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In a Smoke-Filled Room

Many years had passed since it had ceased to be a handsome room. Fifty years of cigarette smoke and neglect had taken a harsh toll on the walls and ceiling, lacquering the paper and plaster with a ghastly yellow coat, while untold quantities of strong alcohol had punished the once-plush carpet.
But as much as by any emissions, the room had been totally stripped of its elegance by the company it had long kept.
For these were truly evil men. An evil so deep and unrelenting it was almost pure, as pure as the pitch and tone of a tuning fork. Evil in an almost biblical sense, for of them, Satan would surely be proud.
The Fat Man stood by the window, gazing outwards, upon the street below, seeing nothing but that which was already long seen. The dusty drapes swished against his elbow occasionally, as if flirting with his sleeve. He held an empty glass. It had been empty for hours.
The glass of Deep Throat remained full and untouched. He didn't need alcohol. A man with such memories has no use for drink, knows that he is beyond the release of its bleary oblivion. Not even a well-placed bullet would erase the images that played through his mind.
He sat on a divan near the center of the room. The harsh, grey light from the window revealed his old and worn features, his dull skin contrasting sharply with the fine, dark cloth of his expensively tailored suit.
Yet the vitality that was still his was obvious. Perhaps he was too afraid to die yet, afraid of that which he sensed awaited him. His awesome intellect enabled him to see much that escaped most, and this was not always such a good thing, he believed.
In a leather armchair near the fireplace, The Well Manicured Man was idly leafing through a copy of The Wall Street Journal. It was at least two days old, but it mattered little as he evinced no interest. He was far wealthier than most, and cared even less about being so. Money was not power: power was power. Power begets power, and he possessed the power of a God. A wealthy, powerful, very mortal God. Such are the ironies of life.
From the doorway behind them came the brief flaring of a match. It cast a flickering orange glow on the features of The Cancer Man as he bought the dancing yellow flame to the tip of his perpetual cigarette. The pale light was kind to his face. It softened the deeply etched lines around his mouth and eyes, but made dark forbidding canyons of those on his neck.
He was the most evil of them all. As he inhaled the sharp smoke, his eyes glittered bleakly, betraying the air of boredom that he casually and deceitfully exuded. Nothing escaped his attention. He noted every frightened blink and every nervous cough. He could read body-language better than any professor of English literature ever read Shakespeare. He knew everything.
"So, you decided to lower yourself," he said, without looking at them as he stepped into the room. He stubbed the match out in an antique pewter ashtray, the kind with ornate legs which placed it at a convenient height. "Perhaps you'd like masks and rubber gloves?" The disdain he felt for the other men was obvious.
Behind him, the others noted movement in the gloom. Though they could not see him, they knew immediately who it was. Alex Krycek never strayed far from the center of power.
Alert now, the others regarded The Cancer Man with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. They knew why he was here. They knew the price they would have to pay before this visit was over.
"I fear not even latex could protect us, as it cannot protect you." As always, the raspy voice of Deep Throat belied the ironic humor which constantly bubbled beneath. "We must not let the sarcasm of the spent, rattle us." A wry smile played upon his lips as he surveyed The Cancer Man's face.
"They say that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit," The Fat Man replied. He glanced at The Cancer Man but he seemed not to have even heard.
"Hear hear," said The Well Manicured Man, as he took a sip from his glass. His expression was unreadable.
"Where is X?" The Cancer Man demanded. "It is imperative that he attend this meeting."
The Fat Man glanced at Deep Throat before answering. "We don't know. He's not with you?" His watery eyes peered at him through the folds of flesh that masqueraded as his face. His gaze was forceful and penetrating. This often surprised people. It shouldn't have: he was a man long used to exercising complete authority.
"Obviously, he is not. Why would I ask, if he was?" He waited for a reply, but received none. It was very quiet in that room, with not even the ticking of a clock intruding upon the silence.
"Perhaps we should get down to business," said The Fat Man as he turned back to face the window.
"No. We wait for X," said The Cancer Man sharply, "are we able to contact him?"
"Does anyone have any tape?" asked Deep Throat. Nobody laughed.
"Perhaps he's visiting the 'blue light' district," said The Fat Man. The humor quickly disappeared from Deep Throat's demeanor.
"Perhaps he's shopping for a girdle," Deep Throat replied.
The Fat Man's face went purple. He turned back to the window once again, muttering something quietly under his breath.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that," said Deep Throat. This was going to be a long meeting.
A telephone rang quietly in an adjacent room and was quickly answered. Moments later, an aide appeared and whispered in The Fat Man's ear, then silently left the room again.
"He's on his way up," he wheezed. He glared at Deep Throat then returned to his view.
"About time," said The Cancer Man.
"It's spelt A-B-O-U-T. Not A-B-O-O-T. Can't you even make the effort?" asked Deep Throat.
The Cancer Man fixed him with an icy glare. Nobody makes fun of The Cancer Man.
Just then, the door opened and X walked in. He was holding an expensive silk handkerchief to his face. The white fabric was soaked with blood and it contrasted sharply with the black skin of his handsome face, which was already beginning to swell and bruise.
"What the hell happened to you?" demanded The Well Manicured Man.
X paused, and slowly looked around the room at the assembled men. He blinked.
"Meeting with one of your informants again?" asked The Cancer Man.
"I...I walked into a door..." he stammered lamely.
Deep Throat snorted derisively. "Perhaps you can sue the FBI?"
"Why don't you just shut the hell up?" snarled The Fat Man.
"Why don't you make me?" Deep Throat snarled back.
The Fat Man balled his right hand into a fist and made as if to advance upon Deep Throat, but The Well Manicured Man's voice caused him to pause as it rang out.
"Oh for God's sake, will you two behave yourselves? You bicker more than my grandchildren!"
"Shut it, Limey," spat The Cancer Man. "Why don't you go and polish your crown or something."
The Well Manicured Man gaped at him. "How dare you, you ignorant two-bit hit man-"
"Oh, you want a piece of this?" sneered The Cancer Man, reaching under the lapel of his suit jacket. Behind him, Krycek leapt to his feet. He looked confused. There were way too many horses in this race.
"What the hell is going on?" barked X. "Are you people crazy? Can't anyone see that I'm bleeding?" He looked around for the bar. He really needed a drink. Spying the bottle-laden table in the corner near the fireplace, he moved to pour himself a drink. As he did so, he knocked Deep Throat's full glass into the lap of The Well Manicured Man who leapt from his chair, dabbing furiously at the liquid soaking into his clothes.
"Oh for heaven's sake, can't you be more careful, you clumsy oaf?"
Eyes widening in fury, X shoved his face into that of The Well Manicured Man.
"What the f**k did you just call me, old man?!" he roared.
The Well Manicured Man was not intimidated. He'd dealt with more dangerous people than this before.
"I called you a clumsy oaf, but I really must apologize - I should have called you a mindless, uncultured thug!"
X roughly grabbed him by the lapels and jerked him up off his feet but he was stopped short when The Cancer Man emitted a shriek of laughter. Nobody had ever heard him laugh before.
"What do you know about culture, you pompous English idiot. You people can't even cook properly," he spat.
"I told you before, it's 'about', not 'aboot', you ignorant Canadian scumbag!" said Deep Throat hotly.
"I am not Canadian, dammit!" screamed The Cancer Man. In a movement so practiced and natural that nobody in the room actually saw him draw it, he had the silenced pistol in his hand and aimed at Deep Throat. Before he could fire, Krycek clutched at his arm. In doing so, he deflected the first round, which shattered the glass still clenched in The Fat Man's hand.
"Jee-zuss!" The Fat Man screeched, and blood began to flow from where glass fragments had embedded themselves deeply in his fleshy hand.
At the sound of the shot, X whirled around, dropping The Well Manicured Man and knocking Deep Throat into a tall antique lamp standing next to the coffee table in the middle of the room. It crashed to the ground at the feet of The Cancer Man, the bulb blowing with a sharp popping sound and showering sparks on his feet.
"Aaaaiiieee!" said The Cancer Man as he leapt backwards out of its path, losing his balance as he went. He grabbed at Krycek's arm for support. There was a tearing sound as Ratboy's prosthetic limb pulled loose and in unison they flailed wildly before smashing into the wall behind them.
So comical was this spectacle, that the other men burst into laughter, momentarily forgetting their own animosities.
Enraged, The Cancer Man grabbed for his weapon, but it had disappeared somewhere under the heavy old furniture in the room. Instead, he snatched up Krycek's false arm and swung wildly in the direction of Deep Throat, but his old acquaintance was too quick for him, ducking out of harm's way.
The Fat Man was neither as nimble nor fortunate. The heavy wooden arm slammed into his head at the temple, and, with an "Ohhhh!", he dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
"My God, you've killed him!" yelled The Well Manicured Man. He was appalled.
The Cancer Man suddenly stopped. He looked at the corpulent form lying so still at his feet.
"Well, you started it!" he said. He dabbed at his brow. He was getting too old for this nonsense.
"Yeah!" chimed in Krycek. Nobody spoke to his boss like that!
"I beg your pardon? I did no such thing, you ineffectual assassins!" He wished he was back in London.
"Well, don't just stand there - see if he's breathing!" shouted Deep Throat. He was crouched behind the divan.
"Don't tell me what to do, you gutless bastard!" screamed The Cancer Man. "I should have killed you years ago!"
"You once told me that you'd never killed anybody!" Deep Throat said with glee. "Anyway, you need us!"
"What? Need you? You talk! Why would I need you?" The Cancer Man shouted.
"Always keep your friends close-" began Deep Throat
"Oh for God's sake, enough with your droning quotations!" interrupted The Well Manicured Man.
X sauntered over with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looked remarkably composed for a man with a face covered in dried blood.
"So is he dead or what?" he asked.
They all looked down at The Fat Man lying at their feet. He let out a low groaning noise, and his left leg began to twitch spasmodically.
"Nope, I guess not," said X. He took another swig of his drink.
The Well Manicured Man sighed, then surveyed the damage to the room. It was a shambles.
"Look at this mess. It will take the staff days to clean this up!"
The Cancer Man shook his shoe. On it were minor electrical burns and some particles of glass. He wondered where his gun went. He smirked as he looked at that idiot boy Alex with his flapping sleeve.
"Well, I'm not staying around, I've go things to do," said Deep Throat as he climbed creakily to his feet.
"Yes, and I'm afraid, gentlemen, I must be going too. My horses need exercising," said The Well Manicured Man, as he contemplated the liquor stains on his pants. Oh, this was just too bad. What will people think, he wondered.
"Oh no you don't!" said The Cancer Man, "this isn't finished yet. We still have the small matter of this meeting I asked you here for!"
"Oh for Gods sake. Let's get this over with then shall we," exclaimed The Well Manicured Man. He really did have to get back to his horses.
Deep Throat ran his hands through his hair and then stepped aside quickly as two burly aides gently lifted The Fat Man to his feet. A trickle of blood ran from his hairline above a nasty looking bruise and he was barely even semi-conscious. The aides placed him on the divan in a reclining position and proceeded to administer first aid with the help of an impressive looking medical kit.
X topped up his drink. The drinks table had been upended during the melee, but one of the bottles had survived and for this he was giving small thanks. He tried very hard to maintain a macho air, but his nerves were almost shot. He hoped the others didn't see his shaking hands.
"All right, here's the deal. I'll setup the invitations and the flowers," The Cancer Man said. Turning to The Well Manicured Man, he said "You're providing the limos and the photographer. Can we use the farm in Virginia for the photos?"
"That should be all right I suppose, so long as I don't have to organize the catering," The Well Manicured Man said, a little dubiously.
"No, I'll take care of that. I have some useful contacts," said Deep Throat. He was actually rather looking forward to this.
"Now X, I want you to organize the chapel-guy, the church minister, whatever you call him. I don't know much about this religious stuff so I hope you do," The Cancer Man said. "And find somewhere nice for chrissakes! The last one I went to was God-awful."
"Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it," said X.
The Fat Man started groaning, so they wandered out into the hallway. The Cancer Man turned to Krycek.
"Now Alex, you know what you have to do?" The Cancer Man hoped so. He'd shoot the dumb Rat punk if he messed *this* up.
"Yeah, yeah. Me and the boys have to keep That Guy away, right," he said.
"Exactly. We don't want Scully's and Shturmie's wedding ruined now, do we?"
The others all nodded their heads in agreement. This had to be perfect.
As they wandered off down the hallway, deep in conversation, The Fat Man cried out "The truth is out there! The truth is out there!" before lapsing into unconsciousness once more...

Copyright Shturmovik[KGB]

1999

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