X-Files: Trust No One

by Tim Lebbon

The dinner cart stopped a row ahead and Mulder stirred, sat up, and unlatched his seat back tray.

  “Impressive,” said Scully.

  “Pavlovian conditioning,” said Mulder. “My brain is hardwired to recognize the sound of an approaching food cart even while in deep REM sleep.”

  It was chicken or lamb. Mulder chose the chicken accompanied by a glass of Pinot Grigio. Scully wasn’t hungry and asked for a sparkling water.

  Skinner had been reluctant to approve this investigation. He didn’t think it was an X-File, and was further worried about the possibility of diplomatic gaffes associated with such an investigation in a culturally sensitive part of the world. There was little to suggest a paranormal link to the Pepper and Hicks disappearance. Saudi authorities firmly believed that Sudanese pirates were to blame—or possibly Somalis that drifted north around the Horn of Africa up from the Gulf of Aden.

  Still, there was the video. Scully hadn’t seen it yet, but it was enough for the Riyadh office to give Skinner a call.

  Mulder held a fruit cup in front of her face. “Eat something,” he said. “After today, you’ll be eating through a burka.”

  Two hours later and the captain announced the initial descent. The cabin awoke with a flurry of motion. Dark-haired women, who had previously been wearing tight jeans, miniskirts, and low-cut tank tops and blouses, one-by-one emerged from the aircraft lavatories in long, black, shapeless abayas. All had their hair hidden beneath black headscarves, or hijab, and some concealed their faces as well. Scully realized that these women, whom she found previously indistinguishable from their western counterparts, were Saudis. The abaya was not so much a cultural signature as she thought. Instead, it was a state uniform, a means of controlling personal expression. And its wear is not a point of pride, but of obligation.

  She took a deep breath, let it out, and unfastened her seatbelt. She bent and retrieved the folded black garment from her attaché and placed it in her lap. She looked over at Mulder—his smile a combination of sardonic humor and sympathy.

  Scully stood and went to the lavatory to change.

  *****

  KING ABDULAZIZ AIRPORT, JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  SATURDAY, 0215 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Fox Mulder turned his head side to side, slowly, and stretched the clenched muscles in his neck. Two hours in the immigration line had worn him thin. For a while, he thought that he and Scully would never get through, that they’d become mired in Purgatory, locked in an existential broken record.

  They retrieved their luggage and passed it through the electronic scanners at customs, then made it out to the terminal. Scully looked irritated and uncomfortable in her abaya. The terminal was a scene in black and white—scores of women, head-to-toe, in shapeless dark drapes. Men, on the other hand, wore crisp white robes, and red and white checkered keffiyah held to their heads by thick cords.

  The State Department had sent a driver to meet them—a young Filipino named Jack. He held a sign that read “Mr. Fox.” If Scully was offended, she didn’t show it. Jack led them out to a gray van. The heat and humidity descended on him like a heavy shroud. He felt the sweat begin to dampen his navy blue suit. Once inside the van, Mulder noted the armored reinforcements and bulletproof glass.

  “Expecting trouble?” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fox?”

  “The armor plating?”

  “We worry about terrorists. We have briefings.”

  They pulled out of the airport into the city, full of lights, the coastline, and traffic circles with statues of colorful cars, skinny camels, and giant ships.

  Jack drove them to a nondescript gate north of the city to a place he called “North Obhur.” No hotel signs, no indication that anything existed there. They paused for a few minutes then the gate opened. They pulled in and found themselves in a small compound with an office and tennis courts.

  They checked in to separate villas. It was a beach resort, right on the Red Sea. Like many other Western resorts, it was marked discretely so as not to attract, and subsequently offend, the Saudi Arabian Ministry of Virtue and Vice.

  Mulder dropped off his gear in his bungalow and met Scully in the outdoor restaurant by the water. She was no longer in her abaya, and had switched to a pair of shorts and a tank top.

  “Feel more normal now?” he said.

  Scully opened her mouth to respond but was interrupted by the blast of three different Mosque loudspeakers as the early morning, or Fajr, call to prayer echoed across the neighborhood.

  *****

  BORDER GUARD STATION

  OBHUR BAY, JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  SATURDAY, 1115 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  There was no relief in the shadow of the palms and her abaya sucked in the heat, trapped her sweat, and made her itch. The bay, a sliver of water slicing eastward into North Jeddah, was full of activity. Dive boats and luxury yachts made their way west to the open sea while young men on jet skis cut across their wake, launching themselves into the air. Two boats docked at the station while the Saudi Border Guards checked manifests. One, a dive boat laden with a mix of smiling, sandy-haired expats; the other a smaller craft with two Arab men in shorts and tank-tops, and four women covered head-to-toe in black, their bright orange lifejackets a stark contrast to their abaya, hijab, and niqab.

  “Will they swim in that?” Scully said to Raymond Bates, a State Department Diplomatic Security special agent who had met them there.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “They’ll remain covered in the presence of men, most of them at least.”

  “What’s the point of being in the water if you can’t feel it directly against your skin?”

  He smiled, kicked a stone loose from the ground. “Welcome to the Magic Kingdom.”

  Mulder, meanwhile, turned from the chain link fence that separated them from the station. He had forgone a suit and was better dressed for the 112-degree heat in khakis and a loose fitting white shirt, no tie. Despite the lack of sleep, he looked comfortable. Scully shot him daggers.

  “The Saudi guys,” said Mulder. “You confirmed eleven, right?”

  Bates continued to toe the rock. “You have to figure in the insha’allah factor,” he said. He went on to explain the indeterminateness of Saudi culture. Nothing concrete; everything left to God.

  “If Allah wills it,” he said.

  They didn’t have to wait for long. A gleaming silver Land Rover pulled up and parked across two parking spaces. Two men got out. One, a tall willowy man in a bright white robe and checkered kefiyah, spoke into a cell phone. His feminine features were framed by a meticulously trimmed beard. It was as if it had been carefully painted on his face. His partner was shorter, though obviously fit. He wore a tan suit and powdered blue shirt that was open at the collar. In contrast, he was clean-shaven, his black hair thick and unruly, his smile wide and white and persistent.

  They exchanged greetings with Bates, the Suit effusive, loud—his handshake vigorous and lingering. White Robe was more reserved, his face scarcely shifting from its bored, impassive expression.

  Bates made the introductions. “These are Inspectors Mahmoud Mohammed Bakhsh and Saleh bin Taha of the Saudi Mabahith, the General Directorate of Investigation.” He motioned to White Robe and Suit respectively, both of whom honed in on Mulder first, then turned to Scully. Mahmoud offered a curt nod, Saleh, however beamed at her.

  “It is a rare pleasure,” he said, extending his hand. She took it and shook it firmly, then disengaged before he had a chance to latch. He hovered within her personal space for a moment. His cologne was strong, cloying; would have been pleasant at a smaller dose.

  “Agent Bates tells me you studied at the University of Maryland,” he said. “I studied under Doctor Henry Grange for a year. Foreign exchange program from King Abdulaziz University. Cultural Anthropology.”

  “Grange retired during my junior year,” said Scully. “He was well respected, if I remember correctly.”

  “I would welcome the opportunity to speak mor
e about Doctor Grange,” he said.

  Scully felt Mahmoud’s glare, his disdain for this interaction, palpable. Mulder came to the rescue.

  “Gentleman, should we look at the boat?”

  Mahmoud nodded. Saleh smiled and turned towards the gate, his eyes lingering on Scully until she was lost in his periphery.

  A quick flash of Mahmoud’s badge, and the gate guard allowed them into the base, which was comprised of a small administrative building, a boat shack, and six gray vessels of varying size tied to the docks. The Marietta was dry-docked on metal stands, a canopy had been erected above.

  Scully noted the condition of the boat exterior. The hull’s outer layer of fiberglass was scratched and torn in several places. The railing that lined the gunwales had been ripped loose in spots, and was missing in others.

  “Our forensic team has already processed the boat,” said Mahmoud. “I’m not sure you’ll find anything more of interest.”

  “I’ve seen the translated report,” said Mulder. “It indicated the discovery of blood, purportedly from the crew. However, there was no mention of spent shell casings. Was that detail missed, or did the attackers use daggers and cutlasses?”

  Scully shot him a glance. “Mulder,” she said.

  “Funny, Agent Mulder,” said Saleh. “Red Sea pirates have become much more sophisticated since the nineteenth century. I think you’ll find that the Mabahith possess a forensic team on par with the FBI’s. Those crime scene specialists that weren’t trained at the New Scotland Yard, received their training from your own agency.”

  Mahmoud looked at his watch, sighed. Saleh gestured towards the stepladder next to the boat. Scully pulled a pair of latex gloves and plastic shoe coverings from her briefcase, put them on, and then glanced down at the hem of her abaya trailing on the ground. She pulled it up and tucked it into her shorts. Mahmoud made a sound she couldn’t interpret. She climbed the ladder, stopped at the top, and observed the deck.

  The deck and outer bulkheads were stained with the charcoal gray smudges of fingerprint powder residue, and the ruddy brown patches of dried blood. She felt her stomach tighten. So much blood—more than the file photographs depicted. Great violent spatters, large dry pools, streaked up and down the deck.

  Scully took it all in, tried to envision the moment of panic, the bloodbath that ensued. The railings told her that whoever entered the boat used them to gain purchase. That meant they had to climb up into the boat, which supported the idea of pirates in small-motorized craft—likely inflatables.

  This raised a question that had been nagging her since reading the case file. If their goal was to kill everyone on board, why didn’t they just shoot up the boat, hit it with a rocket-propelled grenade, and sink it? Instead, they boarded the boat, and seemingly butchered everyone. She let that sit for a moment and climbed over the gunwale. The still hot air trapped the stench of old meat, rotten fish, and the tide. She gagged, put her hand to her mouth then stopped and swallowed it down.

  Scully crouched and looked at the blood-streaked deck. There were two things she noticed immediately. Within the streaks and pools of dried blood she found vague remnants of footprints, the pattern and activity of bare feet—the pirates’ or victims’ she could not be sure.

  “Were you able to get print patterns from the deck?” she called over her shoulder.

  Silence. A wave of dizziness passed through her—the heat and fetid air.

  “There are footprints here,” she said. “Did you—” she stood and looked around. The men were near the water, Mahmoud and Saleh smoking, Mulder and Bates smiling, laughing at something that was said.

  “Great.” She turned back to the Marietta.

  The second thing she noticed were patches of faint iridescence scattered across the deck. She pulled out a small Maglight and shined it at an oblique angle. The iridescence had minute shadows and depth. She pulled out tweezers and evidence bag. Working carefully, she was able to collect a few of the iridescent pieces.

  Scully could think of only two reasons why they would board the boat. The first, if it held cargo of interest to the pirates. This seemed unlikely. It was a pleasure boat, routinely used for recreational diving. The other would be to capture someone alive.

  Alive. The thought tugged at her, built a rising sense of urgency deep inside. She stood and called out, “Mulder!”

  “Yes Scully.”

  She started. He was standing at the top of the ladder.

  “Pepper may be alive.”

  “Alive?” said Mulder, then covered his mouth and nose. “After all of this?”

  “It’s a long shot, but it’s possible and we’ll need to move fast.”

  “Finish up here,” he said. “I’ve got a copy of the Marietta’s manifest. We’re meeting Bates back at the consulate to take a look at that tape.”

  “The report mentioned an island. If Pepper’s alive—”

  “Saleh said they scoured the island. They’ve got a few boats out there now, just in case,” said Mulder.

  Scully looked past Mulder and found Mahmoud’s eyes locked on hers.

  *****

  U.S. CONSULATE

  JEDDAH, SAUDI ARABIA

  SATURDAY, 1300 HOURS LOCAL TIME

  Mulder and Scully sat in Bates’ office, a laptop set up in front of them, a camcorder attached to the laptop.

  “The GDI is every bit as thorough as Saleh indicated, only they weren’t the first ones on the scene,” said Bates.

  “The report indicated that the Border Guard received a call from a passing trawler that the Marietta had run aground on a reef,” said Mulder.

  “Correct. They responded, then boarded the vessel in search of survivors. They found no one onboard, but came across a damaged camcorder lying on the deck. They seized it, then brought it back the station. The officer in charge couldn’t get the camera to operate, so he attempted to pull the mini DV tape in order to watch it on one of their own cameras—only there was no tape.”

  “No tape?”

  “This is a high-end camcorder. It records video to a proprietary storage media. The disc is not easy to locate, especially if you’re not familiar with the camera. The Border Guard called the consulate after checking the Marietta manifest. Then they called the GDI. We got there first. When I arrived, they showed me the camcorder, and I promised to provide the GDI with a copy of anything I may find on the disc.”

  “And you found something?” said Scully.

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  He pressed play. The video opened on the bow of a boat—presumably the Marietta—and showed the approach to the cluster of rocks and the island.

  “Is that fog?” said Mulder.

  “Sandstorm,” said Bates.

  The video spun and caught a young, fit, dark-haired man reaching up to cover the lens.

  “Captain says we’ll need to anchor here until the sandstorm dissipates,” the man said. The video bounced around then went dark. However, the audio continued to record, and captured Pepper’s voice and the ambient sounds of the people around her. Mulder and Scully listened in silence as the chaos escalated into terrifying screams. For Mulder, it was almost unbearable to hear. After a moment, the screams subsided. The screen brightened, the camera bounced on the deck, the lens cracked.

  “I think that the camera fell from Pepper’s pocket at this point, keep watching.”

  Through the damaged lens, Mulder caught movement from the lower left of the screen, a figure, just a glimpse, then the screen went black. Bates reversed the video then paused it. Mulder leaned closer.

  “Someone jumping off the boat, but—” he said.

  “Is that a wetsuit?” said Scully.

  “I’ve watched this at least seven times. I’ve shown it to the Bureau guys that came in from Riyadh. I’m not sure what we are seeing,” said Bates. “We’re sending the disc back to the States for forensic examination, but that will take time.”

  “I’ve never seen a wetsuit like that,�
� said Mulder. “Every bit of his skin is covered. Look at the way it captures the light.”

  The figure on the screen, frozen in mid leap, was human in shape, but was covered in shimmering green and blue from its feet up to its head, which featured a small mohawk-like crest.

  “The camera was damaged in the fall,” said Scully. “Is it possible that the image became distorted, the color altered by the impact?”

  “Possible,” said Bates. “But that will be for the experts to figure out.”

  “Are there any witness accounts of such things before the Marietta attack?” said Mulder. “Any incidents, rumors, legends?”

  “That, you’ll have to ask your GDI counterparts,” said Bates.

  Scully stood and retrieved the bag she filled from the deck.

  “Agent Bates, do you have anyone on your staff that has access to a lab and can identify this? It appears to be fish scales, and if we can identify the type of scales, we may be a little closer to determining who the attackers were. If my suspicions are correct, the pirates were Somali fishermen.”

  “This would be a little far from their territory, but I have a contact at the Office of the Deputy Ministry of Fisheries Affairs who may be able to help out. I’ll have a courier run this over.”

  The consulate van picked up Mulder and Scully and they exited the gates. They sat outside the consulate, snarled in heavy traffic.

  “The Arabian Peninsula has a rich history of paranormal activity. We’ve had our own experiences with djinn, and we know that djinn can take on a variety forms,” said Mulder.

  “There’s very little to suggest that this is an X-File, Mulder. All we have is a blurry snippet of video. A State Department diplomat is missing, and may be still alive. I think we have to admit that we’re out of our element here. Jane Pepper’s life may be on the line, and I don’t have confidence in the Saudis’ conclusion.”

  Mulder felt that familiar frustration rise up. Despite years of investigations of unexplained events, Scully always defaulted to skepticism.

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “We know the attack took place near an undocumented island in the Red Sea. We know that the boat was boarded. If Pepper was taken, it stands to reason that she was taken because of who she was. This would mean that someone had tipped the pirates off.”