Part Ten

The understated sedans stuck out like sore thumbs where they were parked on the far end of the wharf. Scully glanced down at her casual attire and realized that she was no less out of place. None of the dock workers wore a beige cashmere blend jacket over fluid matching trousers. Here, haute couture meant a clean flannel shirt and jeans and a two-day beard. Mulder’s jeans and leather jacket were only a little less conspicuous. Next to most of their observers, the former FBI agent looked like a male model.

Reyes at least had worn jeans, her dark hair locked into a tight knot at the back of her head and her face free of cosmetics. Her creamy fisherman’s sweater was loose enough to disguise much of her willowy figure, and her rubber-soled boots were an exact match for those worn by many of the fishermen. Something about Reyes’s stance told Scully that the woman was no stranger to the sea.

Only Doggett looked like he truly belonged. With his wiry build, the weathered masculinity of his face, and the faded denim jeans and lined jacket, he could probably have moved easily among these men and women if he came alone.

"There’s Sydney’s jeep!"

Nigel’s voice drew startled gasps from all three FBI agents, and Mulder nearly jumped out of his skin. The British bookworm had been transformed. His face was unchanged, but he’d acquired the slouch and attire – and the scents - of the crews that studiously ignored the better-dressed invaders. "I’ve learned a thing or two about blending in with the natives," the young man said defensively. "Sometimes you don’t want to be seen for who you are!" He’d materialized seemingly from nowhere.

Inside the jeep, an envelope was taped to the steering wheel. It was addressed to Nigel, written in Sydney’s hurried script. God only knew how or when the woman had written it. It was frustratingly blithe. "Nigel, I couldn’t just stand around any more. The weight of the world was on my shoulders. We know all about Attila, about the Steppes, the horsemanship. The year was right then and it’s right now. I know you’re doing your best, but there are too many lives at stake. Sydney."

"Nothing helpful," Scully sighed, suppressing a moan. Her baby and her mother were in the possession of a murderous lunatic and Sydney Fox was still talking obscure history.

"All right, Sydney!" Nigel’s grin belied the nebulous message.

Doggett frowned. "What, are you nuts? Your little friend might be dead."

"I know," Nigel replied softly. "But she drew us a map. See?"

"I don’t see no map." The former New York cop wasn’t in the mood for wasting time.

"Look, it’s as plain as the nose on your face. She spelled it all out for us. The Steppes are steps. It means the upper level. Look, just follow me, okay? Let’s see…" The four other men and women were hard pressed to keep up with the small figure who darted toward the row of ships. Here, hard eyes stared at them from the ships and the shore, but no one openly challenged them.

Scully was growing more edgy with every step she took. Shivering, she pulled her long trench coat closer to her. She unconsciously edged closer to Mulder, forcing herself to breathe, to walk, to pretend that she was still living, that her soul hadn’t been ripped from her body,

"Damn," Reyes swore under her breath. "That’s it. It has to be."

Scully’s eyes rose up the steel arc of the boat. Across its bow was emblazoned a stylized horse and the name "Mongolian Stallion."

"What’s the date today?" Mulder asked aloud. "The 18th, isn’t it?"

"Yeah, why?" Doggett replied.

Nigel gestured to a marker. The ship was tethered to slip number 182001. A glance at the side of the vessel was further proof. Beneath the name, smaller numbers and letters were stenciled on, marking some kind of registration. The numbers read "432-453AD". The historian mumbled, "Of course. The years of Attila’s reign. The year was right then and it’s right now."

"They’re on the ship!" Mulder gasped as he realized that the vessel was preparing for a hasty departure.

Go to Part Eleven.


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