Skinner,
he'd gladly agreed to escort her to the various
goings-on in the city prior to Fat Tuesday. He
was himself a veteran of Army Intelligence, and
a trusted ally of the Assistant Director, now
once again Scully's covert boss. A most handsome
fellow, with greying dark hair and piercing blue
eyes, he shadowed her every move when she
ventured into the cream of New Orleans society.
She knew the rumors were already flying about
her and one of the city's richest, most eligible
bachelors. If circumstances were different,
she'd probably fall for him, and hard.
But she was here to do a job. As Ana, a
temptress who could easily gain access to the
homes of the rich and famous. A charmer who
only ever appeared on Mr. Luquet's arm in a
demi-mask of red satin. No one had ever seen
her face, and she wanted it that way. There was
one man... one very *dangerous* man... who would
recognize her instantly. She'd never met him,
but he knew her, she was certain. And with
Robert's help, she gained entry into the most
lavish homes in the city - the private homes of
his associates.
Strughold was here for a reason; so was she.
But the outcomes of their machinations would be
vastly different, if she was successful. This
wasn't going to be easy; other than a daily
check-in with Skinner by email, she had no one
to watch her back, to come to her aid if she
needed. So deep was her cover, so monumental
her goal, it was impossible to reveal anything
to anyone. Robert understood, and he didn't
press her for information. She supposed he was
her only hope should she need assistance. And
she vowed to never need it.
She was Ana, who could get anything she wanted.
Except what she wanted most.
"Ana?"
Robert's soft query made her blink. Realizing
she'd been staring off into the blackness beyond
his shoulder, she blinked, giving him a small
smile as she checked her outfit. It would do as
an adequate coverup; it was a simple, long-
sleeved sheath of ebony satin. Body-hugging, to
be sure, but the leotard beneath fit like a
glove. Her other needs were crammed into her
evening bag.
"All set?" he asked.
"Yes." She was as ready as she'd ever be. After
attending several parties in the past week -
warmup exercises, so to speak - it was time for
the real work to begin. Balfour's was just the
first obstacle on the list.
"Good luck." Robert squeezed her hand. "I wish
I could help more."
Scully returned the gesture, saying, "What you
know already could get you killed, you know."
"All I know is a name," he said, brushing off
her concern. "And he's supposed to be here
tonight. What's so dangerous about that?"
The name was just the tip of the iceberg; Scully
didn't dare tell him more. But he knew already,
she could see it in his eyes. A man like Robert
kept his connections open, despite his
retirement into the good life. But for every
name he had, every bit of information he'd
learned, there were a dozen other facts he
didn't know, could never guess. Scully wanted
it to stay that way.
"Robert," she murmured, giving him a warning
glance, "you know I can't -"
"I know, I know," he interrupted. "Just don't
make me sorry I let you walk into a lion's den
alone, okay?"
"I'm very good at what I do. Ask Walter."
Chuckling, Robert released her hand, jerking his
chin at the blare of lights beyond. "Walter is
a pussy, with a weakness for redheads. Believe
me, I know. We go way back."
"Are you saying he picked me for this assignment
based on the color of my hair?" She knew that
wasn't the case, so did Robert, but the bit of
levity helped ease the tension their impending
arrival had created.
"No. I'm saying he picked *me* to help you out
because he knows I have the same God damned
weakness." His jaw tight, he gave her a grave
nod. "I know you're competent, Ana. But
forgive me if I allow myself to worry about
you."
At his admission, she fell silent. He could not
help her if she got into trouble. As her
escort, he could offer just the flimsy
explanation of sudden sickness once she
disappeared. Fifteen minutes, tops - a narrow
window of free time to do what she had to do.
It would be enough; she'd make sure of it.
As the limousine pulled into the Balfour's
estate, she sighed. Someday, if Skinner's plan
worked, she'd get what she most desired. It was
the best reason to continue.
**********
Marvin maneuvered the limousine to a slow halt
before the brightly lit mansion, turning one
last time to plead with Mulder. "I still say
this isn't a good idea."
Mulder donned his mask, a simple black velvet
custom made for his angular features. "Did I
ask for your opinion, Marvin?"
"No, but you're fu - bloody well going to get
it."
At the uncharacteristic show of anger, Mulder
raised a brow into his floppy locks. "Marvin, I
live for the day you finally say 'fuck,'" he
teased, then sobered at the man's ruddy anger.
"I've got my radio and my gun. Just be ready to
go if we have to hightail it out of here, okay?"
"You just watch your step, my good man. I
didn't spend years amassing your fortune to see
it spent on a funeral."
"Chill, Marv." Mulder felt the cold, wet air
burst into the vehicle as the valet opened the
door. He leaned a bit closer to Marvin and
whispered, "I'm just gonna have a look around.
Half hour at the most."
As Marvin revved the engine, Mulder heard him
growl, "Then we start all over again at the next
one of these colossal wastes of good money."
Mulder chuckled as he exited the limousine. A
footman waved him through the massive doors,
taking his invitation from his hand. "Your
name, sir?" He eyed Mulder's flawless tuxedo
with a nit-picking glare.
"John Robie."
At the name, the footman started, his haughty
face relaxing into an ass-kissing grin. "Mr.
Robie. I will announce you."
Mulder caught him by the arm and smiled, turning
on the charm. "I'd rather you didn't," he said.
"I'll make my own introductions to your gracious
employer."
"As you wish, sir." Mulder knew the moment he
passed the groveling servant, the news of his
arrival would spread like wildfire. But a
formal announcement would have instantly made
him the center of unwanted attention. Aloof and
unofficially announced, he could move with more
ease. Which he did, bypassing the throng on the
dance floor to head for the bar.
The whispers reached his ears as he skirted the
crowd.
"Bought the old LeBlanc place... rich as
Croesus, they say... came complete with an
English butler..."
Mulder grinned; Marvin would blanch at that. He
was *not* a butler. He preferred the term
"gentleman's gentleman", if he couldn't be known
by his real title of "financial genius who saved
Fox Mulder's bum". Mulder never asked Marvin
exactly what he did before finding him on the
docks in Alabama, but he figured either title
suited him perfectly.
"Champagne," he told the bartender, feeling the
stares on either side of him. He took the flute
with a steady hand, leaning against the bar to
survey the men and women who moved about. All
in evening dress, with similar masks to his,
they danced and laughed. A flash of light made
him wince and turn his head; he'd forgotten
about the possibility of society photographs.
Though the mask served to hide the upper two-
thirds of his face, and the goatee - Marvin had
proclaimed it a "Van Dyke" with a condescending
huff - gave him additional cover, he still
didn't want his picture taken.
The house was packed, at least in the ballroom.
In an effort to avoid the inevitable photograph,
as well as get a better view of the partiers, he
looked around for a more secluded spot. Spying
the balcony that overlooked the ballroom in a
neat semi-circle, he decided to chance moving to
the stairs at the other end. There were a few
couples above already, but they seemed more
interested in stealing kisses in the curtained
shadows at either end.
Halfway across the room, he was halted by the
calling of his name over the din. "Mr. Robie!"
The man only reached to his shoulder, and he
smelled of whiskey and fine cigars. Despite his
short stature, he commanded respect, as the
party-goers faded away to give him access to
Mulder.
A firm, slightly damp hand took his. "Ernest
Balfour," he said with a perfect smile. He was
sans mask for the moment, and Mulder saw it
peeking from Balfour's jacket pocket. "You
*are* John Robie, aren't you?"
Mulder gripped his hand once, then pulled away.
"I am," he replied softly. "Thanks for the
invitation." He could feel a dozen ears perk up
around him at the confirmation, though they
lingered back, unwilling to upset the host.
"My pleasure," Balfour purred. "And thank *you*
for choosing First Merchant's. We are always at
your disposal, Mr. Robie. Night or day."
Mulder knew the man sat on the Board of
Directors of the largest bank in the south. It
was one of the reasons he'd picked Balfour's
ball over Gustav's. And Mr. John Robie was one
of his best customers. Balfour was the type to
do a bit of ass-kissing should the need arise.
"I'll remember that, Mr. Balfour," he said, with
narrowed eyes. "But for now, I'm finding it a
bit stifling in here. If you'll excuse me..."
"Certainly. Try the balcony, or the patio. If
you need anything, just grab one of my people."
Balfour was gushing with help, patting Mulder on
the back.
Mulder just nodded with a closed smile and left
his host. In moments, he'd reached the stairs.
At the top, he ignored the startled looks of the
couples above and found a chair. Settling in
the shadows a few feet back from the edge, he
signaled a waiter for more champagne and sat
back to observe.
**********
Robert returned after about fifteen minutes,
handing her a glass of champagne with a smile.
"I thought you'd be mobbed by now," he remarked
dryly.
In the few parties she'd attended so far, she'd
been singled out by quite a few of the men. A
new face among the usual crowd, she'd attracted
a lot of attention. Robert had kept them at bay
with his presence, and she herself had tamped
down their advances with aloof answers and cool
looks.
Tonight, the ballroom was abuzz, but it wasn't
with her arrival. Something was afoot, and a
familiar tingle of awareness flitted over her
skin. The investigative instinct she'd honed
over the years never ceased to fail her and it
perked up now; was he here?
"Seems I'm no longer the flavor of the month,"
she answered, her eyes giving Robert a subtle,
knowing glance. "Maybe all my efforts are about
to pay off."
"From what I hear, there's a mystery man in
attendance. Slipped upstairs right before we
came in." Robert's gaze traveled over the crowd
as he sipped at his champagne, but his words
were firm and meant for her. "Balcony above, in
the shadows."
Scully let her eyes wander a bit. The mask
afforded her some privacy to stare, but she gave
a few people a small smile before looking up,
her gaze hooded. A balcony surrounded the
second story of the house on all sides, with
louvered doors opening into rooms. Or in this
case, opening onto a narrow landing that semi-
circled the upper reaches of the ballroom.
There was a spiral staircase at one end that led
to the ballroom below, and there were many pairs
of doors swung wide to the night air. She could
see couples moving about up there, just as she
could also see others seated in chairs on the
balcony in an attempt to get away from the
cacophony in the ballroom.
Robert was right; the figure lounging on the
balcony next to a small table was almost lost in
the darkness away from the railing, but he was
there. His face hidden like theirs, she felt
him doing the same thing as they were -
observing. A frisson of fear mixed with
excitement caught her breath. Though she saw
nothing really but a faint outline of a man, she
sensed his importance. All the more reason to
do what she had to do and get the hell out of
here.
"Quite crowded, isn't it?" Robert, to her
relief, seemed to sense the same thing, giving
her the perfect opening.
Scully felt a fine sheen of sweat trickle down
her spine. It wasn't just crowded, it was
oppressive, despite the cold, damp air outside.
The extra clothing she wore beneath her dress
didn't help any and she passed her glass of
champagne to Robert, answering, "It is... I
think I need a bit of air." Raising her voice
just a bit she added, "I'm not feeling well."
Robert played the concerned swain to the hilt,
grasping her arm to shove his way through the
crowd. "Do you need to leave?"
"No, I think I'll be fine once I splash some
water on my face." She smiled at his wink of
acknowledgment, heading for the door.
Once in the huge hall, she quickly climbed the
stairs into darkness, ducking into the first
unlocked door she came to. It was a linen
closet, and she stripped in total darkness,
carefully laying her dress on a shelf of towels.
If all went well, she'd be able to return for it
and leave the party with Robert. And if it
didn't... well, she knew how to hail a taxi.
Far, far away from here, even if she had to run
all the way.
The black knit ski cap tugged over her head, she
took the lockpick from her purse. After
snapping the evening bag - which now served as a
tool pouch - into place around her waist, she
opened the door and melted into the dark hall,
starting in the opposite direction from the
noise downstairs.
**********
Mulder sat up straight at the flash of red hair
in the crowd below. For a second, he allowed
himself to hope. Then the woman disappeared out
the ballroom doors and he forced the feeling to
die a swift death. She wouldn't be here. No
way.
Then, with sharp realization, he recalled
exactly why *he* was here. Surely if he knew of
Strughold's arrival in New Orleans, so did she.
Skinner would not let something like that slip
by him; Strughold Mining Company peppered the X-
files, and though he himself was never connected
beyond a doubt to the conspiracy, it stood to
reason that he figured prominently in what was
left of the Consortium. Something Skinner knew,
just like Mulder did.
Damn it, Skinner should also know how fucking
dangerous it was to approach Strughold then, he
thought. His heart tripped and he stood; if it
was her, then he'd make sure she gave it up,
whatever she was doing here.
It couldn't be her. It damn well better not be.
**********
The lock gave way without a sound and she
slipped into the study, depositing the lockpick
in the pouch at her waist. In the darkness, she
began to search by touch mostly, sliding her
gloved fingers along the walls. Skinner's
sources had done well to gather the information
necessary - all she had to do was find the safe.
It was in this room somewhere, a small hole in
the wall that held something of great value to
the remaining conspirators. But what? She
wouldn't know until she saw it.
She held her breath at the feel of a bump in the
paneling. A slight pressure, and a twelve by
twelve square of wood gave way, flipping open to
reveal a keypad nestled in the middle of a metal
door. Glowing eerily red in the dark, it
beckoned, and she slipped the key card from her
pouch. Hovering over the slot for a moment, she
said a quick prayer for its success in opening
the small safe. A great many lives had been put
in danger already in procuring the card and the
accompanying pass code. She was sure if it
didn't work, the security system would spring to
action immediately, trapping her within these
walls to await certain discovery. And sure
death, from what she knew of the men involved.
But it slid through the slot like a hot knife
through butter, giving her the green light
without making a sound, the safe door sliding
swinging open. If she had the time, she'd cry
with relief. Instead, her shaky fingers crept
within and removed item after item with quick
stealth, searching for anything sure to stand
out.
In the dim light from the windows beyond, she
rifled through the papers. They were mostly
doctored financial papers and personal things
like birth and baptismal certificates. A small
envelope gave her pause, and she found the
photographs within to be unusual, to say the
least, but nothing noteworthy, unless as
blackmail material. Frustrated, she reached far
back, sensing this dangerous heist was turning
out to be useless. Then she felt it; a small,
latched box.
Pulling it out, she opened it, the glint of
metal catching her eye. Her gloved fingers
couldn't feel its coolness, but still, it burned
her hand with its importance. And it was
important, she knew it.
Fingering the brass, she held it up to the
keypad. It looked just like any other key. To
a house, a car, a boat... innocuous and easily
lost. But she knew better; this key, hidden
within Balfour's dirty dealings and innocent
memories, was literally a *key*. To everything
in the world she'd lived in for years now. How
many times had she or Mulder spoken of 'the key
to everything in the X-files'? She could have
laughed at just how ridiculously true that
statement had just become.
Her fingers itched to just steal it and be gone.
But she knew its absence would raise more alarms
and her efforts become all for naught.
So walked around the room, looking for... yes,
that would do. Quickly, she pulled a pocket
knife from her pouch and sliced at the base of
the heavy candle atop the fireplace mantel.
Pressing the key into the palm-sized circle of
wax, she was done. A copy would do just as well
as the original. Her goal realized, she put
everything back in order in the wall and zipped
the impression into her pouch.
All she had to do was return to the party.
Robert would be relieved. She *should* be
relieved.
Instead, she'd gotten the scent of the chase.
It was in her blood now, and nothing would stop
her. The first flash of lightning made the hair
on her arms stand on end, and with an
exhilarated burst of energy, she approached the
study door.
**********
Mulder, delayed by well-wishers on the balcony,
felt his anger grow with each passing moment.
He didn't know if he could make his way through
the false smiles below without howling with
frustration. And it didn't help that the
weather seemed to be taking a turn for the
worse, the chilly wind picking up as thunder
rumbled in the near distance.
"Is there another way to make it downstairs?" he
asked one of the men who'd stopped to introduce
himself, ignoring the seductive looks the
drunken man's date bestowed upon him.
"Sure," the guy slurred, waving his hand at the
opposite end. "Go round the other side of the
house. Might be an open bedroom door."
Without a thanks, Mulder turned, elbowing his
way through the growing number of people on the
balcony. What was it with these idiots? One
sniff of new money, and they were on him like a
pack of hounds.
Amidst the grasping, greedy palms, he forced a
fake smile on his face and nodded at their
greetings, though he didn't pause. On swift
feet he finally made it to the near-empty other
side; it was with a satisfied huff that he
found one of the doors unlocked and slipped
through, closing it on their astounded faces.
Turning, he scanned the darkened bedroom with a
keen eye, giving himself a few seconds to adjust
to the dim light. In two strides, he was at the
bedroom door, cracking it open to peer into the
hallway. From what he could see, it branched
off at both ends, probably into more bedrooms.
He took a step out and eased the door shut
behind him, only to melt back into the wall when
he heard a click.
Damn. He'd never make it downstairs in time to
catch her. *If* it was even her.
The heavy-paneled, double doors to his right
slid open a crack and he inhaled sharply at the
sight of a slim figure. Covered head-to-toe in
clinging black, it crept slowly out of the room
and eased the door shut before glancing first
one way, then another.
He knew he really should just let the would-be
thief go. There wasn't any time to dally with
the surge of years of law enforcement training
that welled up in his chest. And it wouldn't do
to draw undue attention to himself, though he'd
already done so just by his attendance tonight.
But he couldn't let it go; something - instinct,
perhaps - told him not to let the thief get
away. Strughold's arrival in New Orleans,
Balfour's association with the man, and now this
- someone creeping around upstairs, abble to move
about Balfour's mansion with the distraction of
the party below. It all added up to some very
suspicious doings, and he was determined to find
out the motive behind it all.
Mulder reached for the pistol strapped to his
ankle, then thought better of it, realizing a
gun shot would definitely summon others.
Instead, he hunched behind a small table laden
with flowers, hoping his black attire and the
equally dark hallway would work to his
advantage. It did. Missing his presence
entirely, the stealthy figure began to slide
along the wall toward the staircase, and it was
then he made his move, staggering like he'd had
too much to drink.
Affecting a sloppy slur, he drawled, "Hey!
Where's the -"
But he should have known better, he thought
instantly, as he grabbed the slender shoulder.
A gloved fist flew up, clipping him in the chin.
He stumbled back, but didn't fall, reaching up
to grab the other fist that swung in an arc
toward his face. A woman. The would-be thief
was a woman... he felt the small bones beneath
his fingers, and he lessened his grip.
Another mistake, as she grabbed his arm with
both hands and flipped him to his back in a
heartbeat. A subtle, familiar perfume drifted
in the air surrounding him, and he drug in its
potent scent with labored lungs. But it didn't
stop him - in fact, it pressed him on, and he
scrambled to his knees, reaching for her
departing legs.
A small grunt reached his ears as she fell, and
he used his feet to hold the lethal black heels
at bay while he used his body to subdue her. He
heard the rending of cloth as she squirmed
beneath him. Crawling over her, he pinned her
legs to the floor with his and grabbed the slim
wrists in a firm hold.
He knew he shouldn't - what if it wasn't her?
Would he reveal too much with the name? But he
so wanted to know...
"Scully?"
She stilled, her chest heaving under his. But
she didn't say a word.
Mulder felt a warmth spread through him and he
relaxed his grip on her hands, her name bleeding
from his lips in an aching whisper. "Scully..."
Right before she brought both fists up, ringing
his bell with a swift, double blow that
sandwiched his head. He reeled, falling away
from her in a temporary daze. Shaking his head,
he sat against the wall, hearing her footsteps
thud down the hall.
When she reached the end of the hall, he saw it.
Illuminated in the flash of lightning streaming
through the balcony door as she ran through it,
it was unmistakable. Rippling over the muscle
in the tear of the leotard, it confirmed his
suspicions.
The ouroburous. Winking at him as she climbed
over the balcony railing.
First thing he did was smile, rubbing at his
sore jaw. In the next instant, his face
hardened as he got up and ran after her. The
hard rain slashed at his face as he gripped the
iron railing, trying to find her in the grass
below.
Another flash of lightning, then another. Like
a panther, she ran from the house into the trees
beyond, and he smiled, recognizing the easy
swing of those legs. Not to mention the tight
pull of that stretchy black material over that
perfect ass...
The smile faded as did the simple joy of
touching her again. He was going to have a damn
good time paddling that ass when he saw her
again.
End Chapter Two
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