Redirection II: A Sacrifice of Pawns
By M.C. Akimoto

Spoilers: US4 -- all the big stuff up to and including Max
Rating: PG (language)
Category: V
Summary: Skinner uses the events of Max to force 
CSM's hand

Many thanks to my beta readers, Meredith and Valoise,
for their insight and help.  

As always, feedback craved and responded to.  
Makimoto@circsol.com


This one's for you, CiCi.


A SACRIFICE OF PAWNS
By M.C. Akimoto

AD Skinner's Office
March 26, 1997
5:20 a.m.

This was it. *This* was the point of no return.

Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner was uncharacteristically 
aware of the silence in his office as he paced. He knew that what he
was experiencing was not the nerves of a college student facing a
final for which he was unprepared, but the nerves of a combat veteran
who knows that at the end of the skirmish, someone will be dead.

Too many dead soldiers.

Vietnam should have been the end of it for him.  He'd accepted 
certain personal risks on entering the Academy and joining the
Bureau.  Had even known that as an AD he could lose agents to 
field actions, but the shadow war with the consortium had gotten out
of hand.  It had degenerated into guerrilla tactics and it was time to
take a stand.

Too many dead.  Scully's sister. Mulder's father. Max Fenig 
and an entire airplane of people, if Mulder was to be believed. 
Scully, if something didn't happen soon. And now Pendrell.

Skinner thought again of the previous night's events.  How the 
surreal quality that always surrounds the shooting of an agent had
been amplified somehow. Maybe it had been the presence of so many
drunk patrons.  More likely it had been the vision of Scully standing
there, her blood staining the napkin her hand, a visible reminder of
her own precarious position.

Too many dead.

The bastard didn't bother to knock, of course.  There was simply the
smell of smoke, and then he was there; almost, mused Skinner, as
though he had materialized out of the ground.

He was most definitely not amused. "You had something to say to
me, Assistant Director Skinner?"

Now that it had begun, Skinner felt himself falling into the same
artificial calm that he had somehow always found in the worst of the
firefights he'd experienced.

"Yes, have a seat."

Surprisingly, the cigarette smoker did.  Rather than drifting to his
accustomed spot on the couch in the corner, he actually took one of
the chairs across the desk from Skinner.

"Well?"

"Agent Pendrell is dead."

Suddenly the bastard seemed to relax. "Oh? How...unfortunate 
for him."

"One of your men shot him."

"Why, Mr. Skinner, what makes you think I have any....men?"

It seemed wise to ignore that particular provocation. "Agent Scully
was at the bar at the same time.  In fact, Pendrell may have saved her
life."

"How terribly courageous of him.  How is Agent Scully?  I trust
 her health is...holding?"

"For the time being, yes.  And that brings us to the point.  I believe
we have a deal, but I see no progress in Agent Scully's condition."

"Didn't anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?  
Besides....miracles require time, and belief."

"Well, you've just run out of time.  I *believe* that Agent Scully
will shortly be getting better."  He managed to keep his tone
perfectly level, as though he were discussing the weather.

The cigarette man sneered openly, perhaps the greatest show of
emotion Skinner had seen from him since the confrontation over
the DAT.

"I'm not sure that your belief is really what matters in this case."

Skinner leaned back, steepling his hands.  He glanced down at his
empty desk top for a moment, and then replied.

"Agent Pendrell is dead; a botched mission if ever I saw one.  A
mission that left dozens of witnesses, and missed its target entirely.
Your organization cannot be happy with this.  Moreover, the fact that
you even attempted the action in such a public place indicates the
level of importance that this particular assignment had.  As I said:
dozens of witnesses.  It's simply a question of time."

"Even if you found the would-be assassin why do you suppose 
that should concern me?"

"I'm not sure that it would.  Your people seem to have an 
unfortunate propensity for dying at inopportune moments, or 
perhaps opportune ones...And that really isn't my point at all.  As
you say, you may not have any men at all.

"You're here because I have something you will be interested in."

"I seriously doubt that."

Skinner simply took a flat metal case from the drawer and placed it in
front of him of the desk.  He could have sworn that he actually saw
surprise, and something almost like respect in the smoker's eyes.

"Well, Mr. Skinner, you *have* managed to surprise me.  But really,
 what do I want with another metal container?"

"Cut the crap.  We both know what's in here.  I got this from Sharon
Graffia just this morning."

Now he was sure he saw both surprise and a grudging respect from his
opponent.

He'd had to do some pretty quick talking to convince Sharon to tell
him where the part had been hidden.  His repeated assurances that he
was trying to help Mulder and Scully were the only thing, he realized,
that had finally swayed her.  He'd felt guilty about manipulating an
obviously disturbed woman in the middle of the night.  But he was
under no illusion that this was anything but a war.  A war in which
the stakes were escalating rapidly.  A whole airplane of people...

"Well, Mr. Skinner, you are indeed correct.  I may be interested in
 this object -- if there is anything in it."

"Of course there is.  Anyway, this isn't something that can be 
preserved using more....traditional means."  In his impatience at the
whole Byzantine situation, he couldn't resist the barb, the reminder
that, all deals notwithstanding, Skinner still held a trump card. 
Although in his darker moments, he couldn't help but wonder if it was
closer to being a doomsday device.

"So, I presume you have a suggested....price for this item?"

Skinner was suprised to realize that after the impossibly draining 36
hours he'd just lived through that he could still summon the energy
for rage.  He hated this.  He hated being forced into the role of a
fence for stolen property; being forced into arranging illicit deals,
just to stay in the game.  But there was no turning back.  There had
been no turning back for a very long time.

"Agent Scully.  Now."

"That's an awfully steep price for an item of questionable
....provenance."

He never wavered. "Agent Scully."

"That may not be convenient.  Perhaps the location of the man
who shot Agent Pendrell?  I think one of my contacts coul--"

Skinner rose to his feet, almost glad.  He picked up the case.

"You can close the door on your way out."

"Sit down, Assistant Director Skinner.  Surely the Marines
taught you the value of trying to out-wait your enemy?  Very well.
Have Agent Scully contact Dr. Hiroshi at the New York Medical Center. 
Tell her to ask about protocol 17-A."

Skinner silently handed over the case.  The man regarded the AD
for a long moment, an odd ambivalence to his features.  Then he 
walked to the door.  For a brief moment he turned back.

"And Skinner?  You would do well to remember the old Russian
saying, 'Trust, but verify,' it has...relevance."

Skinner waited until he was sure the SOB was gone before slumping back
into his chair -- the adrenaline that had sustained him through the
encounter gone in an instant.

He pulled out Pendrell's file from his desk -- he had a call to make
in an hour or two.  


It had amused the cigarette smoker to allow Skinner to win this round.
 And, in all honesty, Skinner had him this time.  It was just a
question of timing, really.  The Plan had always called for a
"miracle" for Scully.  Sooner or later at this point made relatively
little difference.

Anyway, Skinner would shortly have other distractions.


END


All comments welcome at Makimoto@circsol.com