Manuel was sitting beside Olivero, gravely watching his face. He'd seen this look before, when Olivero had finally found one of his 'chicos', when the time of his completion was drawing near.

But this one... this one is different. Always before he knew. It was always in the back of his mind that they were... who they were. That they were not that one from long ago. But this time he is losing himself, I think. I believe that this time he truly believes that he has found Duncan again.

This troubled Manuel--he felt threatened. Yes, threatened. Always before he knew that Olivero would satisfy himself in an orgy of sex and death, and then for a long time he would be at peace. He would be Manuel's. But if he truly saw Daniel Ballard as Duncan Broussard...

He had not killed Duncan. No matter how the boy had betrayed him, broken his heart before it had hardened--he had not killed him. Hurt him, yes--in the most basic way he could, with sex, fists, and the bloody death of the one he had given himself to--but not killed.

For the first time since he had turned himself over, body and soul, to Olivero de la Montana, Manuel felt... insecure. Yes, this one is different. Most of the others, they were of no consequence--weak and silly. He would have grown tired of them quickly enough if they had survived. But Senor Danny...

Olivero was slowly smoothing his trousers, big hands stroking down his thighs as he stared at the door to the hallway, waiting. Manuel bit his lip. This one has depths, though he pretends to be shallow. This one could be...

Manuel shook his head minutely to push away the thought, and Olivero noticed. "What?"

"Nothing, master."

"You will stay here with us, you will not visit Connor. I believe that if you were to go to him, he would be suspicious. He would come to check on his lover, rather than leave us in peace. Besides," Olivero relaxed back on the sofa, rubbing Manuel's head genially. "The drug I slipped into his last drink should take effect soon." He chuckled. "Not enough alone to make him unconscious, but since he will be relaxing anyway," Montana shrugged. "It should be a peaceful sleep--deep enough to remain undisturbed by any," his smile broadened, "fussing."

Manuel nodded, but felt a bite of dismay. Manuel wondered if Olivero's desire for the profitable business contacts Galbraith could bring him would outweigh his madness and desire, and keep the Irishman alive. Because Olivero wanted Daniel Ballard very, very much. Wanted him--Manuel was very careful not to use the word that had almost come to him before. He was very careful not to think 'love'.

Fox walked down the hall toward the salon where he'd left Olivero and Manuel. He tried to keep his pace steady, without hesitation, but he was wincing inside at the way his shoes clacked on the bare floor. You'd think with all his conspicous consumption, Monatana would have sprung for a nice, thick hall rug, but noooo--he has to go for the fashionably bare look. So the accoustics have to be better than Carnegie Hall. Damn, I hope that Ethan is careful.

He entered the salon, and the two men looked up at him. He almost winced at Olivero's smug, expectant look. And Manuel... That was odd. Manuel wasn't looking as... friendly as he had before. He looked troubled. Crap. I hope that isn't an indication of what Olivero has in mind. But then, I haven't had the impression that Manuel would object to anything hairy that his owner felt inclined to do.

Mulder was reaching back to take hold of the door knob and shut the door when Manuel's expression cleared, though with an effort, he thought, and the young man bounced up, offering his seat with a sweeping bow. "Please, Danny!" He reached to move aside the brass figurine a jaguar, of course. How fucking symbolic that graced the center of the coffe table, leaving a clear space. "Here, plenty of room for your work."

Don't hesitate. Mulder casually let his hand drop from the knob and continued over to sit on the sofa. He put a foot of space between himself and Olivero--any more would have made it awkward--he'd have had to reach to use the table to display the work. He placed his case flat on the table and moved his hands to the latches, then paused, looking at Olivero shrewdly. "You know, what I'm going to show you could land myself and Con in some nasty place with thick walls and bars on the windows--bars that are meant to keep people in rather than out. I really think that it's only fair that you show us yours, if we show you ours. I want to see your records before we leave."

Olivero rubbed his chin. "It is possible. But Danny, I risk more than you."

"How do you figure that?"

Olivero shrugged. "The fools in charge are always more eager to stop a producer than a transporter."

"Oh, come on!" Fox snapped. "We all know that with the right kind of money, prison in this country can be a half-step up from spending time at a spa--you just don't get 'town days'. A foreigner caught on drug charges, though--oh, they love that. They take the opportunity to show the world how tough they are. Ask the college students who've been caught trying to mule out a kilo of coke."

"When I have become acquainted with your operation, I will allow you and Connor access to my own information." He gestured to the briefcase. "Now, if you please?"

Mulder stared at him, wondering if he dared press the matter, then decided that he didn't. Besides, if he actually gave in, it would be awkward if we ran into Ethan out there. With a slight grunt, he snapped open the latches, and opened the case, revealing stacks of papers and folders. "Where to start?"

Ethan had changed into a pair of athletic shoes, trusting to the rubber soles to hush his footsteps. He made his way lightly down the stairs, pausing at the bottom to check out the door to the salon where Mulder was meeting with Olivero. Open. That means I'll have to make my way around the outside of the house. Thank Christ he doesn't keep an entourage around here.

There was a door to the side, leading out onto the lawn, and eventually to the tennis court and helicopter landing pad. Ethan eased it opene and slipped out, shutting it carefully. There were two possible routes to get to the 'office' (which was where he'd decided he should start his search, figuring it would amuse Olivero to have the actual records hidden somewhere that was manifestly empty of information). The route to the right was much shorter, just to the other end of the house--but it led past the salon, and there were windows. Better to go to the left. It would mean going all the way around the house, but he wouldn't have to worry about being glimpsed, unless Manuel decided to go wandering. He'd be careful, but somehow he had a feeling (a sinking feeling) that both of their hosts would be concentrating on Mulder for some time.

He sidled along the side of the house, halting before each window, silently cursing Montana's housekeeper for being conscientious enough to open the curtains to let the sun into each room. Each time he crouched, darting his head over to take a quick glimpse into the room, and each time they proved empty, and he would proceed.

At the last window before he rounded the corner, he suddenly got light headed as he stood up. He almost stumbled, catching himself against the wall, and shaking his head to clear it. What the fuck? Because it didn't go away. And while his head was light, his legs suddenly felt heavy, and were getting heavier with each step. It felt at first as if he were wading through water, then molasses, then sand.

You didn't spend much time in Ethan's line of work without finding out what it was like to be drugged. In fact, it had been part of his training--learning to recognize the symptoms, and various make-shift methods of bringing yourself out from under it.

He could tell from how he felt that it wasn't a massive dose, in fact he wouldn't pass out if he kept his wits and fought it. But the problem was, he needed his wits and co-ordination right now. Why the hell didn't I bring smelling salts? Note to self: pack fucking ammonia capsules from now on.

He'd come to the kitchen door. It was unlocked. Monatan must feel pretty fucking invulnerable out here. More luck for me. He opened the door and stumbled through. The door almost got away from him, almost slammed back into the wall--but he caught it before the smash could go echoing through the house and alert anyone. He knew that if he didn't do something quickly he was going to end up on the tile floor. You don't have what you need--you improvise.

He headed for the sink, praying that housekeepers in Columbia weren't much different than housekeepers in America. No, not that much different. The cabinet under the sink was stuffed with boxes, cans, and jugs of cleaning supplies.

He reached past cans of scrubbing cleanser and the familiar white Clorox jug and grabbed another clear jug of pinkish fluid. He didn't recognize the brand, but he did recognize amoníaco. He dragged the jug out, swearing softly when it knocked over a spray bottle filled with blue liquid. He was kneeling on the floor by now. He scrabbled at the cap, his hands feeling limp and clumsy, and managed to work it free. But he made the mistake of trying to raise the jug instead of bending down to it, and it slipped.

He swore again as the pink liquid spilled out on the floor, but he didn't hesitate--he bent his face close to the spill, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

It worked--it worked very well, almost too well. The acrid fumes surged up his nostrils, seeming to fill his head and instantly drive away the fog that had been creeping in. Unfortunately he sniffed too hard. A droplet went up his nose, and he was instantly coughing, eyes tearing from the sting. He welcomed it, though, because the discomfort drove away the last of the disorientation, and he was clear headed again. He left the puddle--he doubted that Olivero and Manuel entered the kitchen very often, and the cleaning women wouldn't think to comment on it.

"We stagger the delivery schedules for the two shipping lines, and we never send anything over in more than four out of ten deliveries. As far as I know, the Feds have absolutely no suspicions about these two. Now, this one--they're watching it. One of the crew men found the goods and helped himself to just a little bit, and the fucking idiot got caught. He was hinting around about making a deal to get out of a stretch, but some associates had a talk with him. He was supplied with a good lawyer, who managed to plead him down to simple possession, and he got out on probation. He has since made himself scarce, and we're going to keep this line completely clean for at least another year." Fox paused, waiting for comment.

Olivero was looking over shipping schedules. "This informant--did he disappear on his own?"

Mulder's voice was cool. "We had nothing to do with it--directly, anyway. A few of the second level distributers were rather upset with him. I have no idea if they were involved, or if he simply got into the wind."

Olivero laid aside the paper. "Doesn't Connor see to such leaks himself? I had no idea that he was such a gentle soul."

"I'll thank you not to say that as if it's an insult. Connor does what's necessary. In this case the man was being watched too closely for any permanent type of solution, and any half-measures would have just driven him into the clutches of the DEA. This was the most effective and practicle solution. Violence may occasionally be an answer, but it is far from the only answer." Mulder opened another folder. "These are the vitals for our trucking companies--America, Ireland, Mexico, Britain, France, and the Netherlands. We're expanding there. Routes change on a regular basis, but I do have maps of the major ones..." Olivero's arm settled across the back of the sofa, brushing Mulder's shoulders. His fingers pinched down, creasing the paper he held slightly, but that was his only reaction.

Once he was sure that he wasn't going to cough and sneeze anymore, Ethan wiped the ammonia-induced tears from his cheeks and cautiously made his way out into the hallway. He'd made his way almost around the house, and had ended up approximately as far from the salon as he had been when he descended the stairs--just on the other side now. But the office was down a side corridor, and he made his way toward it, moving more quickly once he was around the turn.

Once inside the small office he shut the door and went directly to the computer, booting it up. As he'd expected, Olivero had set a password--even a megalomaniac had to be cautious at some point. But Ethan had a gut feeling that Olivero would have chosen something fairly obvious to anyone who had a bit of knowledge about him. He also thought that it was unlikely that anything significant was stored on the computer, so he allotted himself ten minutes to get in--no more.

First he tried both of Olivero's names, then his birthdate, and the place of his birth. He did the name of the club Olivero owned an interest in, Manuel, and the names of his parents. Nothing. He tried 'jaguar'. Access denied. Finally, feeling his throat tightened, he tried 'Duncan'.

The familiar Windows desktop appeared. Ethan wasn't sure he'd know enough Spanish to recognize anything truly significant, so he decided to take it all. He had several blank CD's in the pouch hanging from his belt, and he set about copying everything but the operating systems. Before he left it to copy and started his search of the rest of the room, he took a quick cruise through some of the files.

What he found in one unnamed folder made him want to throw up. The crime scene photos of Olivero's victims had been bad enough. Though these were actually less gory, they were worse, because the men in them were still alive, in pain, and terrified. And they look like Fox. Ethan clicked off the folder and stood up shakily. Someone needs to kill that son-of-a-bitch, they really do.

He started opening drawers and sifting quickly through papers. If anything looked the least bit interesting, he snapped it with his digital camera. Every few minutes he had to change out the CD. Finally he had eight CDs, and a few dozen pictures. He wasn't sure if any of them would be of any use. Everything he'd found so far looked several years old, and legitimate. He finally emptied each drawer and checked for false bottoms. Nothing.

He packed up the CDs and glared around the room. He started examining the floor and the walls, inch by inch. Still nothing--no panels. It's here somewhere, damn it.

"These are the warehouses we own, listed by country and city. These are the ones that we don't own, but we have key people employed in them, and they can move goods through with little effort." Mulder offered a thin sheaf of papers.

"You can trust these people?"

"As much as anyone can be trusted. Their tails are firmly in the crack if anything is ever discovered. Is it absolutely necessary for your hand to be precisely there?" Fox looked pointedly at where Olivero's free hand rested on his knee.

"I could move it higher, if you wish."

"We're still discussing business."

"As you wish." The hand was withdrawn from his knee and Olivero began questioning him about the number of truck in each company, and their hauling capacity.

A few minutes later the hand was back, this time kneading the back of Mulder's neck. Mulder glanced casually at the watch Ethan had bought him when he began preparing. It seemed like several lifetimes ago. Three o'clock--sixteen hours to go. Jesus Christ.

All right, I've tried the painfully obvious--the computer and the drawers, and the obscure--hidden caches. What else? I'd bet a year of my life that the records are here, in this room. Olivero is so fucking arrogant that he wouldn't feel that he'd need special precautions, but too cautious to just leave them in the usual places. Where haven't I looked?

His eyes roamed over the room, and suddenly a phrase occured to him. "He is a desperate man, and a man of nerve," he murmured. The line was from 'The Purloined Letter', by Edgar Allen Poe. Why am I thinking of that? That was about blackmail, but the detective was hunting for something, too. Something that he knew had to be in a particular room.

Ethan's eyes came to rest on the bookshelves. The seeker makes an identification of the reasoner's intellect with that of his opponent. All right, Olivero--not too clever, not too obvious. He reached up and took down book of history, held it upside down, and shook it. Nothing. He flipped the pages, and found nothing but history. An art book--upside down, shake, flip. Some nice van Gogh prints, but that was all. He frowned. Patterns, patterns. His hand passed over what looked like a novel, a slim book of what was probably poetry, an oversized art book... No, it was one of those stylish coffee table books, titled... He read. Locura Para el Oro. Oro is gold. Locura--loco? Crazy? Crazy for gold? The picture on the front showed a rickity sluice set up over a mountain stream. Oh, the gold rush.

He felt a sudden tingle. Holding his breath, he turned th book over, and shook it. His spirits dropped a little as nothing fell out. Not really expecting anything, he flipped the pages, giving them a cursory glance... and froze, eyes going wide. Then he started to laugh softly. "Oh, you cocky bastard." I wonder how much he agreed to pay the bookbinder, and whether or not he let him live?

The reason nothing had fallen out was that the records weren't between the pages, and weren't taped or pasted to the pages, they were the pages. They had been bound in as neatly as anything you might find at Barnes and Noble.

Ethan started snapping pictures quickly. He found two more--one on economics, another He must've really had a giggle fit over this was a history of drugs and drug addiction.

He supposed that there might be more scattered through the small library, but he'd already spent too long. He checked to see that everything was just as he'd found it, then stored the camera in the belt pouch, eased the door open, and peeked out into the hall. It was clear. He eased out, then paused thoughtfully.

There was a small, marble topped cabinet in the hallway, just before the turn to go into the main hallway. He checked it and, as he'd surmised, it was empty--just a pretty decoration. Judging from the dust inside, after it had been set in place, it had never been opened.

It would be better if his purloined information wasn't on his person any longer than necessary. And considering that we may have to make a quick exit, we might not have a chance to get back to our room and dig through luggage, so...

Ethan removed the pouch and put it in the cabinet, closing the door. It was four o'clock--fifteen more hours.

Olivero was nodding. "Quite an operation you and Connor have built for yourselves. You could even make a nice living without the special products." He laid the papers he was holding in the briefcase, then took some from Mulder and replaced them also. "I am convinced that this will be a profitable and mutually beneficial merger. All that remains it to negotiate terms with Connor."

"He'll want to go over your figures first," Mulder said. "Plenty of time for that, but there has been enough business for today." He reached over and closed the case, snapping it shut.

Mulder felt weight and warmth on his other side as Manuel wiggled into the small space on his other side. Mulder turned his head to give him a daunting look, only to find the dark young man resting his chin on his shoulder, smiling angelically.

Again there was the sensation of weight and heat on his other side, and this time when he looked back, Olivero had closed the space between them. "Gentlemen," Mulder said quietly, "I begin to feel claustrophobic."

He felt Manuel's arms slip around his waist--tightly around his waist. Olivero ran one finger over Mulder's collar. "You are a dreadful tease, Danny."

"Yes, I am, but I haven't been--not now. I know when I tease--I'm very aware of when I tease, and I haven't been teasing."

"No? Danny, you've been provoking."

He pushed Olivero's hand down. "I don't see how."

Olivero sighed. His finger dipped into the small vee of his collar, tickling the little hollow that marked the notch of his collar bone, and Mulder had to fight down a shiver. "It isn't your fault, chico. You can't help it--it's your nature--it has always been your nature. You breathe, and it excites. You smile, and it enflames."

"Yes, I'm irresistable, but you have to try, Olivero." Manuel's hands had begun to move--one sliding up, and the other down. Mulder grabbed his wrists, holding him, but he found that he had to strain to do it. Manuel didn't look all that impressive, but his slender body was all ropey muscle. From the corner of his eye, Mulder could see that the boy was grinning, knowing that Mulder must be feeling dismay.

Olivero was leaning toward him. God, I'm a fucking idiot. I should have stood up the second he took that last paper from my hands. Letting myself get trapped like a fifteen year old girl about to get date raped...

There was a loud sound, a ridiculous sound, and it filled Mulder with sudden relief. It was a yawn--a long, luxurious one. All three heads turned, and Ethan was coming through the door, casually scratching his side. "Sorry, gents. Me mum would have my hide for not covering me mouth for that one--it was a right jaw-cracker."

Olivero had sat back against the cushions, his expression blank, though there might have been a faint hint of displeasure in his eyes. Ethan walked over and stood over the sofa, looking at Manuel pointedly. Manuel continued to smile. He wiggled his fingers, as if to demonstrate his inability to comply with Ethan's unspoken demand. Mulder let go, and Manuel stood up, making a small bow as Ethan took his place.

Ethan looped an arm around Mulder's shoulder, snugging him against his side. He said casually, "You know, I can't remember the last time I was ever that sleepy in the middle of the afternoon. I just couldn't keep me eyes open."

"You looked sleepy," commented Olivero. "I am surprised to see you downstairs so soon. I thought for sure you would nap till dinner time."

"Did you, now? I'm just a bundle of surprises." He nudged the briefcase. "Did Danny satisfy your curiousity about the business?"

"My curiousity was satisfied, yes. I would be very happy to form an alliance with you, Connor. I believe that together, we can become a force to be reckonned with." He smiled. "Well, even more of a force."

"Brilliant. All that leaves is the negotiations, yeah?"

"Yes, but that can wait for tomorrow. I've had enough of dry facts and figures for today. In any case, this merger will not be documented as such on paper." He let his eyes roam once again over Mulder--and over Hunt, and his voice was soft. "But there are other ways to make pledges."