The Burning Triangle
Episode One: A Midnight Conversation
"I suppose that you know why I wished to speak with you, Miss Adler."
She glanced across the table at the man: lips pursed in reproof, eyes narrowed, shining with a droll sort of speculation.
"I think I do. Is it about the boy with the dragon tattooed on his arse?" She lit a cigarette, exhaled through her nostrils in a single breath, then smiled past the jet of smoke as she saw the look on her companion's face.
His lips had relaxed from their supercilious mould and were now elasticised into a thin grimace of distaste. "If you are referring to the late Mr. James Belfry, Miss Adler," he said, his voice directed somewhere above the space where they sat. "Then, yes, you are quite correct. I would prefer it if you would refrain from regaling me with the intimate details of your relationship, however. Allow me to remind you that we are discussing a late member of the secret service, not merely another one of your various clients."
"It's an odd thing. I don't believe that I ever agreed to discuss only those topics that interest Mycroft Holmes and avoid those that…" she smiled, "…unsettle him."
He delivered a short laugh, rich in irritation, starved of any actual humour. "You do love your jokes, Miss Adler." His own smile was infinitely colder. "Was – ah – Mr. Belfry's death another such joke?"
She held the cigarette between her index and middle finger as though they were steel pincers, her eyes utterly cold.
"I should have known that one of the Holmes brothers would try to nick me for that."
"Oh, and why is that, do you suppose?" He asked, brows raised, the mock surprise in his voice never for a moment reaching his eyes.
"Because of the little game I played with you two last. Gave you the run around, didn't I? You don't seem like a man who forgives easily, Mycroft. I think that your little feud with Sherlock proves that quite well. Don't you?"
Mycroft had gone quite still; even his face was drained of its usual eccentricities, as he contemplated the woman before him. She was usually confident in her own capabilities, but Irene still felt herself turn cold under that gaze. Caught up in the power that she herself so often exercised, she sometimes forgot that she was dealing with the most powerful man in all of Britain and that the consequences of his displeasure could be severe, if he so chose. And yet he could not extend himself past the boundaries of the law; in that, she took comfort.
Mycroft broke the silence at last with a sigh.
"I would prefer it," he said. "If you would also refrain from bringing my brother into this conversation. Now," he sifted through the papers in his file. "To begin with, I would like to know what – "
"Don't you ever get a little tired of controlling everything and everyone around you?" Irene asked, a smile playing about her lips. "Wouldn't you prefer it the other way around – just once?"
"My dear lady," said Mycroft. "I can think of nothing more gratifying than the knowledge that not only am I master of myself but master of many more besides. That includes you, I fear, Mistress Adler."
"Oh, then it's a game of power, is it, Master Mycroft?"
"This is no game, Miss Adler," he said, unsmilingly. "Did you or did you not kill Mr. Belfry?"
"What do you think?" she retorted. "Of course not."
"Righteous indignation ill becomes you, my dear. I expect your clients don't require it of you very often. No matter, no matter. I suppose I can learn nothing more from you."
"Not unless you would like me to supply a few more of those intimate details for your delectation."
Mycroft gave another grimace-smile. "Always so amusing."
He rose, taking up his umbrella; let it swing back and forth as though testing its balance. "Until we meet again, then, Miss Adler. I trust it will be very soon."
He left the café and she departed through the opposite exit, her steps carrying her down the street in the direction of home. It was late, the streets dark and the air smelling of rain and clouded with fog. She never saw the man in the overcoat as he stepped out of an alley directly behind her and caught her by the throat to prevent her crying out. The prick of a needle at the throat sent a jolt of pain through her; the next moment, she slumped, unconscious, in her captor's arms.
She was still in a swoon as they hauled her into the back of the van, and drove her away; otherwise, she might have recalled Mycroft and his passing remark:
"My dear, I can think of nothing more gratifying than the knowledge that not only am I master of myself but master of many more besides."
