'I know what it is to feel lonely and helpless and to have the whole world against me, and those are things that no men or women ought to feel.' Richard Hannay, The 39 Steps (1935)

'HE'S ONLY GOT ONE ARM!' Lord Percy Percy, Blackadder II

Sunday evening, somewhere in the Mediterranean

It was evening. Usually the light from the slit windows of the simple chapel barely lifted the warm gloom, but today the red stone of the walls were thrown into a confusion of stark illumination and shadows. Someone had set up an arc-light in the courtyard outside. In the chapel, through the vaulted halls, men with torches moved with the efficiency of long practice, continuing the search for evidence and information. A helicopter clattered overhead, its searchlight filling the room with blinding radiance for a fraction of a second before passing to carry out another sweep of the surrounding sea.

'Anything?' the man called Leithen asked. His stance, rather than his voice betrayed his tension.

The black clad man beside him shrugged. In his anonymous black kevlar he might have been an agent from any agency on a covert mission, except that few such men carried swords strapped across their backs as well as guns. 'There's nothing, my lord. From the infrared traces they've been gone for at least eight hours. They must have abandoned this place as soon as they learned of Anne's death.'

'Eight hours behind them,' Leithen said, in a low, bitter voice. 'After eight, long centuries. How could they have found out? We should have had them here.'

The first man in black shook his head. 'There was a mobile on Anne's body. She must have called Gilles when she was trapped in the alley. Or else she used Mulder's. Both lines were secured from us. We couldn't have traced either.'

Leithen looked around, taking in the altar, the bare furnishings, the burned down candles that lined the room in great sconces. 'They can't have taken everything in so short a time. Find what you can. Find out where they've gone.'

'And then, Lord Leithen? Should we destroy the keep?'

'No. We're too close to the Turkish coast and the disputed Cypriot territories. We don't want to cause an international incident. We'll leave a guard here, but I doubt they'll return.'

'As you will, lord.'

'For now, keep searching. Find out what you can. Take this place apart stone by stone if you have to. That's all.'

He left the room and climbed the narrow steps that led to the top of keep's tower. The island was remote, otherwise they would have found it before. Here and only here was the reception good enough for him to use his cellphone. The evening was cool, but not cold, even in this high place. He dialled a familiar number, and looked out grimly on the distant Syrian hills, as Georgia had just days before.

'Clanroyden,' the voice at the other end of the connection said. There was static, but the signal was clear enough for their conversation.

'They've gone,' Leithen growled.

'That was always a possibility,' Clanroyden said. He did not sound particularly surprised.

'Do you still have people on Mulder?' Leithen asked.

'Of course.'

'Following him?'

'Mulder's spent half his life looking over his shoulder. The only way to track him down is to get someone ahead of him.'

'You overcomplicate things, Clanroyden,' Leithen said. His voice was still tinged with his bitterness at losing his quarry.

'It's under control. Trust me.'

'Where is he?' Leithen asked.

'Now? On a plane over the Atlantic, if he hasn't landed already. He was on his way to England with Pierson. They've managed to track down John of Tours.'

'John of Tours?' Leithen demanded. 'How? To what end?'

'As to how, Pierson has friends in the Watchers. Why? Because John knew Gilles well, and has reason to fear him and therefore reason to know where he is.'

'Mulder's found out a lot,' Leithen growled. 'I don't think I like that. Why didn't we go to John of Tours?'

'After the business in 1310 he's always refused to co-operate with us. Besides, our agreement was that we'd leave him alone.'

'We should have killed him,' Leithen said, with certainty.

'It's lucky that we didn't,' Clanroyden disagreed. 'He may yet give us Gilles.'

'Call me when you have more news,' Leithen said.

'I'll call you tomorrow. Events are already in motion.'

'You'd better be right,' Leithen growled. 'There's nothing here that we didn't have already. If we've lost them again after getting so close...'

'Be patient,' Clanroyden said. 'I can guarantee, there'll be news very soon.'

It was a cavernous, darkened room, in another high tower, far away. Georgia sat alone on a decaying velvet couch and watched a videotape play on a monitor before her. The monitor stood on an ancient, heavy oak table. A bank of surveillance monitors and computers were lined up alongside it, erected in a hasty nest of wires and duct tape. The video was grainy, the more so for being watched half a hundred times. On the tiny, flickering screen Jacques Lemarchand sat stretched out on the leather sofa, grinning drunkenly at the blonde woman who faced him. Georgia watched the tape with sadness in her eyes. Anne of Kirrin had been her companion, if not her friend, for more than eight hundred years.

'Lookin' for Methos?' Lemarchand slurred. 'Yeah, maybe I heard something.'

On the screen Anne smiled encouragingly and laid a hand on his knee. She said something that was not caught on the tape. Lemarchand's grin widened.

'Back 'bout seventeen, eighteen years ago now. Up north somewhere. You sure you don't want to get a little more comfortable, baby?'

Anne leant back a little, saying something, laughing seductively. Lemarchand leant in towards her, speaking quickly and intently.

'I couldn't give you a name, baby, but I felt his buzz. I met a guy once, he was more than two thousand years old, but this felt a hell of a lot stronger than that. This guy was old, could have been the oldest.'

Anne spoke again. Lemarchand shook his head vehemently. 'Like I said, baby, couldn't give you a name, couldn't tell you what he looked like. There were a few of us there. Could've been any of them. It was Drake's idea. Place was supposed to be a refuge. Hidin' place, no swords, no game. I was experimenting with a few things while I was there, recreational substances, if you know what I mean. So some of the time I was just a little bit out of things. You understand...?'

Anne leant very close to Lemarchand now, as if to whisper in his ear.

'You want to know about all of them, baby?' Lemarchand said. 'Well sure, but it's going to take some time for me to remember. Lessee. There was Arch Drake, of course. He's something big in France now. Saw him in the papers a while back. Then there was a kid called Donnelley, from Boston. He headed off after a couple of months. Girl called herself Sunflower. Redburg, I think her name was. Stupid bitch sent me a postcard from San Francisco, guess that might be where she's at now. Some punk kid called Adam something. A Brit I think he was, could've been called Pearce, something like that. Didn't like him, arrogant son of a bitch. Hung around with this kid, called himself Fox. Real name could've been anything. He was only there a few days, then he and Pearce headed off together. Then there was a chick called Saffron. she and I got very friendly. She was there with some loser called Herb Jenks from down in New England somewhere...'

'Lady Georgia,' a voice interrupted, and Georgia turned abruptly from her viewing of the tape.

'My Lord Gilles. I'm sorry. Was I keeping you awake?'

'Why are you watching this, Georgia?' Gilles asked. As usual, his face betrayed nothing.

On screen Lemarchand continued to drunkenly reel off the names. 'Max Donnelley. I said him already. Bunch of Jewish kids in New York, couldn't get out to the real thing in California. Redburg I already gave you. Silver, that's another one. Rosen, his father was some kinda lawyer, came and bailed the kid out when the camp got busted...'

Georgia pushed the mute button and Lemarchand and his companion continued their conversation silently.

'I'm watching in case there's something here I've missed, my Lord. Poor Anne. She was like a sister to me.'

Gilles lay a hand briefly on her hair, a gesture which Georgia absently supposed was meant to be comforting. 'Her sacrifice will be worthwhile,' he said. 'Do not doubt that, Georgia. I know that sometimes it is not easy to have faith.'

Georgia shook her head. 'Not an easy thing at all. Methos is gone and now we will never find him. The Cabal arms itself against us. This time they will not rest until such time as they have hunted us down. The keep in Cyprus is already taken. We have no leads, no advantages.'

'We still have the virus,' Gilles disagreed. 'If the time comes and we do not have Methos, we will use it nonetheless. But I think we will have Methos by then.'

'But should we not postpone our efforts, lord?' Georgia protested. 'We have so little time, and the date of the established Millennium is three years away. It would give us enough time to regroup, to establish a new base, to find Methos again...'

'No.' Gilles said. His face grew stern. 'We do not have that time. The true Millennium will be in days. Two thousand years before that time the Star of Bethlehem shone over the East, the conjunction of the constellation Leo, the sign of the house of Judah, the star Regulus and the king planet Jupiter. Two thousand years before that time the Christ was born on this earth. We will not wait for some date of human devising, Georgia. Do not dare speak to me of this again.' He smiled then, and took her face in his hands. 'Georgia, I will have faith for us both. The Lord will give us what we seek. Trust in Him.'

'Yes, Lord,' Georgia said. She bowed her head.

'Will you be well here this evening, on your own?'

For the first time Georgia realised that he had not come to her alone. In the corridor outside both Julian and Richard waited, both dressed in dark trenchcoats, both ready to leave.

'On my own?' she asked. 'I don't understand.'

'The Lord has provided, Georgia,' Gilles said. 'I'm returning to England with Richard and Julian. There's a matter I must attend to there. There's an old, old friend we have to visit, and it's a visit long overdue. But we have only bare hours to reach him, even with the helicopter we must make haste.'

'Then I will not delay you, Lord Gilles,' Georgia said, her mind racing. 'When will you return?'

'Tomorrow, no later. Spend that time readying one of the cells. We may well bring a guest back with us.'

'Then God speed, Lord,' Georgia said. She kept her face serene, as she had learned through centuries of bitter experience, but as she watched the three men leave she felt the seeds of a new unease begin to grow within her.

Monday Morning, Vale of the White Horse, Oxfordshire, England

Mulder slept late, and found himself alone in bed when he finally wakened. For the sake of propriety he and Adam had booked two rooms in the farmhouse where they were staying, just a mile or so from their final destination. The landlady was a bone thin woman with short, untidy, grey hair. She clearly wasn't fooled, but appeared to be operating on a 'don't ask, don't tell' basis, at least as long as two rooms were being paid for.

As it happened, there hadn't been anything to tell about. After the seven hour flight, the drive to Oxfordshire had left Mulder good for very little. Driving on the left was a skill that he'd happily abandoned after his Oxford days, together with making cheese on toast and pretending to enjoy Pink Floyd. And there were more motorways now, including something called the M25 London orbital which, Mulder had decided after an hour of nose to tail traffic, probably qualified as an extra circle of hell all by itself.

But that was behind him now. Mulder turned over comfortably and nestled further beneath the warm quilts. Outside, rain lashed fitfully against the window. The sound was perennially English. So too was the pale light shining through too-thin chintz curtains, the sound of wood-pigeons outside and a church bell ringing the half hour somewhere in the distance. The noises were reminiscent of the comfortable years he had spent here, thousands of miles away from the dreary duties and responsibilities of life in the Mulder household, and for a little while they lulled him back to a comfortable half sleep.

When he woke again the travel alarm beside him read 8am, although, he realised belatedly, the alarm had been turned off. Adam had probably gone back to his own room for the sake of appearances, he decided sleepily, or gone for a shower. For a little while he even tried to go to sleep again, but both the urgency of their task and Adam's continued absence nagged at him. Finally, eventually, he dragged himself out of bed, pulled on some clothes, ran a hand through his sleep-spiked hair and knocked at Adam's door.

But Adam wasn't in his room. Mulder showered quickly and made his way down to the dining room. The room had a long wooden table down the centre, and was heavily decorated with china plates and brightly polished brassware. The noise and smell of frying pervaded the air.

'Would you like the full English breakfast, dear?' the landlady enquired brightly, as Mulder sat at the table and looked around in sleepy bemusement.

'The full English breakfast?' Mulder asked. While a student here he had rarely bothered with breakfast. Or even being awake for it, most of the time.

'We start with grapefruit segments and cereal, then it's fried eggs, sausages, bacon, fried bread, fried mushrooms, fried tomatoes, then toast and butter and marmalade.'

Even Mulder flinched at the thought of beginning his day with this massive cholesterol overdose. 'I think I'll pass, thanks.'

His landlady looked at him mournfully. Mulder searched his mind for an alternative. 'Do you have any English muffins?'

'Any what, dear?'

'English muffins.'

'Oh! Like the ones at MacDonalds? Sorry dear. Not much call for them here. I could make you some pancakes if you wanted.'

'Could I just have some black coffee?'

She looked at him sorrowfully. 'Well, if you're sure. I must say, your friend had more of an appetite than you.'

'Adam's already been down?' Mulder asked.

'Oh yes. He said he didn't want to wake you. He was up first thing. I think he went out for a walk about an hour ago.'

'Where did he go?' Mulder asked, feeling the first real edge of worry.

'Just for a walk, he said. He said he was interested in the old Lincoln place. We get a lot of archaeologists around here.'

'The Lincoln place. Didn't that used to be a church?'

'That's the one, dear. Are you an archaeologist too?'

The feeling that something was wrong grew stronger. 'You say he left an hour ago?'

'Well yes, dear. After that storm yesterday evening I told him he should have taken more than that old trenchcoat of his, but he wouldn't listen.'

'There was a storm?' Mulder said

'Yes, just an hour or so before you arrived. It was very peculiar. They didn't have it in Faringdon, and that's only two miles away. Of course, you get some funny weather on these hills. Now it was coffee you wanted wasn't it, Mr Mulder? Mr Mulder?'

The Oxfordshire hills rolled away into the distance, old and worn to gentleness. The fields that surrounded him were planted with young green crops, or grazed by sheep, but they were also dotted with low green mounds that had never been ploughed. Barrows, the graves of men older than Methos, lay scattered across the fields and hills, commonplace and unremarked. And high and proud on a distant hillside, beneath the grey and gathering clouds, stood the image of a long, stylised white horse, carved into the chalk hillside thousands of years before.

'A pale horse,' Mulder thought to himself, and that apocalyptic symbol seemed an ill enough omen that he walked faster along the worn chalk path. The wind that blew was cold, cold enough to justify an overcoat. It rippled through the high grass to either side of him, already silvering, dotted with orchids. The late spring sun, shining intermittently through gaps in the clouds, only barely had heat in it. Somewhere, very nearby, a skylark rose in song. The wind through the young wheat was the only other noise, soft and continuous, like the sea.

Ahead of him the path joined a wider chalk track, rutted and uneven. The church that Joe had spoken of lay at its end. Once, maybe, there had been a hamlet here, but now the church was all that remained, gaunt and alone among the fields, abandoned like the barrows around it. Mulder walked closer, cautiously, but all stood silent and unmoving. There was a great wooden door at the front of the building, but it was padlocked closed. It had an incongruous letterbox, but that was the only sign of habitation. Mulder moved quietly around to the back of the church, following a narrow chalk path through the thick grass.

From this side, the building looked long abandoned. A old car stood at the far end of the church, wet with dew, one of the doors still open. The leaded windows of the church were cracked and gapped; the car's windows were all broken too. It was not until broken glass crunched under Mulder's shoes that he realised that the damage was very recent. He felt himself grow cold. He looked down, and almost directly beneath him saw a dark stain on the white, rutted chalk of the track, dark but still shockingly red. A little further away, there was another bloodstain, then another.

The fear grew within him, like a thing alive, eating at him. Adam. Where in God's name was Adam?

*The storm was last night.* he told himself, to allay his first desperate fear, that Adam was lying beheaded somewhere nearby. *Before we came. It couldn't have been him. It couldn't have been him.* But he knew that this killing hadn't been random, that the chance of that would be impossibly remote, that maybe Adam had come this morning and whoever had done this had still been near... He drew his gun, almost without thought. Skinner had somehow managed to get him a firearms permit from the English authorities. Adam had carried his sword through as an antique, so he had been armed too. Maybe there had been a fight, maybe Adam had had to run, or was wounded somewhere and waiting to recover...

The blood trail led across the sparse grass, to the fields behind the low wall that surrounded the church. It didn't take long to find the bodies. The first was in one of the steep ditches that ran along the outside of the wall. The man was in his forties, the familiar blue tattoo on the inside of his wrist. He'd apparently been shot through the head several hours before - cold dew was beaded on his face. The second body was a little way away, dumped in a nearby field, amid the rising shoots of young wheat. It had no head, but the thickset muscular build told him instantly that this was not Adam. There was dew on the pale hands, on the bloody sword that lay beside him. Someone else had got there before them.

John of Tours had been dragged outside his own, personal enclave of holy ground and beheaded before they had even arrived here.

And Adam Pierson, Methos, his lover, was gone.

It was dark inside the church. There were no lights on - the only illumination came from the narrow windows high above the ground. There were few furnishings. Bookcases lined the walls: their contents were tumbled out, onto the floor. A low, wide bed stood at the far end of the chapel, partly screened off, in the raised area where the altar must once have been. There was another door at the opposite end of the church which must have led into what was once a vestry. On an ancient oak table facing away from the door sat a phone, the smashed remains of a computer, a row of emptied and upturned box files. Papers were scattered around the desk, riffling in the wind. But none of that mattered, none of it held Mulder's attention for more than a fraction of a second, because sitting at the desk, bent over a laptop, intently flicking through screen after screen of information, sat an instantly familiar figure. Mulder would have known him from any angle, would have known him in the dark, from his scent alone, from the sound of his breathing. The stupid ass haircut had grown longer, but the leather jacket was the same. And if the man at the desk turned, Mulder knew that he would be looking into the wide green eyes that always reminded him of characters in the violent Japanese cartoons he sometimes watched late at night. Slowly he raised his weapon and loudly and deliberately took off the safety catch. His hand didn't shake. He was proud of that.

'You're slipping, Krycek,' he said. His voice sounded almost like his own, and he was proud of that too. 'Sitting with your back to an open door. That's the kind of mistake that's going to get you killed.'

The clicking of the mouse stopped, otherwise the man at the screen made no move. 'You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man in the back, would you, Mulder?' Krycek asked conversationally.

'Not usually,' Mulder said evenly. 'In your case, Krycek, I'm willing to make an exception.' He felt a cold, passionless hatred fill him. The compulsion to pull the trigger and quickly and cleanly rid the world of Alex Krycek was almost overwhelming. He listed Krycek's crimes in his head, an emotionless litany. 'He was my partner and he betrayed me. He killed my father. He helped them take Scully. He let them give me the black cancer.'

Krycek seemed to read his thoughts. 'Judge, jury and executioner, Mulder?' he said, still without turning. 'Last time we met you wanted to bring me to justice.'

'Shut up, Krycek,' Mulder said emotionlessly. 'If you think you can fast talk your way out of this one, think again. If you go for a weapon, I will shoot you. If you move, I will shoot you. If you even think about moving, I will shoot you. If you make just one more clever remark, I will shoot you. It's not going to take much, so don't tempt me. Now take your gun out, put it on the floor and kick it away from yourself.'

Krycek did so, keeping his movements slow and careful.

Mulder nodded. 'Now put your hands up.'

And finally, Krycek turned towards him, and in the dark of the chapel those green eyes were filled with some emotion Mulder could not identify.. 'You can't put up what you haven't got, Mulder,' he said softly.

And Mulder felt himself grow cold at the sight of the gloved, prosthetic arm, cold and unresponsive, at Krycek's side.

'How?' he asked.

'At Tunguska,' Krycek said simply. He looked at Mulder's shocked face defiantly. 'Don't look at me like that, Mulder,' he said in a low, angry voice.

'There can't be much call for a one-armed assassin,' Mulder said, and instantly would have given anything to have been able to take the words back. Words and fists were the only defences he had ever been able to find against Krycek, but that wasn't fair, not now...

But Krycek almost seemed to expect it of him. He looked up, green eyes blazing, white teeth bared. 'Oh I get by, Mulder. Don't worry about me.'

Mulder hardened his heart again. 'I don't intend to, Krycek. What happened here?'

Krycek gestured to the room around them, his eyes not leaving Mulder's face. 'Someone else got here first, Mulder.'

'Where's Adam? Is he...?' he couldn't say it.

'Dead?' Krycek finished bitterly. 'No. They were waiting for him when he came here. He went with them freely.'

'You're wrong,' Mulder said automatically. 'How did you find this place? What are you doing here?'

'I have a source in the Watchers. They're monitoring everything Dawson does. Information about John of Tours was pulled from the Watcher mainframe then Pierson called this place from Joe's bar.'

'Joe?' Mulder said in surprise. 'Why are they watching Joe?'

Krycek sighed wearily. 'Mulder, he's supposed to be a Watcher. MacLeod isn't even supposed to know that he exists. They're not supposed to be friends. They think he's a danger to their organisation.'

'So you're working with the Watchers now?'

'Of course not. They really don't pay that much at all. No, our old friends want their virus back, quite badly, as a matter of fact.'

Mulder narrowed his eyes. 'I thought you weren't working for them any more.'

'Oh I do some freelance work now and again, just to keep body and soul together,' Krycek said with bitter self-deprecation.

'My heart bleeds for you, Krycek. Just tell me what happened here.'

Krycek let his head fall back and closed his eyes, a movement that somehow told of wretched, bone deep exhaustion. *How long has it been since Tunguska?* Mulder thought. *Two, three months? What kind of rehabilitation do you need for something like this? More than he looks like he's had. More than he looks like he could afford...*

'I arrived here yesterday afternoon, Mulder,' Krycek was saying. 'I've been keeping surveillance ever since. At about ten o'clock last night a car arrived. Three men got out back down the road, out of sight. They found the watcher and killed him. They went into the chapel. Twenty minutes later John of Tour was dragged out of the back door and beheaded in the field.'

'Then what?'

'Then they waited until your friend came, about an hour ago,' Krycek said. 'They left together a few minutes later.'

'Was he hurt?'

'No, Mulder. I already told you once. He went with them of his own accord. He was uninjured and nobody seemed to be threatening him. He wasn't handcuffed and no-one was holding a gun on him.'

'But that doesn't make any sense,' Mulder said, in utter bewilderment.

'You think that doesn't make sense, Mulder?' Krycek asked, with a hint of his old sarcasm. 'Well join the club. Listen to this.' From somewhere in the chaos on the desk he picked up a tiny tape recorder.

'What is it?' Mulder asked.

'It's the tape from the answering machine.'

'You found it in this mess?'

'I've had well over an hour to search, Mulder.' Krycek cast a disparaging eye over the scene. 'And whoever trashed this place didn't do a very good job. A fire would have gutted the entire building and destroyed all the evidence in about ten minutes.'

'The same man who killed Drake in France,' Mulder said.

'Probably,' Krycek said, with a shrug. 'Just listen to the tape.'

There was the brief blurred whine of the tape rewinding, then Krycek pushed the play button.

The voice was both familiar and unfamiliar, cold and pitiless. '...am Methos. I'm looking for Gilles de Rais and I've been told that you know where he is. You live on Holy Ground, so we'll meet there on Monday morning, at ten o'clock. And know this. I've had you watched, John of Tours, and I know your movements. It's Gilles I'm after, but if you try to run, I'll hunt you down and kill you too.'

'The message arrived early yesterday morning,' Krycek said into the silence that followed. 'Just after it arrived John de Tours made five calls. The last was to a number I can't trace.'

'He panicked,' Mulder said slowly. 'And called Gilles. He's always taken the path of least resistance, always gone for his immediate safety, no matter what the long term consequences. He knew that Gilles was looking for Methos. He knew that if he betrayed Gilles again and Gilles survived, Gilles would find him and kill him, but if he gave Gilles Methos, it might get him off his back for good.'

'Good to know that education in psychology wasn't a complete waste of time, Mulder,' Krycek commented.

'So he found Gilles,' Mulder continued numbly. 'And told him when Adam was going to be here. I expect he intended to be long gone when Gilles got here. Only he left it too late to leave. Gilles came yesterday instead and killed him. Then he waited here for Adam to turn up.'

'Lousy planning,' Krycek commented. 'Or very good planning. It all depends on what your friend was after. You want to know what I think, Mulder? I think he wanted that to happen. I think your friend has decided he'd be better off on the other side.'

'No,' Mulder said tightly. 'I won't believe that.'

Krycek sighed. 'Don't be so naive, Mulder. He didn't have to make the call like that. He meant to panic Lincoln and he meant him to run to Gilles and he knew that Gilles would probably kill Lincoln if he didn't get away fast enough. He's five thousand years old. He didn't get that old not knowing how to plan. Do you really think you know him? Do you really think you have any fucking idea who he is?'

Mulder ignored him. 'We need to go after them,' he said almost to himself. 'We have to find him.'

Krycek shook his head. 'Oh no, Mulder. The last time "we" did anything I had my arm hacked off without any anaesthetic. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me out of it this time.'

Mulder ignored him. 'There must be something here to say where they've gone. Something in these papers...'

'He left you a note,' Krycek said. 'It was on the desk when I arrived.'

The note had been opened, Mulder noted without surprise. A sheet of cheap notepaper, folded once. He opened it.

'Mulder, it's over. Go back to the States. Adam.'

'Seems straightforward, Mulder,' Krycek said from where he still sat in the chair. 'If I was you, I'd take his advice.'

'No. Wait. There's something else on this. An impression. Something was written on the sheet before this and it's gone through. Is there a pencil on the desk?'

There was. He ran the lead lightly across the page, again and again, bringing the impression to the fore.

'What does it say?' Krycek asked, green eyes intent.

'The Isles of something. The Isles of the Sea,' Mulder said slowly, straightening. He lifted the piece of paper to the light. 'It sounds Arthurian. Like something out of Mallory or Scott, or the Celtic mythos. Maybe MacLeod or Joe could help me trace the reference.'

Krycek sighed. 'Well, there is another way, Mulder.'

'Oh yeah?' Mulder said disinterestedly, scanning the few books that were left on the shelf above the desk.

'Well, you see this road altas? What I do is, I turn to this section at the end called the index and I look at all the place names beginning with "I".' There was a pause. 'Ooh, look,' Krycek exclaimed, in a voice thick with sarcasm.

Mulder silently ground his teeth. 'I was going to do that next.'

'Of course you were, Mulder. Right after you rang ten people you knew at university and spent another hour checking references to the Morte D'Arthur on the Internet.'

'I don't miss having you as my partner at all, you realise that, don't you?' Mulder said through gritted teeth.

'Oh believe me, Mulder, the feeling's mutual. If you remember, the last time we teamed up together, you beat me up, Skinner beats me up, you get us both imprisoned in some Russian shithole then screw up my attempt to get you out of there and land me in the wilderness where insane peasants hack off my arm with red hot knives.'

There wasn't a lot to say to that, Mulder realised.

'Where are the Isles of the Sea?' he asked.

'They're just off the west coast of Scotland,' Krycek said. 'Send me a postcard when you get there.'

'You really think I'm going to leave you here, Krycek?' Mulder said. He picked the telephone up off the desk, but put it down when it became evident that there was no dial tone. His mobile only produced static, whether from closeness to the ridge of hills or some residual interference from the quickening it was hard to tell.

'So what are you going to do, Mulder?,' Krycek asked acidly. 'Take me along for the ride?'

Mulder spared him a humourless smile. 'Oh no, Krycek. You're a material witness to two murders. I'm going to hand you over to the authorities.'

Krycek looked at him in what seemed to be genuine amazement. 'What am I supposed to tell them, Mulder?'

'Make something up, Krycek,' Mulder said pleasantly. 'I don't care what. At least it'll keep you out of my way for a few days. Maybe you should use the time to get some sleep. You look as if you could use it.'

He pulled out the pair of prisoner transport handcuffs. One of the bracelets he clicked efficiently around Krycek's one remaining wrist. The other he put loosely around his own.

'Mulder, what are you doing?' Krycek asked in disbelief.

'You're not getting away from me this time, Krycek.'

'Mulder, have you gone insane?'

'Come on, Krycek,' Mulder said. He pulled Krycek towards the door, not gently.

They walked around the church, Krycek blinking in the daylight. Here, outside, he looked pale and tired.

'This is a mistake, Mulder,' he said tensely, as they came round to the front of the church. 'Believe me, you don't want to involve the police.'

'It doesn't look as if I need to,' Mulder said. 'The police are already here.'

The white patrol car with the blue and orange stripe along the side was parked a little way along the lane, which explained why neither man had heard it coming. Now they were out of the thick-walled building, however, the hiss and chatter of the radio was clearly audible. As Mulder approached, dragging a reluctant Krycek with him, two uniformed officers climbed out, both men, both wearing reflective yellow coats. One of them raised a hand to them, an older man with white hair, and a thick white moustache.

'Excuse me, sir. Would you gentlemen mind stepping over here?'

'Mulder, this is wrong,' Krycek said in a low voice. 'They shouldn't have guns.'

Mulder frowned, then he too noticed the holsters both officers wore, quite openly. 'Even the British police have firearms units these days, Krycek,' he said.

'Mulder, British firearms police are always traffic officers, and they don't carry guns to an incident without a senior officer giving them permission anyway,' Krycek hissed. 'Do you think I wouldn't check something like that? That's a regular patrol car and those are regular officers. This isn't even an incident yet for them.'

'Shut up, Krycek,' Mulder said implacably. 'You're not talking your way out of this.'

Krycek shot him a look that was halfway between pleading and exasperated. 'Mulder, if you want to kill yourself, go ahead, but don't drag me with you. Just think about it. How did they get here so quickly?'

'This is a murder scene, Krycek,' Mulder said out of the corner of his mouth, still walking purposefully towards the police car. 'Those bodies have been lying around all night. Somebody must have seen them and reported it to the police.'

'This is rural Oxfordshire, not Washington DC,' Krycek said in a low voice. 'Mulder, they can't have more than one or two murders a year in this entire county. They're not so blasé about it that they only send a couple of beat officers out to investigate.'

'Maybe somebody just reported seeing something suspicious.'

'Who, Mulder?' Krycek hissed urgently. 'Nobody else has been anywhere near this place this morning. This is a trap. Mulder Will you listen to me? You're walking both of us into a trap...'

Mulder ignored the mounting edge of panic in Krycek's voice. He walked up to the car until he was just a little way away from the officer who had just spoken, ID held loosely in his hand.

'Officer, my name is Fox Mulder. I'm an FBI agent. This man is a fugitive and a witness to two murders.'

The two officers glanced at each other. 'Are you sure, sir?' the first man asked. 'This gentleman witnessed two murders at this location?'

'That's right. The bodies are in the field behind the church.'

'Has anyone else been here, sir?' the second officer said. He was younger, a big, mild-looking man, with dark hair that fell over his eyes.

'No officer. I don't think so,' Mulder said. He frowned. 'Don't you want to see my identification?'

'That won't be necessary, sir,' the man said. He glanced across at his companion, who was already reaching for his weapon.

'Kill him,' the white-haired man said. 'Kill them both.'

But Krycek had moved first, twisting to reach into Mulder's coat, to pull his gun out of its holster.

As Mulder threw himself against the first man he let loose a single shot that dropped the younger officer instantly before he was pulled forward by Mulder's weight. They both landed heavily against the first man, knocking him off balance, making him fall back heavily against the car with a hollow, painful-sounding thunk. Mulder drew back quickly, onto his knees, ready to land another blow, but the man on the ground lay motionless, eyes closed.

Krycek pulled himself to his feet. 'Is he dead?' he asked shortly.

'I must have knocked him out against the side of the car,' Mulder said, breathing hard.

Krycek pointed the gun down and dispassionately pulled the trigger. The body jerked, once, and was still.

Mulder clambered to his feet and snatched the gun back. 'Jesus, Krycek!'

'What was I supposed to do, Mulder?,' Krycek shouted. 'Let him kill us?'

Mulder looked at him is disbelief for a moment. 'I don't believe you, Krycek,' he said in disgust. 'That's your answer to everything, isn't it?'

'Would you rather be dead, Mulder?,' Krycek said angrily. 'I wouldn't.'

'Let's get out of here,' Mulder said shaking his head.

'Where to?'

'Somewhere where we're not standing beside two dead police officers.'

'They're not police officers.'

'And there might be more of them. Just move, Krycek.'

'***

'All right, so let's recap,' Mulder said. He leant against the low stone wall, several hundred yards away from the church, the nearest available cover on the open hillside. Krycek stood beside him, half bent over, catching his breath. He glared at Mulder balefully.

'I've got a better idea, Mulder,' he snapped. 'Let's not recap. Let's just get the fuck out of here.'

'Adam's vanished, you're here and people are shooting at me. I think that covers most of the salient points,' Mulder continued, ignoring him.

'Now do you fucking believe me?' Krycek snarled. 'You know, I don't have to be nice to you any more, Mulder. Being nice to you hasn't been in my job description since Duane Barry. I don't even have to try to keep you alive any more. God alone knows what a thankless task that was, by the way.'

'In retrospect my handcuffing us together wasn't actually that good an idea,' Mulder continued. He tugged at his side of the handcuffs fruitlessly. At some point in the short, deadly fight the bracelet had tightened to an uncomfortable level around his wrist. Giving up the unequal struggle, he pushed the locking button in to stop it getting any tighter.

'It wasn't that good an idea?!' Krycek hissed. 'I'm chained to a fucking *maniac*! An *incompetent* fucking maniac! You don't ever handcuff yourself to a perpetrator, Mulder! That should be the first thing they teach you at Quantico! And then there's the keys. How can you only have one set of fucking keys?'

'I didn't know I was going to lose them in the fight,' Mulder protested defensively.

Krycek let himself slump down to a sitting position. 'Since Tunguska, Mulder, I've tried to get any edge I could to keep myself alive,' he said in a low, bitter voice. 'God knows it hasn't been easy, but I've trained myself, I've picked up advantages wherever I could. I've learned to survive with one hand, Mulder. To function. It's been long and painful, but I've done it. And now? I don't even have *one* fucking hand. I'm handcuffed to you and you've lost the fucking keys to the handcuffs somewhere over about half a mile of field and you're going to get us both killed. This is fucking *suicide* Mulder. I'm a fucking *dead man*.'

Mulder glared at him. 'Krycek, will you stop whining about your arm? We're not going to be able to do anything unless we know exactly what the situation is.'

'The situation is, we're in deep shit, Mulder,' Krycek said through gritted teeth. 'I'm surprised you hadn't noticed.'

Mulder chose to ignore that. 'I need to know if those men are after you or me.'

Krycek threw him a sullen glance. 'They're after you, Mulder,' he said. 'Nobody knows I'm here.'

'So who the hell are they?' Mulder said. He scanned the surrounding countryside breathlessly. Nothing moved. The police car stood motionless on the distant chalk track, doors still open, the two bodies still and unmoving beside it.

From beside him Krycek said 'Were they.'

Mulder glared at him again. 'All right, who the hell were they?'

'Well you remember that Russian Mob contract I told you about a week or two ago?'

Mulder swore softly under his breath.

'That's if they're not Cabal, of course,' Krycek continued. 'I expect they warned you off this case. They're probably pissed off that you ignored them.'

'If they are Cabal they could be immortal,' Mulder said. 'They could be reviving any time now.'

'Ten out of ten for deductive reasoning, Mulder,' Krycek said. 'So what are you going to do now?'

'We have to risk it. We have to go back and try to find the keys to my handcuffs.'

'And what if they really are immortals, Mulder?' Krycek asked. 'We've got to keep killing them. They only have to shoot us once. Why didn't you unlock us while we were by the car, anyway?'

'Because I didn't want to waste any time getting under cover, okay?' Mulder snapped. 'There could still be more of them out there.'

'Well it doesn't look like it from here,' Krycek said. He narrowed his eyes appraisingly as he surveyed the scene.

'Well thanks for sharing that with me, Krycek. It's a lot of use now.' Mulder said. He risked another glance over the top of the wall. 'They haven't moved. I think they must really be dead.'

'Or they're faking it,' Krycek said, narrowing his eyes.

'Faking it?'

'They could be pretending, Mulder. They wait until we come out of cover, then they try for us again. That's how I'd do it.'

'It's a risk we'll have to take. I'm going down there.'

Krycek shook his head. 'Well I'm not. You may have a death wish, Mulder, but I haven't. I'm staying right here.'

'I've still got the gun, Krycek,' Mulder said grimly.

Krycek's look told exactly how much he thought of that particular threat. 'Fine. Shoot me, Mulder. See how far you get dragging my bleeding corpse around the countryside.'

Mulder straightened. 'Well if you won't go back to look for the keys with me we have to go to the police - the real police - and get these handcuffs off.'

Krycek sighed. 'Mulder, one, how do we know who the real police are, two, we're both suspects in not one but two murders, four, actually, if you count whoever those guys are down there, three, if we say we're involved in this, we're both going to be held for questioning for at least two or three days and you don't have that much time to spare and four, even if we do find the real police, the Consortium will probably have got people in there first. I wouldn't survive a night in a cell and I don't expect you would either.'

'You're working for the Consortium, Krycek,' Mulder reminded him sarcastically. 'Now why would they want to kill you?'

'All right,' Krycek snapped. 'I didn't exactly say I was working for them. I just said they wanted their virus back. I thought I'd try to get there first. I need a bargaining chip right now. They've been trying to kill me ever since you dragged me into that Tunguska mess.'

Mulder smiled a humourless little smile. 'You should stop pissing so many people off, Krycek. It's healthier that way.'

'Oh yeah? How would you know, Mulder?'

Mulder ignored that. 'Do you have a car, Krycek?'

'No, I walked here, Mulder. London's only a hundred and fifty miles away. What do you think?'

'I think you should try to lose that sarcastic streak before I do you some serious damage,' Mulder said grimly, looking out over the gently swelling hills that surrounded them.

Krycek glared at him contemptuously. 'Yeah, why don't you hit me, Mulder? It's not as if I can hit you back or anything.'

Mulder glared back. 'You're going to play that card once too often, Krycek.'

'Well it looks as if it's about the only card I've got at the moment, doesn't it?'

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment in a not entirely successful attempt to regain his calm. 'So what do you suggest we do, Krycek?'

Krycek's tone became businesslike. 'First we get out of here before we have any more company. Then we find some way to get out of these handcuffs that doesn't involve handing ourselves over to the authorities.'

'Now why didn't I think of that?' Mulder asked acidly.

'You know, if I was still your partner, I really would have killed you by now,' Krycek said. 'I can't believe Scully hasn't shot you yet.'

'Scully did shoot me. Remember?'

'Yeah, but I'd have shot you somewhere important.'

'Just take me to the car, Krycek.'

***

The car bumped its way along the uneven country road. Mulder's head bumped against the roof of the car as it did so. His wrist was already sore from the handcuff, which chafed painfully every time he tried to change gear. On top of that, the makers of the car appeared to have left out the suspension. He braked as they reached a junction, an unsigned junction, and swore silently as the little car came to an over-abrupt stop.

'Of all the cars you could have stolen why did you have to steal this one?'

Krycek glanced at him with more than a little irritation. 'Jesus, Mulder, stop complaining. We'll have to steal another one when we get to the next town anyway. I've had this one too long.'

'It's a mini, Krycek,' Mulder said. 'I learned my lesson at Oxford. Nobody over five foot tall should ever drive in a mini unless they don't mind months of physical therapy to straighten them out afterwards.'

'I stole it because it was parked out of sight of any buildings, it wasn't alarmed or immobilised and the petrol tank was full. That's car theft 101, Mulder.'

'I must have been off school that week.'

'Yeah, Mulder. Whatever.'

Mulder sighed. 'Well how about we do some workshop burglary 101 and find something to cut these handcuffs off with?' he suggested.

'Mulder, these things are tempered steel,' Krycek explained, rather patronisingly. 'It's going to take more than someone's junior hacksaw to get us out of them.'

'Can you pick the lock?'

Krycek gave him a withering look. 'Mulder, in case you'd forgotten, you cuffed my only fucking hand. The chain's too short. I can't reach the lock.'

'Oh. Yeah.' Mulder said.

They sat in silence for a little while. Outside the steady drizzle stopped. Somewhere in the lush green hedges to either side of the road, a bird began to sing.

'I cannot believe you got me into this fucking situation,' Krycek said bitterly.

'Yeah, well I'm not exactly ecstatic about it either. That's not some kind of Consortium prosthetic, is it?' Mulder asked, gesturing to the arm without too much optimism. 'No built in lasers, selection of blades, that kind of thing?'

Krycek gave him a withering look. 'This is Russian health service issue, Mulder. I'm lucky it has fingers.'

Mulder nodded. 'I guess they dropped you pretty fast after Tunguska,' he said. He felt no particular sense of victory about that fact.

'I don't want to talk about it, Mulder,' Krycek said sullenly.

'Fine. So which way are we heading?'

'Western Scotland, Mulder. I mean, I hear Cornwall is very nice this time of year, but the world is probably going to end in five days' time so maybe we should start thinking about making a move in that general direction.'

'I meant do we turn left at this intersection, or right?' Mulder said with exaggerated patience.

'Right,' Krycek said sullenly. 'We go right.'

'We could at least try to be civil to one another, Krycek.' Mulder said.

'What's the point, Mulder?'

Mulder drew an irritated breath. 'The point is that we're stuck with each other until we find a way to get out of these handcuffs.'

'Yeah Mulder, I'm well aware of that. Now why don't you stop complaining and get us out of here before the real police turn up?'

'Fine,' Mulder muttered. 'Great. This is going to be the road trip from hell, isn't it.'

Krycek gave him an icy glance. 'As far as I'm concerned it already is the road trip from hell, Mulder.'

Mulder bit back a retort and slipped the little car into gear, fuming silently. England was a small country, but it would still take the best part of a day to drive from Oxfordshire to Scotland. They'd been on the road for less than five minutes, and it already looked as if it was going to be a very long day.

1.20pm. Monday afternoon

'Faringdon nine-two, this is Tango Victor, over.'

'Faringdon nine-two receiving, over.'

'We've got a report of two gentlemen vanishing from the White Horse B&B on the A338 without paying their bill. The landlady's worried because they both went out for a walk this morning and didn't come back. They left their luggage and their rental car. Are you in the area, over.'

'Roger, Tango Victor. You think the vehicle could be stolen?'

'There's no trace on PNC, nine-two.'

'Can you check with the car rental company, Tango Victor? See if they used a stolen credit card. We could be looking at a deception here, over.'

'Wilco, nine-two, over.'

'Do we have a description of the missing persons, Tango Victor, over?'

'One American, IC1, tall, early thirties, short brown hair and a big nose, left the farm wearing a suit and trenchcoat, registered under the name Fox Mulder, that's Mike, Uniform, Lima, Delta, Echo, Romeo. One English, IC1, tall, late twenties, wearing jeans and a baggy sweater, with short dark hair and an even bigger nose. The landlady can't read his writing in the register, but it looks like Adam something, over.'

'So the American told her his name was Fox Mulder and she believed him, over?'

'I suppose it beats Mr and Mr Smith, nine-two. Can we pay the lady a visit and carry out observation in the area?'

'Wilco. I suppose they could just have got lost, over.'

'This is Oxfordshire, nine-two, not bleeding Dartmoor, over.'

'No need to get sarky, Tango Victor. It has been known to happen.'

'The landlady says they told her they were going over to the Lincoln place, over.'

'Roger. I'll drive by there first. It's that or speed checks on the A34. You know the depressing thing, Tango Victor? This is probably the most exciting job I'm going to get all shift.'

'Never mind, nine-two. We'll try and find you a nice punch up when the pubs come out this evening. Tango Victor over and out.'

2.40pm Monday afternoon

An ambulance pulled to a halt on the rain-soaked asphalt of the narrow country road where it joined the chalk and flint road that led down to the church, and the red Jaguar pulled in a little way behind. The blue lights of the parked police cars already parked there were reflected on the wet surface. The sky above was dull and grey, the hills around them dark and sullen under the rain.

Detective Inspector Morse of Thames Valley Police looked morosely up at the clouds which threatened still more rain. His sergeant, Lewis waited patiently as he climbed out of his car. He was a big, mild-mannered man with a slow, good-natured air, almost the direct opposite of his short-tempered superior officer.

'So what do we have, Lewis?' Morse asked over the blustering of the wind, as the sergeant led the way across the fields alongside the track.

'Two bodies, sir,' Lewis said respectfully. 'One shot, one beheaded.'

'With blood everywhere, no doubt,' Morse muttered. 'I hate these cases. Murder and suicide?' he asked curtly.

'Not unless he managed to shoot himself in the back of the head and then throw the gun away, sir,' Lewis observed.

'I see. Are they the two men who went missing earlier?'

'Doesn't look like it, sir. Turns out that Fox Mulder is a real name, by the way,' Lewis said helpfully. 'Apparently he's an FBI agent. Supposed to be here on holiday.'

'Oh God, that's all I need,' Morse said sourly. 'Now we're going to have the Americans and God know who else crawling all over this investigation. So you don't think either of these bodies belong to Agent Mulder, Lewis?'

'No sir. Forensics says they've both been dead for at least twenty hours. Agent Mulder and Adam Benn only went missing this morning. And we do have a positive identification of one of them, sir. The man who was beheaded was the owner of the property, Professor John Lincoln. We have no idea who the other man is.'

'Any chance that it's Agent Mulder we're after for this, Lewis?'

Lewis shrugged his broad shoulders. 'According to the airline tag on their luggage, Agent Mulder and his friend got into Gatwick at 9.45 last night. They would still have been on the way here when the murders were committed.'

'We'd better check that,' Morse mused. 'See if we can get footage of either of them from the surveillence tapes at the airport. See if the landlady can identify them.'

'Already onto it, sir,' Lewis said cheerfully.

Morse glanced up dourly at this evidence of initiative on his Sergeant's part. 'Have SOCO come up with anything yet?'

'Lot of bloodstains on one section of the road leading down to the church, sir. Mostly washed away by the rain, but they're there. There are several sets of footprints, but we're still trying to sort them out. There's been quite a lot of traffic along this road too. At least two vehicles as well as our man, one last night and one this morning. There's a car at the back, it appears to have been vandalised, but there's no evidence that it's been moved in the last week.'

'And is there anything in the hire car or back at the bed and breakfast, Lewis?'

'Well, it looks as though Agent Mulder went out without his wallet, sir. He did have a gun, though, and we haven't found his ID yet.'

'This is going to be an unpleasant case, Lewis,' Morse said, as they walked across the field.

'It's certainly going to be complicated sir,' Lewis said, cheerfully. 'Ah well, a change is as good as a rest, as they say.'

Morse gave him another sour glance, but forbore to comment. At that moment two black cars and a large black van pulled into the lane behind the red Jaguar with a crunch of wet gravel. Both men turned, their coats blowing in the cold, rain-flecked wind.

'Looks like someone else has turned up, sir.' Lewis observed mildly.

'Now what?' Morse said irritably.

'Secret service, sir?' Lewis suggested brightly. 'Could be the James Bond lot.'

Morse spared him a withering glare. 'Don't be ridiculous, Lewis.'

But the three men who started to make their way across the field wore dark suits and trenchcoats, and moved in a purposeful way that suggested that they were not sightseers. Lewis raised his hand in a cheerful wave, and earned himself another glare from his Inspector as the three men turned towards them. The first was young, fair-haired, and dressed, Morse noted, by an extremely good tailor. The other two stayed in the background, as if in deference to him. Morse only barely noticed them; an older man with white hair and a white moustache and a big, mild-looking man with dark hair that fell over his eyes.

'Inspector Morse?' the fair-haired man asked.

Morse blinked and narrowed his eyes. 'That's right. Do I know you from somewhere, Mr...?'

'James Clanroyden. MI5.'

'Clanroyden?' Morse said, in genuine amazement. 'I think I was up at Oxford with your father. Harry Clanroyden?'

'I'm afraid my father died in 1995, Inspector. Heart attack on the farm in Yorkshire.'

'Good God,' Morse said, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Old Harry Clanroyden gone.'

'He mentioned you often, Inspector,' Clanroyden said.

'I always meant to write to him,' Morse said, almost to himself. 'Poor old Harry.'

'I'm sorry, Inspector,' Clanroyden said, not unsympathetically.

Morse recovered his customary irritability with some little effort. 'So what are you doing here, Mr Clanroyden?'

'I'm sorry, sir, but we're going to have to ask you and your men to leave. We're taking over your investigation.'

'You're throwing us out, sir?' Lewis said in mild disbelief.

'You're what?' Morse protested. 'Good grief, you can't do that!'

'I'm afraid it's a matter of national security, Inspector. Please be assured that I wouldn't ask it if it wasn't completely necessary.'

'Look, Clanroyden, what the hell is all this about?' Morse demanded angrily.

Clanroyden gave him an appraising look, and appeared to come to a decision. 'Obviously this is highly classified, Inspector, but we believe that Agent Mulder stumbled upon the fact that some of Professor Lincoln's old associates may belong to a terrorist group who recently negotiated the purchase of some dangerous viral material from the Russian Mafia.'

'I'm sorry I asked,' Morse muttered. 'So this Agent Mulder decided to swan over here and start interrogating people willy-nilly?'

'Agent Mulder almost certainly didn't realise the importance of what he'd found,' Clanroyden said tactfully. 'He went to university at Oxford. He may have known the Professor personally. I imagine that he just stopped by for an informal chat.'

'And the beheading?' Morse demanded.

'Punishment killing, we believe, Inspector. It's a Russian Mafia tradition.'

'Didn't I hear about something similar in Scotland a while back?' Morse asked.

'Quite probably, Inspector, there have been quite a few cases in the last couple of years.'

'So Agent Mulder picked the wrong time to drop by,' Morse said, with heavy sarcasm.

'Apparently so,' Clanroyden said equably. 'It seems likely that he's been kidnapped. We've got people looking for them on all the major routes through the country and we've got all the ports and airports covered, but they've got too much of a start. We need to search Professor Lincoln's home to see if we can get an idea of where they've gone.'

'So what do you want me to do, Mr Clanroyden?'

'If you can seal off the roads leading to the site I'd be grateful. Otherwise I'm going to have to ask you and your people to leave.'

'You're not even going to let me stay and observe?' Morse asked belligerently.

'You'll be receiving confirmation from your superintendent in the next hour or so. I'm sorry about this, sir, but this is something we've been working on for months...'

'And you don't want the local plod sticking their size tens all over the crime scene.' Morse finished, rather resentfully.

Clanroyden nodded. 'As I said, sir, this is a matter of national security. We already have a good idea who's done this, now the important thing is tracking them down. We'll need the crime scene under our control to do so.'

'Well, it doesn't seem as though I've got a choice, does it,' Morse said, with ill grace. Lewis shot Clanroyden an apologetic look over his shoulder.

'We're grateful for your co-operation, Inspector,' Clanroyden said soothingly.

'Just tell me this. Am I going to have to worry about Russian terrorists on the loose all over Oxfordshire, Mr Clanroyden?'

'Oh I wouldn't worry, Inspector,' Clanroyden said, as he scanned the countryside stretching away around them. 'We'll let you know if we foresee any danger to the public, but I expect they're long gone by now.'

2.40pm Somewhere in Gloucestershire

'Mulder, we should have been long gone by now.'

'It's not my fault your car broke down,' Mulder snapped back. They were parked to one side of another leafy lane, glorious with the promise of spring.

'Well maybe if you knew the first thing about mechanics we wouldn't be in this mess. Jesus, Mulder, it's just a bit of damp in the distributor cap. It's not that complicated.'

Mulder ignored him, and tried yet again to force the distributor cap back into its place. The clips that normally held it resisted his efforts stubbornly.

Krycek, bent over the engine beside him through necessity rather than choice, let out an impatient breath. 'This isn't exactly rocket science, Mulder.'

Mulder finally turned to glare at him. 'You're not helping here, Krycek,' he snapped.

'Just get on with it, Mulder.'

'This is all your fault, Krycek,' Mulder muttered.

'Not my fault, Mulder. I didn't want to get dragged into this. I was happily minding my own business when you turned up.'

'Krycek, I know you were waiting for me. You could have searched that place and been out in under an hour.'

'In under ten minutes, actually,' Krycek admitted.

'Yeah. My point exactly,' Mulder said. He gave the distributor cap a vicious shove. More by luck than any skill on Mulder's part it slipped back into place.

'Finally,' Krycek muttered under his breath.

'Yeah, like you could have done any better,' Mulder said.

'Mulder, I could have done that with one hand. If I'd had one hand.'

'Will you shut up about your arm, Krycek? I don't care about your arm.'

'My arm,' Krycek said, emphasising the words, 'Is your fault, Mulder. You're the one who dragged me to Russia. You're the one who landed us in that slave camp. You're the one who completely screwed up my attempt to get us out of there.'

'Well you're the one who killed my father,' Mulder retorted.

Krycek shook his head as he climbed awkwardly back into the car, onto the driver's seat, then across to the passenger's seat. 'I didn't kill your father, Mulder. Why would you think I'd killed your father. Face it, Mulder. You were drugged out of your mind. You didn't know what the hell was going on.'

'Yeah,' Mulder said, as he manoeuvred himself back into the mini after Krycek. 'I was drugged. And whose fault was that?'

'Mulder, that wasn't me. I was part of the operation, yes, but I didn't drug you and I didn't plan what happened to your father.'

'Yeah Krycek. You're just like the rest of them. You were only following orders.'

A sullen silence fell over the car. Mulder started the car, then viciously put it into gear, hurting himself more than he hurt Krycek, whose handcuff was considerably looser.

'Mulder,' Krycek said placatingly, as they pulled away.

'What?' Mulder snapped.

'You were right. We should at least try to be civil. We can't do this without co-operating. If we don't co-operate, we're dead. I know you don't want to hear this, Mulder, but right now we need each other.'

They drove in silence for a few moments.

'All right,' Mulder said eventually. 'What are you suggesting?'

'A truce, Mulder. For the next 24 hours or until we get out of these handcuffs, whichever comes soonest. We don't talk about your father, Scully, my arm, the Consortium or Tunguska.'

'We're not going to talk about anything, Krycek. No nonessential conversation. There's nothing I have to say to you.'

'Fine, Mulder,' Krycek said. He sounded slightly offended.

'What are we supposed to talk about, Krycek?' Mulder asked irritably.

'You could profile me if you wanted to,' Krycek offered, with the air of a mother trying to occupy a recalcitrant four-year old.

'No thanks.'

'Seriously. I've always wanted to be profiled.'

'How's this for a profile? You're a mercenary piece of lowlife with all the ethics of a vulture.'

Krycek gave him an amused look. 'Do you spend your evenings thinking those up, Mulder?

Mulder gritted his teeth. 'Shut up, Krycek.'

Krycek ignored him, apparently confident in the knowledge that Mulder couldn't hit him and drive at the same time. 'And while we're on the subject, there's the Ratboy thing. Why Ratboy, Mulder? Cancerman yes, Cancerman I can understand, but Ratboy?'

Mulder glared across at him. 'You must have mistaken me for someone who gives a shit, Krycek.'

'It's not the rat bit I object to,' Krycek continued, as if he hadn't spoken. 'It's the boy. It makes me sound like some kind of dim-witted sidekick.'

'Cancerman and Ratboy,' Mulder muttered. 'The Dynamic Duo.'

'I don't work with him any more, Mulder. He tried to have me killed once too often.'

'Oh? How often was that?' Mulder asked.

'Just the once,' Krycek said with a shrug.

They drove along in silence for about another mile.

'Talking of sidekicks,' Krycek said eventually, 'Where's Scully? I thought you'd have brought her along for the ride.'

'Scully is my partner, not my sidekick,' Mulder said emphatically. Then appalled realisation dawned. 'Jesus. I've just remembered. She has no idea where I am. I haven't spoken to her since I left New York.'

'You dumped her again, Mulder?' Krycek said. 'She's going to be really pissed at you this time.'

'Shut up Krycek.'

'You're probably used to that by now, though.'

'I said, shut up, Krycek.'

Hoover Building, Washington DC

Dana Scully sat at Mulder's desk in the tiny basement office, and squared the pile of completed paperwork that sat in front of her on the desk. The desk was tidier than it had been at any time since 1994. The filing was up to date. The telephone sat neatly, and more important, silently, in front of her. Her cellphone sat next to it. It, too, did not ring.

Mulder hadn't called for two days. Scully looked down at the desk, and adjusted the position of her cellphone by a fraction of an inch.

When he got back, she was going to kill him.

There had to be an explanation for why he hadn't called. A logical explanation. One that didn't involve 900 year old crusaders who were immortal and who went around beheading each other.

Time to think through it logically, she decided. Mulder had taken all his annual leave at once. He'd gone to Seacouver and met this Joe Dawson. Adam Pierson had been a no show, because (and mentally she underlined this several times) he was dead.

Scully nodded to herself. That sounded about right.

So what would she have done then, if she'd been Mulder?

She studied the pockmarked ceiling for several minutes, but inspiration was not forthcoming. She had to face the fact, she realised, that she had no earthly idea what she would have done then if she'd been Mulder. She let her imagination supply the details.

'He's sitting a bar somewhere,' she said aloud. 'Somewhere tacky. He's wearing a Hawaiian shirt and he's drinking a cocktail. A blue cocktail. With a paper umbrella. And he's planning to chat up a waitress whose name is Kandy. With a K. Or possibly Gennifer with a G. Unsuccessfully.'

She searched her mind for somewhere sufficiently tacky to attract Mulder as a holiday destinations. Vegas. That was it. He hadn't found Adam Pierson but he was too embarrassed to come back to Washington, so he'd gone to Vegas to sulk. Without telling her, but that wasn't too surprising.

And he was right too, Scully thought. She wasn't going to let him live this one down in a hurry.

She glanced over at the coffee machine, which gleamed clinically in one corner. It had taken her almost an entire morning to scour off the accumulated tannin of four years. If something didn't happen soon, she was going to have to start biting her nails again.

'Ring me, Mulder, you inconsiderate son of a bitch,' she muttered.

When her cellphone did ring, she had it in her hand in less than a second, although it took a couple of stabs at the connection button before she managed to connect the call.

'Mulder?' she asked urgently.

'Agent Scully? This is A.D. Skinner.'

'Sir? Have you heard anything from Mulder?' Scully asked tensely.

'He hasn't contacted you?'

'No sir. Sir, what's happened? Is something wrong?'

'I'm afraid it may be, Agent Scully. Do you have any idea where Agent Mulder is at the moment?'

'The last I heard he was going to Chicago to meet a contact, sir. He was obsessed with the belief that Adam Pierson was still alive. Sir, what's happened?'

'I've just been speaking to a contact of mine in London. Agent Mulder has just been positively identified as one of two individuals who disappeared from the scene of a double murder in Oxfordshire in central England. One of the victims was beheaded. The second individual who vanished has been identified as Adam Pierson.'

Dana Scully let her head fall forward until it banged gently on the desktop.

'I knew it,' she muttered.

'How soon can you be packed, Agent Scully?' Skinner asked.

'I am packed, sir,' Scully said in the calm little voice of one whose worst fears have just been realised.

'Then I'll meet you in the car pool in twenty minutes, Agent Scully. We're flying out to England this morning.'

Joe's Bar, Seacouver

'...And he hasn't reported in for twelve hours?' Joe Dawson's brow furrowed. 'Yeah. Yeah, I know. Look, I'm pretty sure that didn't have anything to do with... No. Of course I didn't pass the information on to... Jesus, Mike, how long have you known me? Yeah. Look, Mike, this is between you and me, but I think Gilles de Rais is active again. Yeah, that Gilles de Rais. Well if you find out anything, call me. Yeah, thanks, buddy.'

Duncan raised an eyebrow from where he sat at the other end of the bar. 'Not good news?'

Joe sighed. 'You better believe it, buddy. John of Tour's watcher hasn't reported in since last night and his place is crawling with police. Looks like big trouble.'

'What about Methos?' Duncan asked.

Joe shook his head. 'I haven't heard from either of them since I left them at the airport,' he admitted. 'Jesus, what a mess.'

'A mess is right,' Duncan said. 'Can I use your phone, Joe?'

'Sure. What are you going to do, Mac?'

'I'm calling Amanda. Then I'm calling my travel agent. Then I'm going to pack my things and take the next plane to London.'

'Well you can book me an aisle seat while you're at it, buddy,' Joe said, pulling himself to his feet.

'Oh no,' Duncan said. 'This could be dangerous. You're not coming, Joe.'

'I'm supposed to be your watcher,' Joe reminded him.

'I'll keep you posted,' Duncan said, with a tight little smile.

'He's my friend too, Duncan,' Joe said. 'And I'm going to be there whether it's with you or not.'

'I don't need a watcher along, Joe.'

'Well if you don't have me along, Duncan,' Joe pointed out reasonably, 'How do you think you're going to track him down in the first place?'

There was a brief pause.

'An aisle seat, you said?' Duncan asked.

'Business class. I need the leg room.'

Monday Afternoon, M6, Gloucestershire to Manchester

Mulder drove on through the afternoon. For most of the first hour he had rather pointedly not spoken to or looked at his unwelcome companion, relying on instinct, the memories of his university days and, when all else failed, his somewhat deficient sense of direction to navigate the quiet country roads. He had been determined not to be the first to speak, and had attributed Krycek's silence to the same motive. However when he finally did glance sideways, he realised belatedly why the journey had been so quiet. At some point during the afternoon, Krycek had fallen asleep.

It must have been uncomfortable, almost impossible to sleep in the bumpy, cramped car, but Krycek had somehow managed it. It was, Mulder considered, actually faintly insulting that Krycek was so unconcerned about falling asleep next to him. Of course after a night's stakeout he must have been exhausted, but no more exhausted than Mulder with jetlag. And he'd probably had something to eat and drink while he was waiting, which was more than Mulder had done.

He glared at Krycek, an action which had no effect whatsoever.

Krycek slept. Mulder drove. He was acutely aware of Krycek's arm, warm and still beside his. But Krycek did look tired, exhausted, in fact, and Mulder decided against waking him. Krycek asleep was preferable to Krycek awake and bickering with him. Besides, all the arguing was starting to give him a headache.

When they reached the motorway it was a blessed relief after the hundred wrist-chafing gear changes of the country roads. The Sunday afternoon traffic was thankfully light. Mulder put the car into its top gear and settled down to a long drive. It was a long, dull journey up into the heart of the industrial Midlands, a place Mulder had never visited. They passed what seemed like dozens of service areas, always a gas station and a restaurant, most of them names he remembered from when he had been at university here - Shell, Esso, not Exxon, BP, Little Chef, Happy Eater. To the west were the hills of the Welsh borders, but the ground grew flatter as he travelled north, and the towns larger until they reached and passed through the tangled industrial suburbs of Birmingham.

He became more and more aware through the long drive that he had had nothing to eat or drink that day. Krycek, apparently, had not had the foresight to pack any food in the car, or at least nothing that he could see by craning over to look at the back seat. He wondered if it was worth the risk of stopping. Not at one of the restaurants, the handcuffs would make that a logistical nightmare. He tried to remember if they'd had drive-ins in England when he'd been here before, but his memory turned up a blank. He thought of waking Krycek to see if he had any ideas, but again decided against it. His thoughts kept returning to Adam, to what the note had meant and if he was all right. Maybe Krycek had been right, maybe he didn't know him, not at all. Maybe Krycek had packed food in the trunk. Or a drink at least. But he didn't want to wake Krycek. He drove on, always north.

He reached over and shook Krycek's leg gently. 'Krycek, wake up.'

Krycek blinked sleepily from where he was slumped in the seat of the mini, then awareness slammed back, and his eyes narrowed.

'Where are we?'

'We're almost at Manchester. We're running out of gas.'

Krycek sat up abruptly. 'Why didn't you wake me, Mulder?'

'I did wake you.'

'I meant before. We should have gotten rid of this car hours ago. What time is it?'

'Almost six o'clock. Getting dark.'

'Turn off, Mulder. We need to steal another car.'

'There's a service area just up ahead.'

'A town would be better,' Krycek said. He stretched unselfconsciously in the cramped confines of his seat. 'The car's going to be reported stolen more quickly here.'

'We may not have enough gas to get to a town.'

'You should have woken me before, Mulder.'

'Yeah, I know. You just looked as if you needed the rest,' Mulder said, and wished he hadn't when Krycek shot him an unfathomable look.

The service area boasted a petrol station, a motel, a brightly lit main building and a dubious looking restaurant. They parked in the darkest area of the car park and abandoned the mini with very little regret. Krycek gave the area a brief, appraising glance.

'Over by the phone box, Mulder. It'll hide us from the main building.'

'So what now?' Mulder asked, when that manoeuvre was completed.

'Now we stand here, by this phone box, just two guys getting some air...' Krycek said in a low voice. His gaze flickered over the parked cars near them for a brief, incurious second. He exuded casual: casual didn't even begin to cover the way he looked. Mulder stood stiffly beside him, only too aware of the telltale handcuffs. Krycek glanced at him and frowned.

'Mulder, will you relax? Get your cellphone out. Pretend you're talking to someone.'

'I left it in the car,' Mulder said. He leaned against the phone booth in an unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. 'It doesn't work anyway. I think what was left of the quickening must have blown its circuits.'

'Then read the billboards or something,' Krycek said, as he scanned the carpark with a professional eye.

'They're all advertisements for food. I could really use something to eat about now,' Mulder said. 'And a drink. I didn't even stop for a cup of coffee this morning.'

Krycek glanced at him in irritation. 'You'll survive, Mulder. We'll wait until it gets dark and look for some vending machines. Right now we need to concentrate on finding a car to steal.'

Mulder scanned the parking lot. 'How about that one?' he suggested, indicating the first car that caught his eye.

'The Volkswagen Beetle?' Krycek said in disbelief. 'Are you serious, Mulder?'

'I always wanted a Volkswagen Beetle when I was a student,' Mulder said, slightly stung by Krycek's tone. 'They're very economical.'

'Fuck economical, Mulder. We're going to ditch it when it runs out of petrol anyway. Anyway, do you have any idea how easy it's going to be to find us if we're driving an orange Volkswagen Beetle? With a top speed of about 60 miles per hour, I might add.'

'It's got a lot of character,' Mulder defended.

'Roseanne Barr has a lot of character,' Krycek said. 'I still wouldn't want to spend more than about ten minutes with her. How about that one?'

Mulder shook his head. 'Not that one.'

'What's wrong with it, Mulder?'

'There's a baby seat in the back.'

Krycek let his head fall back against the side of the phone booth. 'Mulder, we're supposed to be on a mission to save the world here.'

'Krycek, I'm not going to be responsible for abandoning a family with a baby in a place like this at this time of night,' Mulder said firmly.

'Okay, Mulder,' Krycek said through gritted teeth. 'Forget the car with the baby seat.'

'What about the black one?' Mulder suggested placatingly. 'That looks kind of fast.'

Krycek shook his head. 'It's got a steering wheel lock. If I had my picks it wouldn't be a problem but right now the only way we're going to get through it is by sawing through the steering wheel and if we had that kind of equipment we wouldn't be in this mess. How about the one next to it?'

'The blue one? Well it's up to you...'

'What, Mulder?'

'Well it doesn't have a lot of leg room. I was getting kind of cramped in that mini.'

'Fine. So we want something larger.'

'But with good fuel consumption. Nothing with too big an engine.'

Krycek let out an irritated breath. 'What do you want to do, Mulder? Stop by a dealership and get some brochures?'

'I just don't want to run out of petrol somewhere in the middle of the Scottish Highlands.'

'Mulder, if this one doesn't work out, we steal another one in the next town. If we run out of petrol we break open someone's petrol cap and steal theirs.'

'The life of crime has more advantages than I thought,' Mulder said.

Krycek nodded. 'Yeah. I always thought so.'

Mulder craned in for a closer look. 'So what tapes have they got? Is the stereo any good?'

'Mulder, the longer the we hang around out here, the more suspicious it's going to look and the more likely it is that someone's going to come out.'

'Fine. Let's pretend that I know nothing about stealing cars. You pick, Krycek.'

'We'll take the blue one,' Krycek decided. 'Ever broken into a car before, Mulder?'

'Once or twice,' Mulder admitted.

'It's your show, Mulder. Impress me.'

*****

Two minutes later

'I'm impressed, Mulder,' Krycek said. 'No, really.'

The car pulled out of the service area, back onto the motorway. Mulder allowed himself a tight little smile of triumph. Krycek looked around, inspecting their new acquisition.

'You want the really good news, Mulder? Whoever owned this car left their shopping in the back.'

'Thank Christ,' Mulder said in heartfelt tones. 'Have a look and see if there's any food. I haven't eaten anything since yesterday.'

Krycek twisted in his seat so he could see what was behind them. 'From here it looks like... potato chips. Coke. Jello. A Thomas the Tank Engine birthday cake...'

'That's it.'

'What, Mulder?'

'We've stolen some little kid's birthday party. The last of my karma just got blown out of the water.'

'We're not taking it back, Mulder,' Krycek said, with a dangerous edge to his voice.

'Normally I'd argue with you but right now I'm just too hungry.'

'Do you need to change gear for a moment, Mulder?'

'No. Why?'

'I'm going to reach over and get one of these bags. Ready?'

'Yeah.'

'Hold on a moment... Got it,' He swung the white plastic bag over to the front seat, narrowly missing hitting Mulder's ear with it. There was a rustle of packaging. Then: 'Do you want a wheel or a carriage?' Krycek asked. 'I think the wheels are chocolate.'

'Pass the coke first. I need a drink.'

'Here. I'll hold the wheel while you open it.

Mulder drank the coke Krycek handed to him in about thirty seconds. It was warm, fizzy and too sweet. It tasted like ambrosia.

Beside him Krycek was continuing his exploration of the carrier bag.

'Looks like... Yeah, there's ice cream in here too. We should eat that. It's not going to get any less melted.'

'What flavour is it?'

'Vanilla.'

'They bought vanilla ice cream for their kid's party? I'm feeling better about this already.'

'You had vanilla ice cream a lot at home, didn't you Mulder,' Krycek said.

'Is that in my file or something?' Mulder asked irritably.

'Lucky guess,' Krycek said modestly.

'It's a WASP mother thing,' Mulder said. 'I think it's supposed to be character building.'

'It's social control, Mulder. It's about class. You train your kids to deprive themselves now with the promise that they can have more in the future. You teach them to think that luxuries are bad and wasteful, that by doing without they're somehow superior to the kids whose parents are buying them toffee banoffee or rocky road. It's a way of instilling Protestant ethics in a future generation of the country's leaders.'

Mulder shook his head. 'That's got to be the stupidest theory I've ever heard, Krycek. It's ice cream. Chocolate ice cream only costs about 20 cents a tub more. It's not that big a deal.'

'So how come you never had it at home, Mulder?'

'Mom... Mom just didn't have a lot of imagination when it came to desserts, that's all,' Mulder said, rather uncomfortably. 'Could we talk about something else, Krycek?'

Krycek nodded. 'Whatever you want, Mulder. You're the boss. Want me to see if there are any good tapes?'

'Sure. Be my guest, Krycek. We stole the car, we stole the tape collection.'

Krycek gave him a weary look from beneath long, dark lashes. 'You're not having second thoughts about this, are you Mulder? Because we could always get out and walk to Scotland.'

Mulder didn't dignify that remark with a reply. Instead he reached forward and turned the tape deck on. The poignant, crystal tones of Celine Dion filled the little car.

'...Far across the distance and spaces between us

You have come to show you go on

Near, far, where ever you are

I believe that the heart does go on

Once more, you opened the door...'

Krycek made a disgusted noise, pressed eject and tossed the tape over onto the back seat with one fluid motion. 'I hate that crap,' he said.

'What else has she got?' Mulder picked a name at random from his head. 'Any Nine Inch Nails?'

'You've never listened to Nine Inch Nails in your entire life, Mulder,' Krycek said dismissively.

'How would you know, Krycek?'

'The number of times I've broken into your apartment and you still have to ask me that, Mulder?'

'You mean you broke into my apartment and checked out my record collection?'

'Yeah. I don't remember seeing anything in there recorded after 1990. You've got some seriously middle of the road stuff there, Mulder.'

'It's called classic rock, Krycek,' Mulder said irritably. He didn't know which was worse - that Krycek had broken into his apartment or that he was using that fact to criticise Mulder's taste in music. 'Anyway maybe I want to start listening to Nine Inch Nails now. Broaden my musical horizons.'

'Well you're out of luck,' Krycek said, sorting through the tapes. 'We've got the soundtrack to "Beaches", featuring "The Wind Beneath Your Wings". We've got K D Lang, we've got Sarah MacLachlan...'

'Great. Like I need more angst in my life right now.'

'Okay, no stereo. Fine by me.'

'So what now?'

'We could talk, Mulder. Get to know each other better. Since we seem to be stuck with each other for the duration.'

'There's one problem, Krycek,' Mulder said, with a grim little smile. 'We have absolutely nothing to talk about.'

'Oh don't worry about that, Mulder. I'll think of something.'

'Fine. So talk.'

Krycek shifted to a more comfortable position in his seat. 'So, did you see the movie, Mulder?' he began conversationally.

'The movie? You mean Titanic?'

Krycek gave him another of those dark-lashed looks. 'Yes, Titanic, Mulder.'

'Yeah,' Mulder admitted. 'Scully made me. She said I was going to be the only person left North America who hadn't and I wouldn't have anything to talk about at parties.' He thought for a moment. 'Actually, I'm pretty sure she was joking when she said that.'

'So what did you think?'

'I usually prefer my movie stars to be wearing a few less clothes, but yeah, I thought it was okay. I heard they were going to bring Leonardo DiCaprio back in a sequel.'

Krycek snorted. 'Right. The guy's an ice cube at the bottom of the Atlantic. What are they going to do, thaw him out in the twenty-fifth century?'

'So you saw it too?' Mulder asked.

'Yeah. Twelve times,' Krycek said darkly.

'You saw Titanic twelve times, Krycek?' Mulder asked, dead pan.

'I was waiting to meet a contact in a cinema in Krasnoyarsk,' Krycek said moodily. 'I waited for four days. He never showed up.'

'Was he dead?'

'He will be if I ever find him.'

They passed a sign, a turn off towards Bolton. Mulder flicked on the indicator.

'Mulder, what are you doing? We don't leave this motorway until after Glasgow. We've got about two hundred miles to go yet.'

Mulder shook his head. 'We're stopping here. I can't eat and drive and I'm too hungry to wait any longer.'

'We can't stop for long, Mulder,' Krycek warned. 'We need to keep moving.'

'Ten minutes,' Mulder said. 'That's all.'

They took the next turning off the motorway onto a half deserted retail park under glaring orange lights. It was after closing time - only a few cars were left, clustered around the furniture warehouses and carpet superstores. Krycek directed him to a space not too near the other cars, but not far enough away to arouse suspicion.

'Better?' Krycek asked.

'Yeah,' Mulder said shortly. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back briefly. As predicted, he had a stiff neck from driving in the mini and from the accumulated tension of the day. What he needed, he decided, was a long, hot bath. And a bed, a comfortable bed. Neither of these things, of course, was likely to materialise in the foreseeable future. He tried not to think about a night handcuffed to Krycek. He tried not to think about what was going to happen when Krycek needed to go to the bathroom.

He straightened with a groan as Krycek took advantage of the break to pull the other shopping bag over the seat. Their meal, in the end, consisted of coke, dried noodles, potato chips, cake and decidedly soft vanilla ice cream. Scully would not have approved - Mulder was beyond caring. Even the vanilla ice cream had tasted good.

'I remember a Star Trek episode where this kid asks Nurse Chapel to pick an ice cream sundae for him, and she says it's going to be a surprise and then she chooses vanilla and coconut,' he said, apropos of nothing in particular. 'I think it was supposed to be some kind of lesson for him. I'd liked Nurse Chapel up until then, but that just blew her out of the water for me.'

'Was she the one who had the hots for Mr Spock?' Krycek asked, around a mouthful of cake.

'Yeah. That was her,' Mulder said. That Krycek had watched Star Trek at some point in his childhood was more of a surprise than it probably should have been.

Krycek settled back comfortably in his seat. 'So who would you have dated on Star Trek, Mulder?' he asked, glancing at Mulder again.

Mulder glanced back warily. 'What kind of a question is that?'

'Just making conversation, Mulder,' Krycek said noncommittally.

Mulder looked at him suspiciously, then nodded. 'Okay,' he said. 'The way I see it, Uhura was the girl you wanted to date but she was so out of your league you wouldn't ever even have the courage to ask her. Nurse Chapel was the girl next door. The one you knew you were going to end up married to.'

Krycek nodded. 'What about the other one? The one with the big hair who had a crush on Kirk?'

'Yeoman Rand?' Mulder shook his head. 'Too clingy. Too high maintenance. And she was too hung up on Kirk. She was the cheerleader who tried to validate her self image by hanging out with the high school quarterback.'

One of the cars at the far end of the parking lot turned its lights on and drove out past them. Mulder watched it pass, but there was no evidence that it was anyone other than a store clerk going off work.

'So you think they were doing it?' Krycek asked, around a mouthful of cake.

'Who? Kirk and Yeoman Rand?'

'Kirk and Spock,' Krycek said.

Mulder glanced at him suspiciously, but Krycek was looking innocently out at the road. 'You're joking, right?' Mulder said eventually.

Krycek turned to face him, his expression innocent. 'I'm serious, Mulder. I'd be interested in your assessment as a psychologist.'

Mulder frowned. 'Kirk wasn't gay, Krycek. The guy was an alpha male. He was testosterone driven. He ran into old girlfriends everywhere he went.'

'Yeah, but think about it, Mulder. Maybe the guy had something to prove. He was always unnecessarily getting himself into situations where he had to prove himself by physical confrontation. He never had a successful, lasting relationship with a woman in his life. The guy was married to his job, he immersed himself in a macho, male dominated organisation... what, Mulder?'

Mulder was glaring at him. 'It doesn't matter whether Kirk was gay or not. Spock wouldn't have slept with him anyway. For a start, Spock's a Vulcan. He only gets to have sex once every seven years. That's a terrible basis for a relationship.'

'Yeah, but if he really wants the relationship he can just...' Krycek gestured vaguely.

'Lie back and think of Vulcan?' Mulder suggested.

'Yeah, exactly,' Krycek said. 'Nicely put. Do you want the rest of the cake or can I have it?'

'Be my guest. No, Spock's a lot more emotionally mature than Kirk. He can see that underneath it all, Kirk's a guy with some serious relationship problems. He knows he's always going to come a poor second to the command of the Enterprise.' He glanced at Krycek suspiciously. 'Are you just doing this to mess with my head?'

Krycek gave him a glance that bordered on the pitying. 'Mulder, I don't always have ulterior motives. I'm bored and it's too dark to play I-Spy. You can ask me one instead if you want.'

'Uh, right.' Mulder thought for a moment. 'So who did you prefer? Sulu or Chekov?'

'No contest,' Krycek said. 'Sulu was a good, competent officer. Chekov was cannon fodder. He was pure red ensign material. The only reason he was on the bridge of the Enterprise at all was because he was cute.'

Mulder looked at him, amused. 'You think Kirk and Chekov were doing it, Krycek?'

'He got that bridge promotion somehow, Mulder. As far as I could work out, looks were all he had going for him.'

They sat back in silence for a moment, but this time it was almost companionable.

'Are you ready to move on?' Krycek asked eventually.

'Yeah, I think so. We should probably save some of this for later.' He paused for a moment. 'Does this seem too easy to you, Krycek?'

Krycek sighed. 'Jesus, Mulder you'd bitch about anything.'

'I mean it. So far we've had no police, nobody following us...'

'Will you relax, Mulder? We stole this car ten minutes ago. The bonnet was still warm. Whoever owned it is probably still on their starter. I stole the last one three or four counties back so nobody's looking for it up here yet. As long as we keep moving, nobody's going to have any idea where we are.'

About an hour behind them, a larger, faster car drove smoothly through the evening, heading north, towards Scotland. Its driver reached down every now and then to flick expertly through the bands of a police radio set. Clanroyden, in the passenger seat, was in conversation on the car phone.

'How are they doing?' he asked.

'Still heading north, sir,' the disembodied voice on the other end of the line said. 'They stole another car at a service area near Manchester about fifteen minutes ago.'

'Good,' Clanroyden said. 'Are you far behind them?'

'We're at the service area now. Units four and five are tracking them and we've got one and three waiting to take over at the next junction. Unit four says they've just parked up, so we're having the others stand by for now. We can't get too close and this car doesn't have a tracker system installed so we're going to be relying on motorway cameras and the satellite imaging for the next stage of the journey.'

'Just make sure Mulder doesn't see you. Find the owner of the car they've taken and make sure the theft isn't reported. Offer to buy them a new car if you have to. And have another car ready for them in the place we agreed, across the Scottish border.'

'It's already there, sir.'

'Excellent. Mulder will probably be worried that it seems too easy by then. You might want to arrange some sort of pursuit to put his mind at ease. A roadblock perhaps.'

'I'll see to it. One more thing, sir.'

'Yes?' Clanroyden leaned back into the soft leather of his seat.

'Well it wasn't entirely clear, sir, but Mulder and Krycek looked as if they were handcuffed together.'

'Really?' Clanroyden said, raising an eyebrow. 'Still? It sounds as though Krycek's found a way to keep Mulder from ditching him again.'

'Do you want me to take any action, sir?'

'Oh it sounds as though everything's under control. Just keep following them. Call me again when they cross into Scotland.'

'Yes sir.'

The phone rang again almost immediately after Clanroyden cut off the call.

'Clanroyden? It's Blenkiron.'

'I wasn't expecting to hear from you today, Blenkiron,' Clanroyden said. 'What's wrong?'

'Assistant Director Skinner and Agent Scully left Washington DC on a flight to London an hour ago,' Blenkiron said grimly. 'They could cause problems. Skinner's got contacts here. If he says the wrong thing to the wrong person, it could mean trouble.'

'Damn,' Clanroyden muttered. 'I suppose it was too much to hope for that Skinner wouldn't get involved in this personally. All right, Blenkiron, you're still in London. You'd better go and meet them at the airport.'

'Me?' Blenkiron protested. 'What the hell am I supposed to do with them?'

'I don't care what you do with them. Just keep them out of my way. This is delicate enough as it is. I don't need any more distractions.'

'You're the boss. Gatwick airport it is. I'll call you when they arrive.'

'Make sure you do. That's all.'

6.55pm The Isles of the Sea, Firth of Lorn, Western Scotland

Outside the last traces of sunset faded across the dark, steel-grey sea. The great hall of the keep smelled both damp and dusty. The air seemed chill and dank, a reminder that the sea was not far below and of the setting sun. The heavy oak furniture was in good condition, but old and dusty. Fifty years, Adam estimated idly, since it had last been used, or the keep had been lived in, and the unpacked crates and boxes that stood neatly stacked in one corner of the room bore testimony to an abrupt arrival days, if not hours before.

The chair he was sitting in was old and solid as the rest, but it was well padded enough not to be uncomfortable. That was just as well. Both his wrists and ankles were securely firmly to it with rope. The chains around his shoulders and waist and more loosely around his neck, Adam had decided fairly early on, were definitely overkill. It had, after all, been a long although not admittedly not a particularly uncomfortable journey.

Gilles had not seemed surprised by his surrender at the church. In fact, Adam had surmised, the Templar had half expected it. He felt a brief pang of regret for John of Tour's watcher. There was no evidence that Gilles knew about the Watchers - the man had obviously let himself be seen, and he had paid the penalty. John of Tour himself had been a fool not to have fled as soon as he'd made the call to Gilles - a casualty of his own stupidity, Adam decided, rather coldly. And after his surrender, the journey here. From Oxfordshire they had travelled by car, to a private airfield. They had flown north, to Scotland. Then the helicopter journey from another private airfield, near Glasgow. And now, this place. From what he had been able to see, a keep on a rocky, precipitous island, a few hundred yards from the mainland, rising on one side to a high cliff. A larger, flatter island stood a few hundred yards across the straits, overgrown with trees except for a small cleared landing site where the helicopter that had brought him here had set down. The rest of the journey had been by motorboat. And then he had been brought in here and chained, rather extravagantly, to this large and solid chair. His host sat opposite him in a similar chair, hands steepled in front of him.

'Ah, Methos,' Gilles said, with some satisfaction. 'Methos, Methos, Methos. What a pleasure it is to finally have you here.'

'I would say how nice it was to be here, but I must admit that I've been more comfortable. You don't think the chains are a little bit over the top?'

Gilles smiled a friendly little smile which failed to reach his eyes. 'You must forgive me,' he said. 'I am not a man who gives his trust easily and Georgia is less trusting than I by far. I've been told that it's a character flaw. Although not by anyone who's still alive.'

'I suppose it's understandable, given the circumstances,' Adam allowed graciously. 'I wouldn't trust me either. Though if you could lose a couple of the heavier chains, I'd be grateful. It's not as if I even have a sword.'

Gilles chuckled. 'Ah, Methos. I don't think that you have ever needed a sword. No, I think the chains can stay on, for the time being. You will need to earn my trust. And Georgia's, of course. She's raised an interesting question: why you should run from us for so long if you always intended to join us, and why you should change your mind and suddenly give yourself up willingly.'

Adam smiled faintly. 'And you told her, of course. There can only be four horsemen. While Anne lived, I could not join you. Now that she is dead, I may take her place.'

'Yes. So you told me, when you came to me this morning.'

'I have no other explanation to offer than that.'

'And what if you seek our destruction?'

'Then I would say that surrendering to you would be a strange way of going about it. If I wanted to destroy you, surely I'd have come up with a more plausible excuse for being here.'

Gilles looked at him with narrowed eyes. 'I do not understand your motivations, Methos.'

'Maybe it's all down to the Lord working in mysterious ways,' Adam said, with as much of a shrug as he could manage given the chains that held him. 'I'm the last Horseman of the Apocalypse. On the eve of the true Millennium, my place is with you. Perhaps that's all there is to it.'

'Perhaps it truly is,' Gilles mused. 'Perhaps it really is that simple. But you'll forgive me if I am slow to trust you. I have been betrayed before.'

'Then let's change the subject. I'm curious,' Adam said. 'How did you know to search for me in the first place? How did you find Lemarchand, how did you know I was at the camp in Maine? How did you know about the Horsemen at all.'

Gilles leant back in his chair and clasped his hands. 'How we learned of you first? It was in an asylum in London, sometime in the nineteenth century. Richard had an unfortunate run-in with the authorities. He met another immortal, a madman chained to a wall who ate insects and spoke of his brothers, the Horsemen who had reigned over the known world for over a thousand years. We looked for him after we found Richard, of course, but he'd long since killed himself and been buried in a mass grave.'

'You have no idea how many years he spent in prisons and asylums until it occurred to him to start doing that,' Adam mused. 'Probably just as well that he did. He talked too much.'

'I had heard the legends of the horsemen, of course,' Gilles continued. 'I searched out the old ones, those I could find, and asked them of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. There was one woman in particular, a woman named Cassandra. Georgia met her in Budapest in 1954, fighting the Communists. Georgia was able to be of some little help to her and to earn her friendship. She was the first we found who had truly known you in those days. She was consumed by hatred of you in particular, Methos. She was only too willing to speak of her enslavement by you. Unfortunately she wasn't willing to oblige us with a description. She said she wanted to kill you herself. She believed that whoever took your quickening would win the prize. Georgia lost touch with her before she could be... induced to tell us more.'

Adam closed his eyes. 'That's it,' he said with finality. 'If I find that woman again, she's dead, friend of Mac's or not.'

'That's academic, Methos,' Gilles reproved him gently. 'She will be dead soon enough. When the end of times arrives, the weakest will be the first to perish.'

'Yes. Of course. Forgive me,' Adam murmured.

Gilles nodded. 'As the time of the true millennium grew nearer we spent more time on our search. Georgia went to Paris with Julian. Anne went to New York. Richard I sent to London. Almost every immortal in existence has lived or travelled to or through one of those cities at some time or another. So we searched and we asked. We killed, just once or twice, when we thought information was being held back from us. And then Anne found Jacques Lemarchand in a bar in Manhattan this January.'

'And he knew who I was?' Adam asked.

Gilles smiled and shook his head. 'No. Only that he had met an immortal, far more ancient than any he had come across before, in Maine during the late seventies. He gave us the names of the immortals he had met there surprisingly quickly, but he could not remember which one of them he had sensed as being the ancient one. I conducted his interrogation myself, but after several days we realised that he truly could not tell us any more. So I killed him, and we began the search for all of the immortals he had told us of. Rebecca Kirkwood and Max Donnelley had both died since that time. Arch Drake was weak - a mere hundred years old. That left the mysterious Adam Pierson, who would not let himself be photographed and who left no trace of his time in Maine except a police record of his association with a Fox William Mulder. The rest I believe you know.'

'The rest I know,' Adam agreed. There was a thoughtful pause before he spoke again. 'Have you never thought that you might be wrong about all this? About the Millennium, about the Apocalypse?'

Gilles shook his head. 'You seek to test my faith, Methos? How can I be wrong? You have put yourself into my hands, ready to serve the Lord at my side. I have the virus, my weapon of destruction, my sword of fire. The date is at hand, and Death has delivered himself to me. How could any of this have happened if it was not God's will?'

'Then if this is God's will, how can I be a traitor?' Adam pointed out. 'As you said, I've given myself to you freely. You have no need to chain me like this.'

Gilles shook his head again. 'I am God's servant, but I am not a fool. Talk to Georgia. Put her fears at rest. I will let her decide whether to loosen your chains or not.'

He stood abruptly. 'My Lady, he is yours,' he said, to someone who stood at the back of the room, someone Methos could not see. 'Ask him what you will. I will be with Richard and Julian if you need me.'

The door closed behind him. Adam craned round in his seat, trying to see if he had really left or not. He turned back, satisfied that Gilles had gone, as Georgia took her place in the chair Gilles had just vacated.

'You've fooled him, Methos,' she began pleasantly. 'Partly at least. But not me. I don't know what game you're playing, but I will.'

'I didn't say I thought this was a game,' Adam said mildly. Georgia shook her head.

'Why should you wish to join us, Methos? Why should anyone wish for the end of the world?'

'Apart from Gilles? And you, by extension, of course?' Adam asked, rather sarcastically.

Georgia favoured him with a tight little smile. 'Gilles believes that God has commanded him to do this, but I doubt that God speaks to you any more than he does to me. And I think, after five thousand years, how weary must you have become of the killing. Why should you want this now?'

Adam smiled back, not pleasantly. 'Maybe this is the way I've chosen to bring all the killing to an end. It's rather extreme perhaps, but certainly valid. What's your excuse?'

'Gilles raised me from my childhood. And when the time came that I wished to break free of him, we were betrayed and our brothers killed and we were forced into exile. How ungrateful I would have seemed, to have left him then. And there were others I cared for, that I could not leave...' she let her voice trail off, and her eyes grew hard again. 'What happened to the others?' she asked. 'The other three horsemen?'

'Unfortunately, all dead,' Adam said, without excessive regret.

'And you killed them?'

'Essentially,' Adam admitted. 'They wanted to rule the world instead of ending it, but the principle of the thing was the same.'

'And how did they propose to do that? Another virus?'

Adam studied the ceiling. 'They seem to be fashionable at the moment.'

'And why should I not go to Gilles now, and tell him that you betrayed your brothers?' Georgia asked.

'I wouldn't deny it,' Adam said mildly. 'There can only be four horsemen. Gilles would simply say that it was preordained that they die, so that his own horsemen could rise. Across the centuries they had degenerated until they were no longer fit for their purpose. Better that they die and that true Christian knights take their places.'

Georgia nodded. 'Your brother, eating his insects in an asylum in London. Yes, Gilles would believe that. You have your story worked out very well.'

'I find it's usually best to keep things simple,' Adam said modestly.

'But you don't believe any of it. The Millennium, the Apocalypse...'

Adam gave her a weary look. 'Well of course I don't. I admit it freely. But then it could be argued that my belief isn't necessary. Only my participation.'

'So how do you expect me to trust you?' Georgia demanded. 'Why are you telling me these things? Do you expect me to betray Gilles as you betrayed your brothers? I would not do so on your word, Methos.'

'I wouldn't have expected you to,' Adam said mildly.

'Gilles is not convinced of your loyalty. Not yet. I doubt he ever will be. You'll play your part in this, and then he'll kill you.'

'Then it seems that I need to prove my loyalty to him,' Adam said, not even slightly disconcerted.

'And how do you propose to do that, Methos?'

Adam attempted to shrug again. 'Mulder will have followed me. He'll be here soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow. If you set a watch for him you'll capture him easily enough. Then you'll have him in surety against me.'

'Another betrayal,' Georgia said wonderingly. 'They come so easily to you.'

'Some betrayals are justified. It all depends what you're fighting for. I think that we understand each other in that.'

'You don't understand me at all, Methos,' Georgia said coldly.

'And the chains?'

'Your chains can stay where they are for now.'

'If you want me to help you, you'll have to free me enough to eat and sleep at least,' Adam pointed out.

'Maybe. Maybe later. But I do not trust you.'

'You should think about what I've said.'

'I'll think about it. But I still don't trust you,' Georgia said. She turned to leave.

'There was one more thing I was curious about,' Adam said blandly.

'I don't have time to answer your questions, Methos,' Georgia said bluntly.

'It won't take a minute. Just something that's been bothering me.'

Georgia stopped in the doorway, turned and sighed. 'Very well. Go ahead.'

'Your group made contact with the Russian Mafia. I imagine it was through the Internet. I expect you were very, very careful not to reveal who you really were.'

'We are always careful, Methos,' Georgia said. 'Does this have a point?'

'You've stayed undercover for hundreds of years. As far as the Cabal knew you were all lost in the game, centuries before.'

'What of it?' Georgia asked suspiciously. 'As I said, we've been careful.'

'And I know that the Cabal has had almost no presence in the Russian security services for the last forty years. Clanroyden told Mulder that.'

''If you would make your point,' Georgia said shortly. 'I'd be grateful.'

Adam nodded mildly. 'Well, since you're so busy, I'll be brief. The point is this. How did they come to associate a small, anonymous terrorist group, in a country where they have no active operatives at all, with Gilles de Rais and the last remnants of the Knights Templar? They've known about you for weeks, more likely for months. They must have done, because Mulder was given the casefiles of both the Redburg and the Drake killing. The Cabal has always dealt with beheadings itself. That's what it does, it hides all evidence of immortal activity. Mulder could only have been given those casefiles with their knowledge and approval.'

'Perhaps they were careless,' Georgia said warily. 'How should I know?'

'But that still doesn't answer the question. How did they know that it was you in the first place?'

Georgia spread her hands impatiently. 'A coincidence perhaps. Someone was careless. What does it matter?'

'It matters, because there is only one certain way that they could have known. Because one of you made sure that they knew.'

There was a moment's silence. 'You're saying that one of us is a traitor?' Georgia said, her voice becoming low and dangerous. 'How dare you? We have fought alongside Gilles for eight hundred years. All of us. There is no traitor, Methos.'

'As you say,' Adam said. He smiled, and his smile was not reassuring. 'Of course, from what I've seen, the field for traitors within your organisation is a limited one. Not Gilles, why should he want to sabotage his own plans? Julian doesn't have the intelligence or the motivation. Richard is terrified of Gilles, and probably clinically insane. No, whoever it was must have been very subtle. Working through a third party, maybe, never giving quite enough to allow themselves to be identified if things went wrong, or for Gilles to even know that he had ever been betrayed. I suppose all they really needed to do was let the Cabal know that the Templars were involved in the first place...'

Georgia cut him off with a decisive gesture of her hand. 'This is pointless. All of what you've said is untrue. And I have work to do.'

'I do have one last question. If you have the time to answer me, of course.'

Georgia looked at him coldly. 'And your question is?'

'Did Anne of Kirrin make the first contact with the Russians, or was it you?'

'If you have come here to turn us against each other, Methos, you will not succeed,' Georgia said very softly. 'Do you imagine that Gilles will believe anything you say?'

'Do you think I should tell him?' Adam asked. He noted with academic interest the way her hands were twisting in the material of her gown.

Georgia did not answer. Instead she turned and walked out of the room. Adam permitted himself brief smile of satisfaction. Things were going very well. All he had to do now was to decide exactly what to do next.

'If you hurt her, I'm going to kill you.'

Adam looked up in surprise. For the half an hour after Georgia had left, he had sat deep in thought, planning his next step. He had not heard Julian enter the hall. Getting careless, he chided himself mentally.

'I don't want to hurt Georgia,' he said out loud. 'I have no argument with her or you.'

'If you tried, I'd kill you. I truly mean that,' Julian rumbled menacingly.

'I know you. I think you should stay near Georgia for the next few days. To make sure that she's safe. That's why you went with her when she went to Russia, isn't it?'

'She said she did not need me,' Julian mumbled, suddenly painfully uncertain. 'She said that Gilles needed me more, but Gilles said that I should go with her and protect her. I always protect her.'

Adam nodded. 'I think the next few days will be dangerous, Julian. I think you should go to her right now.'

Julian looked at him uncertainly, then nodded also. 'Yes. I will, then. Timothy, come to me.'

There was a whine from somewhere beneath the long oak table and one of the largest and hairiest dogs Methos had ever seen appeared from between the legs of the old oak chairs to bound after the heavyset knight. As he stood in the doorway, Julian paused and turned.

'I think Gilles will kill you anyway. I'm telling you so you can make your peace with God first.'

'Thanks,' Adam said sardonically. 'And is there any chance of getting something to eat today?' he called after the retreating figure. He settled back into the chair with a sigh. Sooner or later, they'd have to feed him. Until then, he just had to make himself comfortable.

After perhaps an hour, night had drawn itself completely over the sea. It was actually quite restful, Adam decided, looking out of the window at the moonlit water. He amused himself for a while by trying to work out where they were. Somewhere on the west coast of Scotland, maybe, he decided, but nowhere that he recognised. This was more the Highlander's territory. He was wondering exactly how far behind Mulder was when the great door opened again and another figure stepped between him and the window.

'What?' he snapped, rather shortly.

'I am Richard de Rais,' the figure said. The idiot was actually dressed in full chain mail, Adam realised. Just who he intended to fight was unclear. Maybe, he mused, Richard wore his knightly armour to bed.

'I know who you are,' he pointed out. 'Is this going somewhere or are you just going to stand there and block my view?'

'Do you think he'll let you lead the Horseman?' Richard said, in a high voice, filled with malicious triumph. 'He's brought you here to kill you.'

'So people keep telling me,' Adam said, with as much of a shrug as he could manage. 'You'll notice that I'm not especially worried by the prospect.

'You're n..nothing. The woman Cassandra told Georgia you were a c..coward and a traitor. Gilles will kill you. Gilles will let me kill you.'

'Oh, I think that all the dead weight in Gilles' little family is standing in front of me, Richard,' Adam said, with calculated cruelty. 'You know, if I was you, I think I'd be the nervous one. If Gilles had to lose anyone, it would be you. Maybe he'll decide he can do without you anyway. Maybe he'll decide that he's the one who should be leading the horsemen.'

'I could d.do anything to you' Richard whispered. 'Anything. And you'd heal, and none of them would know. None of them would believe you if you told them.'

Adam fixed him with his patented 'Death on a Horse' look, and threw in his nastiest grin for good measure. He was gratified to see Richard nervously back away a couple of steps. 'I've got a better idea,' he suggested. 'Why don't you just bugger off?'

There was a pause, then the dark shape was gone from in front of him.

'And get me something to eat,' he shouted at where he imagined Richard's rapidly retreating back to be. Yes, he was starting to get really uncomfortable in this chair. 'Come on, Mulder,' he muttered to himself. 'We haven't got all week for this.'

10.40pm. Monday evening, on the outskirts of Glasgow.

'Mulder, you don't have to drive under the speed limit the entire way. Nobody else is. You're making us stand out.'

Mulder gritted his teeth and bit back a number of choice retorts. 'I'm going slowly because I'm trying to drive *and* navigate,' he said irritably. Twelve hours of being handcuffed to Krycek had not put him in the best of moods. Apparently it wasn't doing a lot for Krycek either.

'I told you, keep going North. I'll tell you when you need to take the exit off.'

'Fine,' Mulder said shortly. A car overtook them, flashing its lights.

Krycek glanced sideways at him and drew in a weary breath. 'Relax, Mulder. It could be worse.'

'Well of course it could, Krycek,' Mulder said sarcastically. 'I'm actually quite enjoying this whole Thelma and Louise thing we have going.'

'Yeah? This is nothing like Thelma and Louise, Mulder.'

'What would you know about it, Krycek?' Mulder said sullenly.

'Well, where do you want me to start? We're both men, this is a cold, rainy evening in Scotland, and there's absolutely no lesbian subtext. Though with your driving it's probably just as well that we're more than five thousand miles away from the Grand Canyon.'

'Hah de hah hah,' Mulder said, without too much heat. 'So you don't think we're Thelma and Louise? How about...' Mulder searched his memory for road movies. 'How about Easy Rider?'

Krycek raised an eyebrow. 'Mulder, have you ever taken drugs in your entire life?'

'It so happens that I have taken drugs,' Mulder said, rather defensively. 'At Oxford.'

'More than once? I bet you didn't even inhale,' Krycek said, clearly amused.

Mulder had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. 'I've had a lot of painkillers.'

Krycek shook his head. 'Legally prescribed doesn't count, Mulder.'

'So why don't you enlighten me with your opinion, Krycek?'

My opinion? I'd say this was the Thirty-Nine Steps.'

'The book?'

'The Alfred Hitchcock film. You must have seen it, Mulder.'

Mulder nodded unwillingly. 'The one where Robert Donat and Madeleine Carrol end up handcuffed together, on the run from the law, chased by the bad guys. Yeah, I suppose...' he frowned. 'Wait a minute. Which one of us is Robert Donat and which one is Madeleine Carrol?'

'You're Madeleine Carrol, Mulder. I'm Robert Donat.'

'So you're saying that you're the misunderstood good guy and I'm the blonde?' Mulder said, slightly offended at the idea.

Krycek gave him an amused glance. 'You know you'd look good in drag, Mulder. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it.'

Mulder chose to ignore that comment. 'You really think you're one of the good guys, Krycek?'

'I know you don't agree, Mulder,' Krycek said patiently. 'That's what the word "misunderstood" means.'

'There are 60 million people on this island and I get to be chained to you,' Mulder muttered.

Krycek lowered his lashes. 'Yeah, Mulder. The feeling's mutual. Believe me, it's mutual.'

Mulder drove on. It was completely dark now. Glasgow's grim industrial