A Familiar Heart
Chapter Three


Fox Mulder stared at the unconscious woman in his
arms, sure God was paying him back for all the
lies and underhanded tricks he'd had to say and
do in the last four years.  He thought he'd
suffered enough since February, but now he knew
his personal hell wasn't yet over.  All he wanted
to do was be alone.  At last, he'd had the
chance.  His grandfather's hunting cabin had
seemed the perfect place to forget for a week or
so, until he had to return to his work.  No one
ever came up this way; it was far enough up the
main highway, and the 'posted' signs scared off
any trespassers.

But not this woman.  A little voice in the back
of his mind told him that maybe she'd not seen
the signs.  It could be an honest mistake.  Then
again, she could be here for a more nefarious
purpose.  He'd made a lot of enemies over the
years, people who would love nothing more than to
cut his balls off - women included.

She didn't look at all familiar to him, however. 
Of course, the men he'd dealt with during the war
had many ways of getting to an adversary - the
most basic of which involved using a woman to
distract and deceive.

How about those Yankees, indeed.  What better way
to assure your prey of your patriotism than by
talking about baseball?  Hell, he'd bet his
bottom dollar that underneath that knit cap was a
head full of tinted hair... with black roots.  He
hadn't been able to get a good look at her eye
color, but he'd seen foreigners with light eyes
before, many of which spoke perfect, unaccented
English.  The war had brought a lot of students
home from their years of study in the US; all of
them quite comfortable with the language and
customs.  Enough to be immediately drafted into
the Axis Armies as spies.

It didn't help that he'd found out before he'd
left a few days ago that he was being hunted.  We
know it's Chang, Skinner had said quickly.  We're
on his trail, and we should have him neutralized
shortly.  Take off a few days early, lay low.  By
the time you make it to the East Coast, we'll
have Chang.

Mulder had been furious, mostly because of his
orders to hide.  But he knew how valuable he was
to his superiors, how they didn't want to take
the chance he'd fall before the knife of an
unseen enemy that many thought vanquished.  He
should have known better than to think his
actions in Hong Kong would go unchallenged. 
Especially when, in a valiant effort at redeeming
himself before departing for home at last, he'd
managed to sever Chang's opium trade with a
swift, severe blow.  Dealing with the snake for
five years had been difficult enough - it felt
damned good to watch Chang's ships and dock go up
in flames, to get a little buzz from the opium-
laced smoke.  The next day, he'd caught a
transport home, wiring Skinner that the "China
Moon" had closed shop forever.

Shifting the dead-to-the-world woman in his arms,
he hesitated about dropping the rifle, then
remembered the knife in his boot and pistol in
his belt under his flannel shirt.  He had to do
*something* with her; he couldn't stand in the
door all night.  Propping his rifle against the
wall, he kicked the door closed and lifted her in
his arms.  Even covered from head to toe in bulky
winter clothing, she hardly weighed anything. 
And pressing her close, he could feel the tremors
of near hypothermia assaulting her body.

Her lips moved with unconscious, whispered words. 
Leaning close, he let her warm breath tickle his
ear, and he stiffened at the realization that the
soft words she muttered were not English.

They were Japanese.  Almost unintelligible, but
Nip just the same.  Instantly on guard, his arms
clamped around her, as he thought of his next
move.  How likely was it that a woman would show
up here with innocent purpose?  Not very likely,
especially considering the damning evidence of
her mastery of the Asian tongue.  She was here to
kill him, he was certain of it.  But damn if she
didn't look like Little Bo Peep, with her
alabaster skin and blue eyes.  Against his will,
his body tightened, reacting to the soft feel of
her in his arms.  She weighed almost nothing, so
light and downy.  He wanted to bury his nose in
her pink cheek and inhale her perfume.  The
sexual attraction was immediate and intense.  All
those years under Chang's watchful eye, he hadn't
availed himself of the lure of the man's
conniving prostitutes, and since returning home
at the end of August, he'd been too busy with
stateside business.  He could have buried himself
in her in a matter of minutes.

He squeezed his eyes shut, banishing the lust to
a dim part of his brain.  No.  He had to stay on
guard.  He turned with her, heading for the brass
bed on the other side of the room.

Assassin or not, she was in no shape to attempt
any death blow at the moment, that was certain. 
He had time to assess the situation.  But first,
he had to rouse her - he wanted answers before
calling San Diego.  Then he would cheerfully hog-
tie her and put an end to Chang's threat once and
for all, with her as bait.

Laying her on the feather mattress of his huge
bed, he began to strip off her wet clothes.  The
coat and scarf came off first, then the boots. 
He struggled with the right one and she moaned a
bit, giving him pause.  Looking up into her still
sleeping face, he decided she wasn't waking up,
and gave a hard tug on the boot.  It popped off
her sock-covered foot, and he threw it on the
floor.  Quickly, he surmised the pants would have
to go as well; they were soaked from the knee
down.  Her sweater was dry, a fact he blithely
noticed as he frisked her for weapons, lingering
a bit on the soft fullness of her breasts. 
Mentally slapping himself for his lapse, he
pushed up the green cashmere to undo the button
and zipper of her slacks, which gave way easily
to his hands.

He quelled a sudden rush of desire at the sight
of the short, slim legs.  Okay, so she had a
great body, and he'd been too long without a
woman.  But that was no excuse to let his mind
wander, even if she was a deadly operative bent
on slitting his throat.  He ignored the way the
white satin of her panties clung to her hips, and
pulled up the sheet and blankets.

Backing away, he stood with hands on hips,
admiring his efficient work.  She looked small
and lost in his bed, and very vulnerable.  Good. 
Best to keep her that way.  A quick search of her
purse didn't even produce a driver's license,
which wasn't surprising.  He expected to find a
gun or a knife, but didn't.  Though the little
amber glass vial filled with a powdery substance
was the final nail in his coffin of suspicions. 
Poison.  She'd planned to poison him.  Knowing
Chang as he did, he imagined it would have been a
slow and horrible death, with no antidote in
sight.  He gathered her clothes and draped them
over a chair in front of the fireplace, quelling
the urge to burn them.  No way could she sneak
out if she had no access to outerwear.  But she'd
have to wear something for her trip to jail the
next day; besides, he wasn't about to let her get
near them.  The vial, he placed in his shirt
pocket, where it would await the moment of her
denouement. 

He made some coffee, stoked the fire in the
fireplace, and sat in his rocker by the window,
rifle propped on the sill.  He reached into the
waistband of his jeans and pulled out his pistol,
then sat back to wait.


**********


Two hours later, she still hadn't woken up, and
he was beginning to fidget, wondering if he
shouldn't have radioed the sheriff in Piedmont to
send a Jeep out for her and just be done with it. 
But if he did that, then she surely wouldn't
talk.  Once in the clutches of local law
enforcement, she could concoct any story she
wanted.  And with her looks - yeah, he had to
admit she did have a classic beauty - she'd be on
the next plane out of the country in no time. 
Lost forever, with her ties to Chang leaving with
her.

No.  Once she woke up, he'd have his answers, and
his pipeline to Chang established.  Chang was in
the States, that much they knew.  Most probably
working out of one of the California ports, re-
building his trade routes, and seeking revenge on
his old friend Mulder.  He should have killed the
bastard when he had the chance.  He'd wanted to,
many times.  But loyalty to his country - and
Chang's numerous ties to the Japanese military -
had prevented such a course of action.  Mulder
thought Chang had perished with his boats on that
last day in Hong Kong, but no such luck.  He was
just getting used to life back in the States
again when Skinner had told him the bad news. 
Even after so many months, after losing over half
of his assets and money, Chang was back, like a
bad penny.  And gunning for Mulder.

It wasn't surprising to him that Change had hired
such a young, sweet thing to kill him.  In Hong
Kong, he'd seen the most innocent-looking women
work the docks.  As whores, as intermediaries in
the opium trade, as spies for the Japanese and
Germans.  Blonds, brunettes, redheads... though
chances were, the hair was fake.  The British
control of the island in the pre-war days had
produced many interracial offspring.  Mixed in
with German, Italian, and Middle Eastern blood,
Hong Kong was a mixed bag of skin color and eye
shade.  Even if she wasn't native to the island,
Chang, according to reports out of Skinner's
office, still had enough money to hire the best.

Was she German?  One of the many cutthroat Nazi
spies that circled the globe, who now found
herself out of a steady job?  Not caught in the
net of the Allies, she would have turned to the
underworld to make a living.  With skills honed
at the hands of the Third Reich, she could
command a high price for her services.  That
white skin spoke of European ancestry, that was
certain.

A shift in the bed jerked him upright.  He
stilled, knowing she wouldn't be able to pick him
out from the shadows beyond the fireplace.  Gun
in hand, he drank the last of his coffee, and
waited for her to fully awaken.

He didn't have long to wait.  In a few moments,
she was sighing and stretching beneath the
covers.  Face in relaxed profile, her eyes
opened, and he spoke, his fingers curling around
his gun in preparation.

"Guten abend," he murmured, and her head turned. 
From the slight confusion he saw on her dimly-lit
face, he took another tack.  "O dovrei dire,
buona sera?"

Still no answer.  In fact, she looked more dazed
than ever, as if mesmerized by his voice.  Good. 
However much he wanted her alert to tell all, he
didn't want her *that* alert.  A fuzzy, easily
manipulated mind was the ideal.  He let a
sinister smile cross his face and he threw out,
"Ni hao?"

That sparked a moment of recognition, as her eyes
widened.  The Asian language connection was
impossible to deny, as it flared on her face like
a light bulb coming to life.  Going for broke, he
drawled, "Kon-nichiwa?"

Her face softened and she drew in a deep breath,
apparently warming to the smell of his coffee as
she whispered, "Koohii?  Douzo?"

In her foggy mind, she'd reverted to her - while
most probably not native - most certainly, her
*working* language.  He reached for the pack of
matches on the small table beside his rocker. 
Keeping steady but subtle aim on her with his
gun, he flicked one to life with his thumbnail
and lit the coal oil lamp that sat on the table. 
His gaze trained on her lovely face, he watched
her take in his hard-edged smile as he said,
"Koohii?  Koucha?" His voice became like steel. 
"Or me, baby?"


End Chapter Three