"Lemme out!" Krycek was screaming, now. "Please! Don't leave me!" 

Skinner threw off his bed clothes and stomped to the door. He yanked
the security cane away, unlocked the door, and stalked to the guest
bedroom, hoping that his guest hadn't felt the need to insure his own
privacy by engaging his own door lock.

He hadn't. And he'd left the lights on. 

"No! Nonono!" Krycek shrieked. "Help me! Somebody!"

"Krycek!" Skinner shouted. "Wake up!"

"Please! Lemme out!" Krycek screeched.

Skinner eased towards the bed. Krycek's lone hand was scratching at
the headboard. He'd kicked his covers off onto the floor. His stump
was quivering, as if its phantom hand was also scrabbling against
whatever barrier filled Krycek's mind with terror.

It was a particularly ugly scar. Burned. Wasted. Skinner had seen
worse, of course. But those wounds were rawer. This scar cried of
neglect, poor treatment, worse remedies. There were other scars, as
well. Stab wounds. Burns. Welts. Bullet holes. Teeth marks. The
callused feet and hand of a martial artist. The face of a frightened
child.

As he watched, Krycek stopped fighting, his hand curled over his head,
as if to shield it, his legs curled into a fetal position, and he began 
to cry. "Don't let me die. Don't wanna die.... Somebody...save me...."

Somehow, it was the plea to 'somebody' that affected Skinner the most.
Most people cried for God or their mothers. Some cried for their wives
or girlfriends, the medic, their buddies. Lord knows he had heard it
all in 'Nam. Krycek had only a faceless, nameless 'somebody' to appeal
to in his darkest hour. How pathetic was that?

"Krycek!" Skinner knew from personal experience how dangerous it could
be to wake a man in the throes of a nightmare. He moved behind the spy
and darted in to smack his ass. "Wake up!"

Skinner was jarred by the twitching of his penis as Krycek's firm butt
muscle impacted his palm. It tingled. Hell, it sang! He colored, but
swatted The Rat again.

Krycek snorted awake and went suddenly silent.

"You OK?" Skinner asked.

Krycek whipped around so fast Skinner thought he was going to get
friction burns on his ass.

The AD held up his hands. "It's OK, Krycek. You were having a
nightmare. Anyway, it's almost six. May as well get up. What would you
like for breakfast?"

Krycek made a face. "Nothing for me, thanks." He scooted up to rest
his back against the headboard, rubbed his throat. "I was yelling," he
stated.

Skinner nodded. "Yep."

"I woke you up."

"Yeah, me and probably everybody two floors to either side of us."

"Sorry."

"Not like it was any fun for you, either. I could loan you some
sweats, they're adjustable?"

"No thanks. Washed my own clothes last night."

Skinner's brows rose. That would mean Krycek hadn't gone to bed until
3:30 a.m., at the earliest. Meaning he'd just about fallen asleep when
he started dreaming. Not that he'd have benefitted from any sleep
after the nightmare he'd had.

"Uhm...any chance you'll give me back my weapons?" Krycek asked.

Skinner shrugged. "What would you like?"

"Um...the garrote and the switchblade and the switchpick," Krycek
said, realizing that he didn't want to risk losing anything else while
he was playing bait.

"You sure that's all?"

"I *am* supposed to get caught, right? If I have a gun, I'll damned
well use it. Probably way too soon to justify it in a court of law,
too. I am *not* doing this to secure myself a spot on the lethal
injection Gurney."

Skinner nodded. "I'll bring them downstairs after I dress."

Krycek nodded, got up, and started stripping the bed.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You don't need to do that," Skinner said.

"It needs to be done. I'm doing it. Go get dressed."

"It doesn't need to be done now. Leave it."

"It's no trouble," Krycek insisted, continuing his self-appointed
task.

Skinner thought about Scully last night, and acquiesced. Maybe Krycek
needed to keep himself busy, too. He retreated to the door, turned
back, and caught Krycek in the act of palming the little Mayor
McCheese doll that had been lost in the covers.

//Interesting,// he thought, but continued on to his own room without
breaking stride to ready himself for another day.

Krycek made the guest bed up with fresh linens, dressed, marched
downstairs with the soiled bed linens and his carry-all, tossed the
linens into the hamper in the laundry room, retrieved his miscellanea
from the livingroom easy chair, then flopped onto the couch in the den
to watch cartoons on the big screen TV.

Skinner showered and dressed, opened up the munitions locker, strapped
on his own weapon, retrieved the switchblade, plam, and garrote,
grabbed a pre-packed suitcase from the closet, and went downstairs for
a bowl of Kashi cereal and the first cup of coffee of the day.

He poured a second cup into a traveller's mug, then went into the
study to collect the pertinent case files from his safe and stuff them
into his briefcase. He heard the den TV switch off, and then Krycek
was standing beside him stashing his weapons on his person and
pointing at the files.

"Leave the sealed and off continent ones here."

He didn't argue.

###

They arrived at the J. Edgar Hoover Building at 7:15 a.m., an hour and
forty-five minutes before Skinner's regular shift, left their luggage
in the trunk, and went straight up to Skinner's office.

Skinner was anticipating some problems getting Krycek inside the
building without proper identification, but Krycek breezed by security
without either signing in or taking a visitor's badge. He just handed
the guard his ID card and said: "I'm not here."

The guard swiped the card through a machine, straightened, and
practically saluted as he handed it back with a clipped: "Yes, sir!"

"How do you do that?" Skinner asked, four floors later as he laid his
briefcase on his desk and hung up his top coat.

"Do what?"

"Waltz in and out of here like you own the place."

Krycek smirked. "I have better credentials than you."

"*I* am an Assistant Director who actually works here."

"And *my* security clearance is higher than God's."

"You're a Russian spy!" Skinner said indignantly.

"Nobody's perfect," Krycek shrugged. "Besides, I wasn't working for
the Russians when I was working for the Russians," he said,
paraphrasing Skinner's earlier indictment of his work history.

"Christ on a cracker!" 

Krycek grinned. "There are advantages to not allowing the right hand
to know what the left hand is up to," he said.

Skinner thought about their up-coming excursion and nodded. "Amen to
that." He sighed. "I wish Kim were here," he said, referring to his
secretary, Kim Cooke.

"Why?" Krycek asked.

"I need to clear my schedule so we can get out of here; have my DAD
briefed and ready to over-see the meetings I can't cancel but don't
actually need to supervise personally; buy the plane tickets and
secure our hotel reservations; notify the local Field Office and SFPD
to expect us, and advise them of our flight information, but until
she, her DAD counterpart, Connie, and my Deputy, Danny Brancusi, show
up, I'm pretty much stuck reading reports."

"Mmm. What kind of accommodations do you want?"

"My first priority is convenient location, then moderate prices, and
decent service."

"Four rooms? Three? Two? Same floor? Adjoining? Smoking? Non? Single?
Double? Two beds? King?"

"Three rooms. One double, two singles. I'd like an extra long
mattress, if I can get it at reasonable rates --I'd be willing to make
up the cost difference on my own dime. Better get adjoining rooms for
Scully and Mulder...and same floor."

"First, business, coach, or economy?"

"Coach."

"Direct flight? Open return?"

"Yes."

"OK. Lemme see what I can do," Krycek offered helpfully, and he exited
to the anteroom and made himself to home at Kim's desk. A half hour
later, Krycek knocked on Skinner's door and let himself in. He was
carrying Kim's appointment book.

"OK. Here's a list of your meetings for today. I've starred the ones I
think you might want to reschedule and over-see personally in red,
including an added briefing with Brancusi at 9:05, the green ones you
can probably hand off to Brancusi. The others you can probably cancel
or reschedule.

"If you don't like the way I've sorted them, make your changes in
blue. If you approve this agenda, though, it'll get you out of the
Hoover by noon. There's a direct flight to Frisco leaving Dulles at
1:15. The next direct flight isn't until 5:35. I've already booked us
rooms at the Galleria Park Hotel; it's a couple blocks from China
Town, near the Civic Center, the Bureau's Field Office, and Police HQ.
Plus, if you OK this appointment schedule, I can book the flight and
phone the locals with the information now."

Skinner quickly scanned the appointment log wondering how Krycek could
know who was a must-see and who could be put off, and was slightly
alarmed to discover he did know. "This looks doable. Let's go for it."

Krycek nodded and exited. He returned in half an hour. "I've booked
four seats on United Airlines, direct to Frisco. Two beefs, one
chicken, and a salad plate; left a message for SAC Kesey and Inspector
Graham. We'll be arriving at 4:05, their time. And everybody who had a
morning meeting with you that's been canceled or rearranged, or an
afternoon meeting that's been moved up has been alerted to the
schedule changes. I figure Kim can take care of the rest of them when
she comes in."

"Uhh...good job, Krycek."

"Tucci," Krycek said

"Hmm?" Skinner asked.

"The name's Tucci. Get used to it. I won't answer to Krycek from here
on out."

"Oh. OK. Who gets the chicken, Tucci?"

"You do. Cholesterol?" Krycek smirked.

"Yeah, yeah," Skinner sighed. The Rat was a little too efficient. He
checked his watch. 8:17. In approximately twenty minutes Kim, not to
mention Brancusi, his Deputy Assistant Director, and Mulder and
Scully, would arrive. He had whittled down the pile of reports,
written up-dates and notes on all the most pressing cases for his DAD,
and prioritized the rest of the stack. He noticed Krycek was still
standing in his doorway. "Was there something else you needed?"

"Uhm...if you don't mind handing over all your change, I'd like to
raid the vending machine and find out how entertaining eating candy
bars for the next half hour can be."

Skinner snorted, but dug into his pockets. "Suit yourself, 'Mr.
Tucci,' but if you're going to throw up, make sure you do it somewhere
away from me."

"Call me Val."

"Val?" Skinner questioned as he handed over his change, as requested.

"As in Per-ci-val?" Krycek elucidated as he fingered the change, idly
dividing it into candy bar equivalents.

"Making lemonade from lemons, Mr. Tucci?"

"...I like the sound of it," Krycek admitted with a shrug. 

Skinner snorted. "Percival or Val --hell, *anybody* would prefer it."

Krycek grinned. He pivoted smartly and exited. Skinner went back to
work.

###

Kim arrived a few minutes early and, after Skinner apprized her of his
new itinerary, she went straight to work canceling and rescheduling
his other appointments.

Brancusi was the next one into Skinner's office, arriving at 9:05 on
the dot and, after a half hour briefing, he relieved Skinner of his
'pending' files and exited to start meeting with Skinner's bumped
visitors.

Then it was Mulder and Scully's turn in Skinner's office. They had
their 302s for the Frisco trip in hand, ready for Skinner to sign, and
the dummied up dossier of 'Mr. Tucci's' assault which Skinner filed in
his briefcase with the rest of the case files. They discussed not
discussing the omitted files with the locals and turned in the
prepared profile, then Scully returned to the basement to clear up
what pending paperwork she could, while Skinner sent Mulder to the
break room to collect Krycek for a fast field trip for a disguise.

Mulder stepped aside from the door to let Skinner's secretary in to
collect the 'unsub's' profile so she could fax it to both the Frisco
PD and F.B.I. Field Office in advance of their departure. Skinner made
the hand-off, then adjourned to his conference room to begin the
series of meetings he needed to over-see before he could leave the
building.

Mulder strode down to the break room where a couple of long tables and
twelve chairs filled the middle of a room otherwise devoted to banks
of vending machines, a sink, cabinet for supplies, microwave oven, and
refrigerator.

Krycek was sitting in the second chair from the near corner of the
first table, feet up on the corner seat, back to the vending machines,
face to the door, an array of empty candy wrappers scattered on the
tabletop beside him, along with a Styrofoam cup of what smelled like
hot chocolate.

Mulder ducked in long enough to spot him and issue a command: "Come
on, Krycek." Then he started for the nearest elevator. A few paces
later, he noticed Krycek had not followed. He bristled and retreated
to the break room, where Krycek was leisurely tucking the last of his
candy bar stash into his cheek.

"I said: 'Let's go,' Krycek. I haven't got all day!" Mulder snapped.

Krycek made a production of sitting up and glancing around at the
empty room. "Excuse me, were you talking to me?" he said, unable to
stifle a grin.

"Is there anybody else in the room, Mr. Di Niro?"

Krycek's grin widened. "Wrong again. Wanna take another guess? I hear
third time's the charm."

Mulder exhaled huffily and stalked over to grab Krycek by the arm and
heave. "I haven't got time for your shit, Krycek. Now, get a move on!"

Krycek wrested his arm from Mulder's grasp. "The name is 'Tucci.' You
thought it up; the least you could do is use it."

Mulder huffed again. "We haven't got time for this shit! Now, move
your ass!"

Krycek shook his head, but got up and followed Mulder down to the
sub-level parking structure. They climbed into Mulder's car and Mulder
tore out of the parking structure as if pursued by the Furies.

"Men's Warehouse," Krycek pointed. "We haven't got time for your
tailor to sew me a suit."

"Yeah, right," Mulder muttered, although he was secretly pleased. The
prices were bound to be considerably less, as well.

Mulder hit the door and went one way, while Krycek perversely went in
the other direction, waving his hand to flag down a clerk. "I need
something that screams: 'tourist,' only, not in a vulgar way," he
said. "And I need it off the rack. My plane leaves in a couple hours,
and I want to be appropriately dressed."

The clerk pondered this for a moment. "Raw silk or linen?" he
suggested.

"Linen. Unconstructed. And, um, a bit loose in the arms, please."

"Right this way, sir." The clerk led Krycek farther from Mulder, who
was only just noticing the absence of his ward.

"Krycek!?" Mulder pivoted and spotted the wayward pair. He headed in
their direction. "Krycek!"

Krycek didn't even twitch. It was as if he'd gone selectively deaf. 

The clerk eyed him. "38 long?"  He ventured.

"36," Krycek amended.

"Percival!" Mulder yelled as he caught up to them.

Krycek looked over his shoulder at the steamed agent. "You want to
yell a little louder, Fox? I don't think they heard you in
Georgetown."

"That's 'Special Agent Mulder,' to you."

"That's 'Mr. Tucci,' to you," Krycek returned blandly, as he returned
his attention to the clerk, who was holding out an unlined
khaki-colored suit coat. He slipped out of his leather jacket. "Hold
this," he directed to Mulder as he slipped into the linen coat. "Could
you button it for me, please?" Krycek asked the clerk, who was just
noticing Krycek's prosthetic arm.

"Absolutely, sir." The clerk made quick work of it. "There's a mirror
over there," he pointed it out.

"Thank you." Krycek stepped over to look at himself. Returned.
"Perhaps something a bit lighter?"

"Here's one in white?" the clerk suggested.

"Don't get the white," Mulder said. "White is too declasse` for words
--and you're *not* buying a Panama hat, either!"

Krycek rolled his eyes towards him and politely listened to his
screed, but said nothing.

"How about the natural linen?" the clerk suggested.

Krycek nodded. The clerk took a coat off the hanger that was slightly
lighter than ecru and held it out. Krycek put it on and went over to
the mirror to check it out. He returned smiling. "Yes. It's perfect.
Now, the pants?"

###

When noon arrived, and the last of his meetings concluded, Skinner
came out of his office carrying his briefcase and top coat. Mulder,
Scully, and someone who had to be Krycek, (it took a moment to
identify him in the blond wig, unconstructed natural linen suit, buck
loafers, natural rope belt, copper silk shirt, and bronze blended to
cream silk tie), were waiting for him in the anteroom. 

Skinner noted how the copper color set off the green of Krycek's eyes.
//Exquisite.//

Skinner had Kim accompany them to the airport, not only so she could
tape last minute notes on the meetings for Brancusi, who would need
them, but also so she could drive the car back to the Hoover and save
on long term parking fees.

Krycek sat in the back seat with Skinner and Kim to keep out of Mulder
and Scully's way. Mulder pulled the car up to the curb in front of the
United Terminal, popped the trunk, and got out to open the door for
Kim, who got behind the wheel and adjusted the seat while Skinner and
Krycek unloaded the luggage from the trunk. All three of the fibbies
had one suitcase plus a laptop or briefcase, and Krycek had his
carry-all.

As Kim pulled away from the curb, they each took possession of their
own luggage and walked it in to the airline's ticket counter to check
their bags and pick up their boarding passes.

Krycek had bought his ticket under the Tucci name, but he just flashed
his magical government ID card at them to claim it, his lack of proper
identification no deterrent at all.

They went to the departure lounge, next, and all four of them
by-passed the metal detectors with a flourish of badges and ID.

Then, at the actual boarding ramp, Krycek pulled out his ID and
secured himself a free 'upgrade' to an empty first class seat. He
grinned wickedly at the three F.B.I. agents as his section boarded
first. Skinner quickly used his own AD juice to get himself up-graded
to the seat beside Krycek, but left Mulder and Scully to fume in coach
at the inequity of it all.

Krycek, unsurprisingly, considering how his night had gone, slept
through most of the six hour flight, only waking for dinner and a
bathroom break. Skinner read the in-flight magazines and watched the
in-flight movie. Neither of them mentioned Mulder or Scully.

They arrived at the San Francisco International Airport at 4:15.
Krycek donned a pair of sunglasses that hid his unbleached eyebrows
before deplaning.

They were met at the gate by Special Agent Stanley Wong, a moon-faced
local field agent, who, owing to his Oriental heritage, was only a few
inches taller than Scully. He had a car waiting and, after helping
them collect their luggage, he hustled them out to a nicely appointed,
nine-passenger van and drove them straight to the Bureau's Field
Office, an eight minute trek, where they met SAC Kesey and ASAC
Carmichael.

After a formal welcome from and courtesy briefing with the local
F.B.I. honchos, they climbed back into the van and let Wong drive them
around the corner and down the street four and a half blocks, to the
Police Department Headquarters, and the office of the Sexual Assault
Response Coordinator, for a meeting with Police Inspector Lloyd
Graham, who was handling the case for the SFPD.

Skinner made the introductions, saving 'Mr. Percival Tucci' for last.

"*Mister* Tucci?" the wiry, silver-haired, grey-eyed inspector
repeated as he looked up into Krycek's eyes. "You're not an agent?"

"No," Krycek said to the slightly shorter agent. "And, call me 'Val,'
please."

"Mr. Tucci is victim zero, our suspect's fantasy template, and the
only known survivor of his attacks. He's agreed to act as bait to draw
our killer out," Skinner elucidated.

"No shit?" Graham said as he straightened his already erect frame. He
accepted the doctored 'Tucci' file Skinner pulled from his briefcase
and scanned it. "Damn! This is our perp, all right. Well! I guess that
explains the details in your profile, Mr. Mulder. We had bets as to
how you'd guessed his eye color --s'pose I'll have to cancel that
pool, now. But, there was no mention of Mr. Tucci in your faxed 
profile," he said as he shut the folder and stared Skinner in the 
eye. "What gives?"

"What we are about to divulge are Eyes Only files that are not to be
discussed out of or removed from our presences," Skinner said, as he
pulled the remainder of the case files from his briefcase and laid
them on Graham's desk. "In brief, we know this man has been killing
for thirteen years, that he would give his eye teeth to get his filthy
little fingers on Mr. Tucci, and that he has a well-oiled
multi-national organization that, in the past, he has used to skip the
country within hours of having so much as a shadow of suspicion fall
in his direction.

"For that reason, and because his own time-table seems to be running
on a semi-annual schedule, we are pretty certain the *only* way we'll
flush him out while he is still in San Francisco is with Mr. Tucci's
help. As far as your people are concerned, Mr. Tucci is gold bullion
from Fort Knox: treat with reverence and guard 24/7.

"We haven't pulled together a game plan, yet, and we won't make a move
without state-of-the-art support and a damned good expectation that we
can pull in our suspect without losing Mr. Tucci. In fact, I am
leaving the final 'go' on any plan we do put together with Mr. Tucci
himself. He was badly traumatized by this perv and I won't put him
into play without his express approval.