A/N: Hello, readers! This story is my take on how a person might come into contact with Jim Moriarty and do business with him. I imagine it would be hard to reach him and even then, the chances of actually talking to him might be quite slim. I hope you enjoy the ride. I certainly enjoyed writing this piece immensely. Reviews/opinions/thoughts are always welcome.
Special thanks to my good friend and fellow author on this site, kriitikko, for discussing the subject with me and offering a few suggestions.
Sincerely,
Lorien Urbani
The Sixteenth Copy
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You don't contact him, he contacts you.
It was the first comment she received after, going through people, and the acquaintances of those people, and the people of those acquaintances, she finally met someone who knew how to get her in touch with one James Moriarty, the man rumoured to be able to make anything happen without leaving a trace.
At first, she did not know how to go about the matter. You had to be in the right circles and she wasn't so much. She got a hold of startling information and she knew it to be of paramount importance to a lot of people. It could serve her well, and it could get her out of the deep, rotten well of troubles that had been pervading her life for too long. The sting of the matter was in the fact that she did not know how to exploit the knowledge she had been given by pure chance.
The truth was, she did not want to have the proverbial blood on her hands. She did not wish to be the obvious bad guy, the person who directly ruined others to save her wretched, sinking self. She did not have the nerve to play complex games, and she was not nearly cold-blooded enough to start a blackmailing process and stick to it. If she started this on her own, she'd fail, she was absolutely and completely certain that she would. She lacked the necessary ruthlessness and although she knew herself to be educated and intelligent, she was not too arrogant to deny her lack of cunning and wit.
The first time she considered the idea of using the information to help herself and keep her skin on her flesh, and her flesh on her bones, she felt disgusted with herself. How could she have even thought about it for more than a second? Her mind felt like an abomination and her sense of morality roiling in the gutter. There was also the matter of love and of her loyalty to her family. Her uncle would never forgive her if he knew she was behind the process of destroying him and his work, and the whole family would hate her, excommunicating her from their presence for good. But she had loan sharks breathing down her neck and when one of them landed her in a hospital with broken ribs and a punctured lung, she knew that she wanted to live more than she wanted to be loved by blood relations.
So it was not the question of doing this thing anymore or not. It was the question of how to do it and of who could do it for her with guaranteed success. She was ready to sell and she needed a clever buyer who did not cave in because of sentimentality, uncertainty and fear. There was no room for morals, not at this point. This had become a game of survival and she wanted to live so badly that she was ready to close her eyes as others were being sacrificed at the altar of her own selfish needs. Or was it truly selfish to simply wish to stay alive? It couldn't be and it wasn't. Of that, she was certain.
As ridiculous as it was, she got most of her ideas from 90s action movies and this time was not exception.
The hero wants to get to a man; this man knows crime and criminals; the man can arrange for your problems to vanish; the man can pay for the trouble if that's what you want. So the hero thinks, I can find men of this calibre in this part of town, and in this type of bar. The man the hero is looking for likes to play cards in a particular bar and it's a public secret, something which everyone knows but no one wants to acknowledge, that this bar is a resting stop, or a meeting place, of those that hail from the criminal underworld.
She spread a map of London across the kitchen table and she used the internet. If one could find directions for making a bomb on the internet, surely she would be able to find directions for what she needed. It turned out that it was easier to find a bomb recipe lurking in the shady corners of cyber space than 'criminal bars in London'. If someone saw her, they'd laugh at her. But she had no ideas, just wants, and she had to be completely certain about what she was going to do. She read articles about the history of gangster life in London and names of bars popped up.
She'd rather die this instant than go to the bars and gambling pits that she already knew and had frequented before in her feverish eagerness to satiate the hungry beast within her that trembled with sickness if it did not get what it wanted. She promised herself that she would stop giving in to the beast this time if she got out of this whole mess alive. She'd never touch a card again, or blow at a die for luck before tossing it from her sweaty palms. She would ignore the thrill that came with it and focus on the tragedy that hit her on the head every time the number of dots did not meet her expectations.
For the present, no one could know about her new venture, especially not the men who were after her with promises of murder. Besides, she was not after the help of a common criminal who beat people to a pulp to get back the money he had lent them. She needed an advanced criminal, someone interested in more than just money.
So she acquainted herself with new bars to visit, in a part of London that was on the completely opposite side to the one she already knew; far away from the one that had already half ruined her. It was safer this way and it was prudent. She laughed at herself. Was it prudence to search for criminals when she was already in trouble with a few of them? But the new criminals would get the old ones off her back and out of her mind; she only needed to find a man who would be willing to name a good price and cash out for what she had to offer and in her limited, yet dark experience, she knew there would always be men willing to pay for information that promised to spell trouble.
She hoped she would find the right man. Not a petty criminal, not a mobster because that would deliver more trouble for her. In fact, she did not know exactly who she was looking for, but she'd know when she'd get there and she was smart enough to know she'd need to comb through a sort of hierarchy of the underdogs to get to the one, whoever he – or she, you never knew –was.
She walked to the table, poised her hand over the right corner of the map and closed her eyes, drilling a finger into a random spot. She opened her eyes, looked over her shoulder to consult the open internet page and decided where she was going. The bar was close to the street where her finger had landed. She would go there. What was the worst thing that could happen?
Well, there were a few options and she preferred to shove them to the far corners of her brain.
That time that she spent at the hospital, her uncle paid to pull her out of a stinking mess. He also said, "This is the first and last time I'm helping you unless you get counselling. I won't support your gambling. You'll play by my rules from now on or we'll stop playing altogether."
And she knew he meant it, for he never said something he did not mean. He would let her rot to make his point. He was the patriarch of the family and her guardian since she lost her parents at seven, and she was completely at his mercy.
When she was released from the hospital, she became his secretary and she worked for half the average salary of other secretaries and assistants at the DI. She had always wanted to work at the DI and she had undergone the right education, but it was not how she had imagined it. She had never expected to become an underpaid secretary of her uncle.
It was a lesson she had to learn, according to her uncle, and it was a great way of keeping her under his nose at all times. She lived at his house, she drove to work with him, she worked for him and she drove home with him. She was only allowed to go out with her cousins and he escorted her to counselling sessions once a week. When two years passed and he trusted her a bit more again, he gave her more space and her salary went up by thirty percent.
It was a mistake.
It was his mistake to trust her and her mistake to spit on him.
She met an old friend and with him came the thrill of old temptations. A drink and a kiss later, she gave in and blew at a die. The vicious circle began again, but this time, she kept it well hidden from her uncle. For a while, luck was on her side and it was easy to forget past mistakes, so in her arrogance, she committed them all again, but it was worse this time. It was far, far worse and her uncle's ominous words rang in her ears, making her hate him and want to beg him for help on her knees, but she would not do it, not when she knew he'd turn her out of the house and take her job, only to teach her another lesson.
Tough love, he called it.
Fuck you, too, she'd reply.
She'd not get help from him this time. She had a fresh scar from a knife under her left breast, a warning that, next time, the knife would pierce the flesh a little higher and much deeper, thrusting straight through the heart. She was given two months to get the money. At least the guy was not irrational. That man was known to give people time to pay him back, but he only gave them one deadline, no postponements, no broken fingers and no excuses. If you did not pay by the deadline, he'd kill you without a word and he liked to get creative. That was known, too. He cut her the first time she met him, something he always did to his clients, a friendly reminder that the rumours about him were true.
She'd kept the scar hidden, for she had learned to act and hide, but she swore to herself to not care anymore and to find help elsewhere. And now, she was going to do just that.
And so, she dressed herself carefully, as she would for work, in a black blouse, a gray tweed blazer and a grey tweed pencil skirt, with black pumps to make her taller than she was. She looked professional and she hoped that she looked as if she meant business. She did not want to come across as someone who was desperate and walking on the edge. She wanted to be a confident business woman who had something to sell and should be taken seriously. She was shaking on the inside and she had a desire to retch, but she looked fine on the outside and in this situation, it was all that really mattered.
She took a deep breath, allowed a single whimper to escape her throat and walked out of her room, ready to – well, simply ready, she supposed.
xxx
The moment she walked into the bar, all eyes turned to her and she was greeted by silence. She knew she was in the right place because in a normal bar, people would never give you the time of day, unless they knew you. In this place, they cared who entered and who walked out.
She swallowed, fighting the urge to run away, but she kept going, walking to the bar and greeting the bartender with a smile that hurt the muscles in her cheeks. It was as fake as plastic, but she hoped it looked genuine.
"A martini, please," she spoke her order, making her voice sound suave and calm. It was a stretch, a real and painful stretch, but she was doing it, so not all was lost.
"Shaken, not stirred," she added and winked, eliciting a chuckle from the bartender.
She could do this, she just had to believe in the cause, which she did. It was only hard pretending to be brave when her insides were quivering with dread. She remembered that bravery was not the absence of fear. It was the ability to overcome fear and that was exactly what she had to do.
It was not long before she caught the attention of a middle-aged man in a dark blue striped suit, with his blond curls slicked back, his blue eyes assessing her from head to toe with open appreciation. She counted her breaths, in, out, in, out. He leaned against the bar casually, clearly ready for flirtation.
"And what has brought a beauty like you to this place?"
This was her cue and she could not blow it, or she'd soon end up facing the crumbling ceiling of the local church from an open casket, eyes blind, mouth mute.
"Business," she purred, leaning forward in her seat, an open invitation to the man in the dark blue striped suit.
She came so close to him that she could smell the cologne wafting off him. It was a nice, appealing fragrance, but she had to suppress a gag. The acting was taking a toll on her, but she was being brave, wasn't she? She was overcoming her fears. She came here and she was on the verge of walking into another criminal web. That was the idea; now she better stick to it.
The man's interest was piqued and with the air of a business woman of complete independence and confidence, she threw herself into the game. He wanted to know of the business that brought her here. With feminine subtlety, she explained she was looking for a buyer interested in political and military secrets.
"Interesting," the man said, showing fascination for her. She did not know if she should blame her looks, for she was a pretty woman and it was not vanity to admit it, or if she should blame it on her impeccable performance.
"Not my area of expertise and interest, I'm afraid," he continued, "but I hope that won't keep you from accepting my dinner invitation. Tonight, 9:30, the Delaunay."
Before she could refuse, for refusal was the only thing she wanted to give him, he said, "There, we can discuss your business matter, too. I might just know a guy."
She charmed up a brilliant grin. "How could I refuse?"
Because she couldn't, although she wanted to.
But it was how it all started.
She went to that late dinner with the man in the dark blue striped suit. After the dinner, he introduced her to a contact of his. The next morning, she vanished from the man's apartment in shame, grateful that they both made it clear their adventure would end after that night. After retching up last night's dinner in the safety of her uncle's house, feeling like a complete whore with no sense of right or wrong, she called the contact he'd introduced her to. A week later, the contact brought her in touch with another guy who might be interested, but she was not entirely sure about his abilities and two weeks later, her search continued by meeting another man. Every new contact introduced her to more people, important people, dangerous men with eyes that showed murder, and the more people she met, the more agitated she was becoming. The game was real and there was no way of turning back. There were people who knew about her now and even if she wanted to, she could not stop at this point.
She had not revealed her knowledge, only offering bits and pieces of hints that she thought were appropriate. The search had been tedious and nerve-wreaking, but she felt that she was getting somewhere and finally, there came a day that showed her to a door that might lead towards a better future; the sort of future where she stayed alive a little longer.
She met a man, in his fifties, with greying hair and a permanently sour expression on his face, in Hyde Park. He was completely unassuming, but upon looking at his face, she could feel that her adventure of the last four weeks had just become startlingly real. That was it. No going back. The man exuded an air of dark importance.
She was feeding the ducks at the Serpentine Lake and he joined her with his own paper bag of breadcrumbs in one hand, never looking at her.
"The man you want," he began, without any preamble, "is James Moriarty. No one else can do any job as well as he can. No one else comes even close to what he is capable of doing, and he leaves no traces. None at all. You might say that every criminal in London works for him, half of them just don't know it."
Her breath hitched in her throat. She had reached the finish line. Why, then, wasn't she feeling any better? In fact, her gut tightened and the pores of her palms blossomed with sweat.
"James Moriarty?" she repeated, throwing a piece of dry bread into the water. The ducks jumped on it fiercely and she felt like that piece of bread. In a matter of seconds, it was gone. "How do I contact him?"
"You don't contact him, he contacts you."
Those ominous words sealed the deal for her. She had finally found the right man.
She cleared her throat. "And when may I expect him to contact me?"
This time, the man's sour expression vanished for a second, replaced by a sarcastic sneer.
"When he sees fit. He has been made aware of you and your plea. Now you wait." He looked at her, intensely, and she blinked at him, frozen in place. "Know this. The consulting criminal is the most cunning and dangerous man on the Island. Definitely one of the most dangerous men in Europe, if not in the world. It's not an exaggeration on my part. Make your problem worth his time. He doesn't appreciate anything less."
She gulped and looked away, trying to calm her heart pounding against her ribs. "Consulting criminal?"
"One and only. Consider yourself lucky. He is never short of clients, but he's not what you'd call an altruist, alright? There are not many people who get a chance to receive his help. You did well, coming all this way to cross his path."
The man threw the whole contents of his paper bag into the lake, crushed the paper into a tight ball and tossed it into a nearby bin. "Good luck," he said and walked away.
Finally, her legs failed her and she had to sit down on one of the benches, trembling like a wind in the breeze.
It's going to happen and there's a man who'll do it.
I'm sorry, she wanted to say, to her uncle, to anyone who'd listen, but she only felt obliged to feel that way. She must forget about others; this was a tough game of survival; this was a game she could not afford to lose. But she worried and she was absolutely terrified.
James Moriarty.
Consulting criminal.
Dangerous.
Cunning.
Worth his time.
Good luck.
What had she just gotten herself into?
She had a feeling that she had just thrown herself into deeper waters than she could handle.
Angrily, she slapped herself, eliciting a few surprised stares from the people in her vicinity. She ignored them.
Don't be a pussy, she chastised herself mentally. This is what you wanted.
She touched a finger to the spot beneath her left breast, tracing it over the scar hiding beneath her blouse.
She would just have to learn to become a better swimmer.
xxx
She had been on edge ever since the day at the Serpentine. Days were flowing by, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and still, there had been no sign of the man whose name was James Moriarty. The deadline was approaching at an uncomfortable speed and she had no money to offer, nothing to save her from the misery that awaited her. She was as tense as a guitar string ready to snap at any moment, the threads of her slowly tearing apart.
She could not sleep, she could not eat and panic attacks had become a regular occurrence.
Fuck James Moriarty.
Maybe she should just buy a gun and rob a bank, instead. If she was caught, at least she'd be safe from the lone sharks in prison. Wouldn't she be?
She couldn't even bite her nails anymore because there was very little left of them. Her fingers looked terrible and so did her sickly pale face. She felt sick all the time, a dead woman walking. She told her cousins she was coming down with a flu and they believed her, but her uncle's wary expression told her he was not convinced.
"Have you started gambling again?" he asked her directly, never one to beat around the bush.
"Of course not, Edward!" she replied, having the nerve to sound indignant. "I made you a promise. I really am just feeling under the weather."
The lie slipped like butter from her tongue and the look of trust in his eyes, the look of affection, fatherly and warm, for he had been a second father to her throughout all these years, was nearly her undoing.
She remembered how, two months ago, he entrusted her with a task that an ordinary secretary was never privy to. He handed her his hand-written plans, fifty pages to type on a type-writer, not on a computer, just to be sure it could not be leaked or hacked into, and copied fifteen times. He came up with a new missile strategy to be tested somewhere in the Middle East. It was a brilliant, innovative idea, surely to succeed. The location remained a secret even on those hand-written papers, but Edward trusted her, finally showing her that her gambling sins could be forgotten, that she could move forward in his eyes; that he thought her capable of that (the greatest compliment he could give her) and of keeping a secret that would promote him in the eyes of his superiors. It would promote her, for despite her terrible habits, she had been a great employee for the last two years and she should never have been merely a secretary.
Edward wanted the best for her and she was in the process of screwing him over by selling the information on the missile strategy, the sixteenth copy she made, which would probably be handed over to terrorists, for what other option was there? Of course it would wander into the hands of a terrorist cell just dying to exploit it. At least Edward would never know it was her. The consulting criminal did not leave any traces, it was said, so Edward would never blame her. She would stay alive and he would still love her, like a daughter, wouldn't he, although he was not willing to save her a second time because she had to learn her lessons?
Tough love, tough love, but at least it was love.
Edward would still love her, all would be well, he would still love her and she would be there for him when his efforts exploded into his face, and they would remain a family, and she would never touch a die again, never again, I swear to God, I fucking swear it. Maybe, he wouldn't even lose his job, just receive a harsh scolding because he was appreciated at the DI.
Ten days after learning about James Moriarty, she could hardly drag herself out of her bed. Her stomach empty, she still sauntered to the bathroom to retch, not sure anymore whether she was sick because she was going to sell her uncle and her country, or because James Moriarty clearly intended to leave her to the dogs that wanted their money back.
And still, she wanted to live. Screw morality, screw her guilty conscience, she wanted to live. Politics failed every day, but the DI would recover and so would the country and eventually, or so she hoped, so would her uncle.
She started to hate a man she had not even men yet. She hated James Moriarty. Where the hell was he? She kept the sixteenth copy on her at all times because that was the safest way and she never knew when he'd come, but he had not come yet, the bastard. She was always ready and he had not come.
The one night she managed to fall asleep, she woke up screaming, her pyjamas and the bed linen soaked in her sweat. She spent the remainder of the night crying and praying, on her knees, by the bed, making promises, so many promises, if thing should turn out well for her.
In the morning, she forced herself to get up and get dressed for work, but then she remembered that her uncle had ordered her to stay at home and get well. Regardless, she walked out of the house because she could not keep still and locked up between four walls. Dressed smartly, she began to wander the streets of their neighbourhood, walking aimlessly, the sixteenth copy safely tucked inside the inner pocket of her blazer. It was a thick thing, but she rolled the papers together tightly. There was a funny bulge under the blazer, but she could not care less about how ridiculous she must have looked, carrying that filthy, damned thing around as carefully as a baby.
Passing a kindergarten, she stopped to look at the happy children oblivious to any pain, it seemed, and the tearing string inside her finally snapped. She lifted one side of her blazer, grabbed the rolled papers and made for the bin a few feet ahead.
"I wouldn't do that," came a man's voice from behind her and she halted her steps abruptly, turning around so fast she almost tripped in her high heels.
She looked at the tall man standing opposite her, perusing his features, the angular face, the dark brown wavy hair, eyes so blue that they made her feel cold. He was wearing a black shirt, a red tie, a black leather jacket and dark jeans, the black leather boots covering his legs up to his knees. She'd never seen someone wearing casual clothes that fit so well, so perfectly. Could jeans and a leather jacket be tailor-made?
She made a step back, understanding the situation.
"James Moriarty?" she asked, abhorring the fact that her voice sounded so thin. She clutched the copy to herself, as if to protect it.
The man smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. That was always a good reason to worry and walk away, but she had to stay.
"Oh no, Jane, or do you prefer Miss Montgomery?" he replied, his voice deep and cold, as cold as his glacial eyes. Could human eyes be so unnaturally blue?
"Miss Montgomery," she said, preferring to be addressed formally and not surprised that he knew her name. He had been made aware of her, after all.
Wait, this man said he was not James Moriarty. Jane took another step back, eyeing him warily. She put the copy back into her blazer pocket, setting her lips into a thin, hard line.
The man extended his hand, his eyes ordering her to shake it. "Sebastian Moran." He added a cheeky smile. "At your service, Miss Montgomery."
Jane shook his hand out of fear. She did not wish to know what could happen if she refused him, but she tried to look composed. She did not think it was working all too well, not after days of mental torment.
"I have been expecting someone else," she said, attempting to channel resentment through her voice.
Sebastian Moran let go of her hand. "If you want James Moriarty, you have to go through me first, Miss Montgomery, and even then, there are no guarantees that you might ever speak to him personally."
He smiled in amusement and this time, the feeling reached his eyes, but Jane was not comforted.
"What I have is only for James Moriarty," she insisted. "I wish to speak with him."
Sebastian Moran's eyebrows twitched and Jane could swear that was caused by irritation.
"I speak for him. And now, we are going to talk business. If you impress me enough, I'll let you meet James Moriarty. That is, if you're a very good girl, Miss Montgomery."
Jane felt that she should return a cheeky reply, to impress the man with her directness, perhaps, to show that she was not afraid to do business with him. To show, simply, that she was not afraid. She could lie, she could impress and she most certainly could be daring.
"So what, he's like God and you're the Metatron?"
He chuckled, a strange, guttural sound that could just barely pose as a chuckle, and a cold sweat descended down Jane's spine. Too much? Yes, she probably went too far too soon.
At that very moment, a black Bentley GT Continental with tinted windows drove by and stopped. Jane knew cars and had a few on her wish list, but she would never have thought that she would get a chance to drive around in a Bentley under such extraordinary circumstances.
Sebastian Moran grabbed her by an elbow and she was forced to follow him to the car. He opened the door for her and she expected him to shove her into the Bentley, but he merely showed her inside with a gallant wave of one hand. She climbed onto the back seat, her whole body shuddering, and he followed her swiftly. As he closed the door, the driver put the car in gear and the machine moved forward.
Jane gulped. No turning back. She was either driving towards her salvation or her doom. All she knew with certainty was that James Moriarty might just as well be the most dangerous men she would ever meet, or come close to meeting, and his henchman, or right-hand man, or whoever Sebastian Moran was, was definitely a close second runner. He was no loan shark, no petty criminal, no mobster, none of the underground people that could be labelled with a criminal stereotype. She simply knew that he was a whole new level of criminal and she was not sure anymore that she had made a good choice in seeking such a man.
Sebastian Moran exhaled, leaning against the backseat with natural calm and so casually that they might as well have been driving towards a lovely holiday destination. Jane tried to act the same way, mimicking his actions, but she was radiating a sense of insecurity and fear and she knew she could not keep those hidden, at least not completely.
As if reading her mind, Sebastian Moran looked at her and said, "Come, Miss Montgomery, relax. We are here to do business, not to kill you."
He smiled reassuringly and his smile appeared entirely grotesque to Jane. One just should not smile when talking about such things.
"Let's do business then, Mr Moran," she replied, curling her lips and showing her teeth in a well-practiced smile.
She exhaled loudly and tucked her hair behind her ears. She hugged the copy with her cold fingers and pulled it out of her blazer pocket, never breaking eye contact with Sebastian Moran.
"I am selling," she said firmly, arching her left leg over her right knee, believing it would make her look more confident and assertive. Sebastian Moran glanced at her bare legs briefly and smiled ever so slightly. Jane returned the gesture. Trying to be seductive couldn't hurt, could it?
"I know," he affirmed, resting his hands on his knees.
"I have a few questions first, Mr Moran."
At this, he laughed and Jane's confidence ebbed away a little. "Let me explain how Jim Moriarty conducts business and I in his name."
He caressed his tie and leaned towards her, but Jane did not move an inch. She stared back at him defiantly.
"You do not ask questions, Miss Montgomery. You listen, and you may agree or disagree with what we propose, but you do not ask questions, are we understood, hmm?"
He sounded annoyed and severe at once, and Jane had an overwhelming desire to gulp. Instead, she nodded curtly.
"Which means," she replied, "I cannot even inquire about the driver. You see, I am not entirely comfortable talking about this," she said as she lifted the copy in the air, "in front of just about anyone. I am sure you understand, Mr Moran."
"Don't worry about the driver. He is in Moriarty's employ." He smiled charmingly, the ice of his eyes flickering for a moment. "His employees are loyal, and they know better. A well-trained dog is a wonderful animal to own."
Jane understood the meaning of his words, and very clearly. She was conducting business with the right-hand man of an elusive criminal who lorded over a secretive organisation that remained so mysterious and secret because its employees were on a tight leash, loyal to their master; well-trained dogs, as Sebastian Moran himself put it condescendingly. She did not know whether she should be impressed or frightened, or perhaps even both.
"Miss Montgomery," Sebastian Moran continued with calm authority, "you tell us what you want, we tell you what to do to get it. We name the price, you accept it and we get the job done. No traces are left and everyone's happy. Well, when I say everyone..."
He smirked and caressed the stubbled chin he had not shaved. "After the job is done, you receive confirmation and then you never hear from us again, and we never hear from you again. This goes both ways. Mr Moriarty does not repeat himself."
Jane indulged herself and gulped, as inconspicuously as she could. "I understand," she said.
"Do you?" he asked, his glacial eyes boring into her. Their colour was incredible, but entirely unnatural and Jane did not like it one bit.
"I understand," she repeated, conveying annoyance.
She felt cornered and it was a feeling she did not overly appreciate because it happened regularly in her life. This time, the feeling was heightened and she struggled against the oncoming sickness.
"Now, Miss Montgomery, what do you need?"
This was his invitation and she spoke. "I came upon military, partially political information concerning the Middle East. I want to sell it and you may do with it whatever you wish. I only need money, nothing else."
Sebastian Moran nodded. "Good. Why do you wish to sell it and not utilise it yourself?"
Jane tilted her head. "Let's not pretend that you do not know. I have a feeling you watch your clients."
He pursed his lips, as if contemplating his next words, then laughed. "I like you. We don't often get cheeky ones. I mean, obviously you're scared shitless, even a blind fool would notice that."
Jane shifted on the seat uncomfortably, uncrossing her legs and smoothing out her skirt.
"But you've got spunk," he said, pointing a finger at her. "Bravery is not appreciated by all, but the romantic in me likes it."
"Good for you," she replied, not looking at him, still focused on her skirt. "Anyway, you know my reasons."
"I know everything about you, Miss Montgomery. And when I say everything, I do mean everything. I did my homework."
She looked up at him at last, eyes wide. "You didn't have to," she said stupidly, the first words that came to her mind. She sounded like a little girl and she loathed it.
"We wanted to, we always do, but that's beside the point. I want you to tell me, in your own words, why you want to earn some money, Miss Montgomery. Do you deserve it?"
His question rattled her and she stammered something incoherent. She had definitely not expected such a question. He was regarding her curiously and in turn, she was gaping at him.
Do I deserve it?
Fuck, she didn't because she was going to do a terrible thing to take care of her gambling debts, but she needed the money anyway. She needed it to live. Wasn't that a good enough reason?
What she said was, "I have gambling debts and some people are going to kill me if I don't pay them what I owe. I don't have the money, my uncle will turn his back on me if I ask him, but now I have the means to save my skin. I hope that's good enough for you. There's a saying, Mr Moran, the client is king. I would like to exploit your service if you do not mind."
She sounded harsh and she meant to be harsh. She was clearly being tested, her character under assessment, and she'd give him something to assess. It was only after she spoke that she realised how stupid that was of her. She should not be sassing this man. Her life was in his hands and she did not know anything about him, but he might as well choose to squeeze the life out of her. His hands were big and harsh, his fingers long. She was sure they could do the job well.
He tilted his head, regarding her curiously, the way children did exotic animals when they saw them at a zoo for the first time. She leaned back against the car door, made uncomfortable by the nearness of him.
Sebastian Moran sighed in annoyance. "Do you find me repulsive, Miss Montgomery?"
His question surprised her and she blinked at him several times. "W-what? No, no," she replied hurriedly, trying to reassure him that was not the case. One did not insult people of his calibre and it was true; she was not repulsed by him; she was frightened of him. She wondered how the presence of his boss would make her feel. She'd probably lose her nerve completely.
"Then sit normally and try not to fall through the car door," he ordered, irritated. "You look ridiculous and I am not amused, Miss Montgomery. Where's that spunk of yours? I like you better when you're being insolent without soiling your pants the next second."
The rhythm of her heart accelerated in an instant and she could feel cold sweat budding on her lower back, surely to leave an ugly stain, but she forced herself to move away from the car door and sit right next to Sebastian Moran, her left leg touching his right. She allowed herself to glare at him.
"Satisfied?" she asked begrudgingly, swallowing down fear, fishing for that spunk somewhere in the lost, childish depths of herself.
He curved his lips into a thin smile and extended his hand, palm upwards. "Show me," he said simply.
She pulled the copy from her blazer pocket and placed the rolled papers, tied with a string, into his waiting hand. They never broke eye contact and Jane was proud of herself for staring the devil – or at least, the devil's minion – in the eye.
Without a word, he settled against the seat and tore the string away. For five minutes, they drove through London in silence and, never moving from her place, Jane focused on observing the streets and the people rolling by, oblivious to her predicament. She envied them, although she had no right to envy them at all. She preferred not to look at the criminal beside her, reading through the copy in silence. She tried to think of other things, trivial things. It was hard to do inside the Bentley owned by James Moriarty, with his man sitting an inch away from her.
"Interesting," she heard Sebastian Moran speak with a voice that betrayed nothing and she looked at him, his face as expressionless.
"What does that mean?" she asked, managing to sound entirely calm.
He leaned forward, his face uncomfortably close to hers, but she did not move. She knew he was testing her boundaries, trying to elicit responses from her, but she was a fast learner and she remained still. If he put a hand on her knee, she would remain still, out of spite, but she did fear for a moment that he might actually do it, as he rested one hand right next to her leg.
"It means, my dear Miss Montgomery, that there will be fun and there will be blood. How does that sound?"
She swallowed, twitching ever so slightly. Don't show fear. Don't show shock. "I told you, I don't care what you do with the information in your hands, I only want money."
He breathed in sharply, feigning unpleasant surprise. "You are a cold, mercenary woman. I'm not sure how to feel about this. It's disconcerting. Such a pretty façade, such an ugly interior."
Angry tears shimmered in her eyes, but she did not spill them. She blinked them away, not particularly caring that he saw them.
"But I'm not judging you," he said and smiled, a dark, predatory smile. "I only mean to make sure you won't crumble under the weight of the consequence because trust me, Miss Montgomery, there will be consequences."
She looked past his shoulder, through the window, but she was blind to the world outside the car now. "I am aware of it and if I wasn't sure, I wouldn't be here right now, Mr Moran."
He chuckled. "A girl after my own heart. You know, in different circumstances, I would have chatted you up in a bar. Too bad we're not going to see each other again after today."
She looked into his eyes, finding her spunk. "Don't be disappointed, I would have refused you. You're not my type."
He tilted his head back and laughed aloud. "Jim, I told you this one was going to be fun, didn't I?"
Jane froze. Jim? Abbreviation of James. James Moriarty. Sebastian Moran noticed the change in her face and shaped his lips into an O of surprise.
"Did I say Jim?" he asked and shook his head, patting Jane's knee with his hand, squeezing it a little.
Jane was too shocked to slap his hand away. "What is the meaning of this?" she asked, her voice a thin whisper, suddenly believing that James Moriarty was posing as the driver.
She looked into the rear-view mirror and Sebastian Moran tutted into her ear. Jane recoiled from him.
"He's not in the car physically," Moran said, amused by her reaction. "But he's watching us. He's been in the car this whole time, so to say," he added and pointed to an object that looked like a small black button attached to the car ceiling, just above them. Jane looked at it warily, feeling strangely exposed. It was disconcerting to know that she had been observed without knowing it this whole time and she started to hate this game. She sought the help of James Moriarty precisely to avoid games, but it seemed that he and his friend liked them.
"Most of the time, he is not bothered to meet the clients in person," she heard Sebastian Moran speak and she looked down, looking at her lap. "But your information, Jane... May I call you Jane? I mean, we are practically friends now. Oh, well, before I stray, you must know that your information is going to cause a lot of chaos. Lots and lots of it, Jane. And that's when my boss bothered enough to listen and observe."
From his jacket pocket, Sebastian Moran took out his phone and began to type onto it, but his attention never strayed away from Jane.
"Listen to me now, Jane," he was saying as he was typing into the phone. "Once the matter comes out, there will be hearings and you will be under scrutiny as well since you are the one who was entrusted with this information. Naturally, seeing as how fidgety you can be, you will be nervous about it, but you're a big girl and you will know how to make them believe in your innocence. You can lie, Jane, you most certainly have it in you. You might want to tell them you that you stupidly left your desk drawer unlocked when you stepped out for a one-hour lunch with a friend. You have always kept the files in that top drawer, haven't you? When you returned, you were anxious about your silly mistake, but all seemed it order, so you forgot about it. As for the one-hour break, simply refer to the lunch on the 27th last month when you went out with your ex boyfriend, Troy Morgenstein."
Jane stared at him, stunned by the details this man knew about her life.
"Soon after the hearings," Sebastian Moran continued, "evidence shall be found on the computer of a lower-ranking employee and a substantial new sum of money on his bank account. The scapegoat," Moran finished and stopped typing, settling the phone on his thigh. "Remain calm and do not blow your cover, Jane, or you are on your own, with no money and a certain death sentence. How does that sound?" he asked and looked at Jane.
She blinked. Her mouth was dry and she felt a panic attack stirring underneath her surface.
"Is it really necessary," she said, her voice faint, "to blame an innocent man?"
Moran looked at her mockingly. "Honestly? Not really, no, but you should do well to remember that innocent people will always suffer to help the wicked triumph and no game should be easy to play."
Jane began to massage her temples, measuring her breaths. She looked at the small camera above her, hating the little thing. Was Moriarty enjoying himself on the other side as much as Moran seemed to be doing next to her?
"Don't worry, Jane," Moran said. "We already have a target and he has been a very naughty boy. He is innocent of your crime, but definitely guilty of a different one. It does have a poetic ring of justice to it, doesn't it? How does that sound? Do you accept?"
Do I have a choice? Jane thought. She had swum too far out into the ocean. It was done. Despite giving her a choice, she knew that Moran's question was only a polite gesture. There was only one answer she could give.
"I accept."
In her head, she could hear a gavel bang against wood.
The traitor Jane Montgomery, sentenced to a life in prison for her crimes against her family and the country.
She would not go to a physical prison, but she would have to live with her actions and that was punishment already.
Sebastian Moran's phone beeped and he read the text message he had just received.
"And so does Jim Moriarty. He owns the information now. The money shall be waiting for you in your room, under the bed, in your own two suitcases."
Why was she still surprised? These men knew everything about her life, even the smallest details. Surely it could be no feat for them to enter her uncle's house in the middle of the day, undetected.
Oh, Jane, you blasted fool!
She would live, at least, but what kind of life would that be in the end?
"£25,000," Sebastian Moran added.
"Thank you," she said, thinking of nothing else to say.
She was immensely grateful and she felt immensely sick. She looked at the camera and nodded. She had no idea why she did that, but it felt right. It was funny that she still thought about right and wrong, considering how uncertain her sense of judgement had become recently. She hated herself, but she was weak and she had every intention of making good use of the money.
"A pleasure doing business with you," he said, taking her hand into his and shook it.
The car stopped and she was asked to exit it. So easily, she was dismissed and Sebastian Moran's interest in her stopped abruptly.
"Good bye, Miss Montgomery," he said and the car drove off.
Jane remained standing on the pavement, not sure at all in which part of London she was. She had forgotten about her surroundings a while ago, but she hoped that a cab would drive by soon. She was trying to think about the scene she had just experienced, analysing it in her mind, but it all seemed entirely surreal and impossible. But it had happened, and she would live, and she would have to live with herself.
Lost in her thoughts, she crossed the street.
She did not see nor hear the car until its brakes squealed and she was hit.
The driver called the ambulance and he held her hand while they were on their way.
"Miss, you stay with me, miss! Don't you close your eyes, miss, please, miss, miss!"
But Jane was tired and she could not say anything anymore, nor did she wish to. She thought about the irony of the situation, about what damage would be done because of her and all for nothing.
She managed a bitter smile and closed her eyes.
She did not open them again.
xxx
"I do love irony," said Jim Moriarty after reading Jane's obituary in next morning's newspaper, a habit in which he liked to indulge.
He took a sip of tea and immediately erased Jane Montgomery from his mind, as he did all his former clients.
He threw the sixteenth copy on his desk and adjusted his new tie.
Time to play.
Fin