Chapter Twenty-eight: "Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind." ~ Rudyard Kipling
I am completely distracted on the ride back to Knightsbridge, and quite nearly miss my stop. The stairs up to the street are overrun with days-end travelers going down, everyone as intent on getting home as I am; it's a miracle I don't crash into anyone. When I emerge from the crowded underground station, I take a deep breath of relief and deliberately slow down, winding my way through the puddles on the pavement, stepping hard into the shallow pools of water to make little splashes as I make my way home.
I'm still mad as hell, but starting to doubt my first reaction. I mean, I don't have a shred of evidence that it was McCutcheon that bugged the flat, do I? Then again, it may well have been him. I need to talk to McCutcheon again, full stop. No big scorching confrontation, though. Just a nice, low-key chat. Sure, Mycroft asked me to avoid "questionable associates," but to hell with that. I can sit at home and go mad wondering what's going on, or I can go talk to people and find out for myself. I'd rather know.
Back at my flat–– MY flat, damn it!–– I toss together a quick tea and fire up my laptop so I can have another look at the latest postings in the "Outrageous Client" thread. It makes entertaining reading whilst I eat, although a couple of times I'm in danger of spraying my computer with sandwich particles. The bit that Gina contributes about "Mr. Berriman" and the Alsatian dog just about does me in...
The sky is still heavy with clouds, so it's already dusk by the time I'm standing in front of the wardrobe and contemplating my clothing choices. Verge is the obvious place to start looking for McCutcheon; even though it's not a Friday and he might be elsewhere, his contacts will be around. I'm sure that I can coax his whereabouts out of someone at the club.
Not this...not this...no, not that...wore that last time...boring...too short...Sigh. It's one of those cupboard-full-of-clothes-but-nothing-to-wear nights. Nothing seems right, and I realize that what's actually bugging me is wondering in the back of my mind if I should go out alone or not. There are a more than a couple of men I could whistle up for tonight, even on such short notice, but none of them is exactly what you would call quality. I could hire an escort –– and isn't that a laugh, an escort hiring an escort? –– or a bodyguard for the night...
Why am I afraid to go out alone? Is it because I think I need a bloke to protect me? Or because I don't want people to think I couldn't get a date? Both of those are pretty lame reasons, really. The bottom-line question is, do I really want a companion tonight? The honest answer is...not really. I would prefer to be on my own.
Well, that's settled. So, clothes––right for clubbing, but nothing too flashy or slaggy. I recite the urban girl's mantra: When in doubt, wear black. I pull on my body-con stretchy black dress, black tights, low boots, a jangle of silver belts, hair in a tidy bouffant, just a modest cat's-eye eyeliner. Very understated –– for me, anyway. It'll do.
I consider for a moment sneaking out the window to evade my security detail; I would just as soon Mycroft not know about my little expedition, and it might save a lot of explanations. But, I don't want to look like I have anything to hide, especially when I think about the slender thread of trust that I feel is starting to build between us. I reckon he'll forgive me going out to talk to McCutcheon, but sneaking away is a different matter––even though I'm not looking for trouble, I'm just going dancing...
I phone my favorite driver for a pick-up, and then make good on my earlier promise and phone Sara. It's what our usual conversations have become nowadays; she tells me about her day, and I don't tell her about mine. I have a pretty good idea how she would react to Sherlock breaking into my flat and harassing me––Normal people don't do that!–– so I leave that out and just talk about visiting with Edgar and Mad Ferret Lady.
By the time my driver pulls up, Sara and I are nattering about pretty much nothing at all, but just before we say our goodnights, she coyly mentions, "By the way, I might have some big news in a few days..."
"Oh, now, that's not even fair, Sara! You can't do that to me! What's the news? C'mon!"
She pauses and giggles, which is weird, because Sara doesn't giggle, she chuckles; but this is definitely a giggle. "Richard has been seen in the jewelry store...perusing rings..."
I pause, my hand on the car's door-handle, a stab of...something in my stomach. "You think he's going to propose to you?"
"Yep." Another giggle. This is so weird, it's not like her. I almost say something along those lines, but I realize that would be an echo of her to me a few days ago. I don't want her to feel like I did, criticized and unsupported. This is Sara, too, this giddy girlishness; it's just not a part of her I especially resonate with or even like.
"I'm so happy for you!" I tell her, and I try to mean it. "You better keep me posted, right?"
She promises to keep me updated on the latest, and as I climb into the car I tuck my phone into the top of my low boot, checking to see that my money and keys and other necessaries are already stowed in the other one.
I don't even bother to look and see if there is a black car following somewhere behind us as we head toward the motorway, but my driver notices. He glances at me in the rear mirror and asks, "Do you know we're being followed? Is that okay?"
I nod, looking out the window. "Yeah. It's okay. They're just doing their job," I say absently.
I see his silhouetted shoulders shrug, and that's it for any talking, which is just as well. I like him fine, but I don't hire him for conversation.
So, Sara and Richard getting married. My sister getting married. Having kids. All that.
It's not that I'm against settling down and all that, I mean, I can see where it would make some people happy, to have a family. I just don't have that urge, really. Not at the moment, anyway. Maybe I never will, I don't know. It's never been on my list of life accomplishments, but I know it always has been for Sara.
I feel a little glum about it, really. It's how you feel when a close friend tells you she's going to be moving away sometime soon. You start anticipating the loss, hurting even before the hurt can hit.
It doesn't take too long for us to reach Verge. I pay my driver and send him on his way, buy my ticket and go through the security check still completely preoccupied. Damn, Sara's announcement has really thrown me; who would've thought? I stretch up on my toes and give myself a good shake. Time to concentrate, Angelica! Focus on what's in front of you.
Even though it's still pretty early, and not a weekend night, the club is by no means deserted. I look longingly at the bar, but decide to forego any alcohol tonight. I'm determined to keep my wits about me this time. The music booms and throbs through me, tugging at my belly and making my hips sway as I walk. It makes me smile when I realize it; I really do love dancing, I should come out more often again. There was a time when I was out nearly every night, dancing and partying. Of course, that was when I should have been home studying, but it was still a lot of fun.
It's funny, but when I started escort work, I stopped clubbing quite as much, and then gradually stopped altogether. I guess when you go out on the town for your job, there's less incentive to do it as recreation.
Just like last time, I am immediately approached by a succession of young men offering for sale whatever I'm looking to buy. Now, though, I understand why Verge is such a free-for-all for recreational chemicals; this place is Doreshchenko's outlet shop...and it occurs to me that the hefty admissions charge at the door would make a great way to launder the drugs money. No wonder Cobb wanted a piece of it.
I skirt around the edge of the dance floor and make my way upstairs to where Evan McCutcheon was holding court when I first met him. His place on the sofa is vacant, but there are still two very large and business-like security guard types at their posts, exactly as there were before. I go up to one of them with a friendly smile.
"Hullo, gorgeous! Listen, you wouldn't happen to know where Evan is tonight, would you? I'd love to talk to him."
The bloke might as well be carved from mahogany; his dark face remains totally impassive, and he doesn't give me so much as a flick of an eyelid. I can't even tell if he's breathing...
As I sigh and turn away, a skinny young man in an immaculate light grey suit comes up to me, showing his teeth in a tight smile. "Can I help you, miss?" he inquires. He has a heavy Russian accent, and an air of suspicion.
"My name is Angel, and I'm looking for Evan," I tell him. "Is he here tonight?"
I'm weighed and measured in a brief glance from the bloke's long-lashed dark eyes, and the frown he makes forms a single deep crease between his brows. "Wait here," he orders, taking out his mobile and thumbing a text.
A reply isn't long in coming, and the skinny suit glances down at it, and up at me in some surprise. Suddenly quite deferential, he bows to me slightly."Please, won't you be following me? This way."
He leads me through a side corridor and down and around darkened halls. The music slowly fades as we go further into the belly of the old building, but it never completely vanishes; there is the constant suggestion of thrumming music and high conversation and laughter hanging in the air.
At the end of the dim hallway is a half-opened door, spilling a puddle of light onto the industrial grey carpeting of the hall, and my guide stops and bows to me again, gesturing toward it. I give him a murmur of thanks, and stroll through the open door, giving a sharp rap with my knuckles on the wooden frame as I pass through.
McCutcheon and a young bloke in a suit are sitting on an overstuffed black leather sofa that dominates the small room. Each of them is gripping a games controller, intent on the wide-screen in front of them. The volume is turned up so loud that the imitation gunfire and explosions rattle my eardrums, making me wince. I stand uncertainly just inside the doorway, waiting.
Neither of them seems to notice me, and after a few moments I choose a chair by the doorway and sit down, taking in McCutcheon's office. If it is an office. I suppose it's an office, but it's not your usual sort. There's no power-center desk, for one thing; the room is focussed around the leather sofa and wide screen. There's a coffee table in front of the sofa, an end-table or two, some armchairs like the one I'm sitting in, and the whole of it done up in metal and glass and tones of black and grey, including the walls. It feels like a posh but nondescript little living room––in a spaceship.
I sigh, and lean back, waiting. They're playing one of those realistic combat games, and the Ooof! and Aaargh! that the soldiers make as they die would be humorous if it weren't so irritating. Finally, they finish the round or whatever you call it, and McCutcheon leans back, laughing softly, and claps the other man on the shoulder.
"Good one, Sergei! You completely kicked my ass, you son of a bitch!" His strange accent always jars me––fake American, or fake Scots, or both.
"Pure luck, sir." Sergei puts the games controller down on the coffee table and stands up, glancing meaningfully over at me. "Should I stay, or wait outside, sir?"
"Nah, neither one." McCutcheon tosses his controller onto the thick glass top of the coffee table with a clatter. "Why don't you go out on the floor and see if you can pull yourself a bird, or whatever it is that you people call getting a piece of ass, eh? You work in a goddamn nightclub, go have some fun!"
Sergei nods and leaves without another word, although he pauses as he goes out to point at the door with a questioning look. McCutcheon answers the unasked question, "Why don't you leave it open, okay? I want our Angel here to feel comfortable." He turns his pale, doughy face toward me, acknowledging my presence for the first time.
"I've been expecting you, Angel. You sure didn't waste any time, did you?" He cocks his head with a smile that doesn't reach his mocking eyes. "I mean, you find my little cameras and BOOM! Here you are." He chuckles at my look of shock, then grins widely in real glee as my cheeks flush with anger. "Well, I should say that Mycroft's baby brother found them, right? His face was the last image..."
That son of a bitch. I can't believe he's sitting there, gloating like this. "Why?!" I grit out through clenched teeth.
McCutcheon folds his hands across his paunch with a genuinely pensive look. "Why, indeed. That's a good question, you know? I've spent a lot of nights asking myself that. I'm sure you have, too, haven't you?" He looks and sounds serious, and I can't tell if he's fucking with me, or if he's high, or simply mad. "You know what my conclusion has been, after all these years of asking Why?" McCutcheon continues thoughtfully. "I've had to conclude, Why not? I mean, why not? Shit happens, and it might as well be you as me, or them, right? Shit happens."
I decide that he's probably high; I've been on both sides of conversations like this, and it is a total waste of time. "Why did you bug my flat, Evan?" I growl. I'm just going to keep at him until he gives me something resembling a rational answer.
McCutcheon gives me a nasty smile. "Because TV is fucking boring, that's why. I was hoping for some real entertainment."
"Really." I revise my estimate. He's not high. Possibly mad, though, and definitely trying to take the piss out of me.
"Really. But you and Mycroft were kind of disappointing. The only hot action I got to see was in the chair––that was fucking amazing, by the way––but the camera was aimed at the bed and not the goddamned post, so I missed everything else. Too bad. At least the audio was good, though. That was nice. You're quite a screamer."
I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of a reaction again. "Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"
"I loved the little chat you had afterwards, too. Very cozy. Gave me the warm fuzzies."
"Why did you bug my flat, Evan?" I refuse to give up.
McCutcheon sighs, runs his hand over his shaved scalp. "You're starting to irritate me, Angel. You don't want to be doing that."
"You're beyond irritating me, Evan. I want to know why you bugged my flat."
His demeanor is still unruffled, although his face isn't relaxed any longer; it's a tightly composed mask. I am having to work like hell to retain my own composure, but I'm doing my best to match him cool for cool. We stare at each other for a moment. "You know," he tells me, "I actually like you. I really do, believe it or not. And I'm about to do you one hell of a favor." He picks up a computer mouse from the end table at his elbow and, using the top of his thigh as a mousepad, calls up his computer desktop on the wide screen and begins clicking through the files. "You'll thank me later."
Thank him later? That sounds eerily familiar. "Why did you bug my flat, Evan?"
He stops and closes his eyes, sighing with exaggerated patience, "Because people talk after they fuck, Angel. They talk about lots of things. And you were going to be steering the conversations toward some important topics for me before we went to the next phase. But thanks to Sherlock, we can't do that now, can we? He's probably already told Mycroft about the surveillance. So we have to go to the next phase prematurely."
"What the hell do you mean, WE? I would never have agreed to any of that!"
"Oh," he says absently, "Yes, you would have. You will. Hang on, I'll find it in a minute." He is flicking through page after page of files on the screen, then says triumphantly, "Hah! Got it." He turns toward me. "Now, I want you to pay close attention, especially at the very beginning, because you might miss the most important bit. In fact," he pats the leather cushion beside him, "In fact, I think you should sit here. It's a better viewing angle, less distortion." He sees my hesitation and adds, "Don't worry, I don't bite! I won't touch you at all; I don't even like girls." I raise an eyebrow at him, and McCutcheon chuckles and adds, "Nor boys."
He's right about the viewing angle, so I reluctantly join him on the sofa. "What, then? Martians? Ponies?"
He turns back toward the screen and rapidly clicks the mouse, opening a video viewer program. "None of the above, actually. I've been impotent for quite a few years. Medical complications." He sounds very offhand about it, and I really don't care, so I don't ask any further.
I glance over at the open door, and note that it is still seems unguarded as well. If things get weird, I can simply walk away; McCutcheon is no match for me physically, and he doesn't seem to have a weapon of any kind. So, then, why do I feel dread blooming in my stomach?
"Ready?" McCutcheon's watery blue eyes actually look alive right now, which increases my dread. Anything that a man like this gets happy about can't be a good thing––but I want to see it. I want to know.
He can see the conflict in my face, and the smile spreads from his eyes to light up his entire face with an unholy grin. "Ready?" he asks again. I nod mutely, and clench my hands into fists.
The first shot that loads up is a fuzzy, lone figure of a dark-haired, bearded man sitting in a straight-backed chair with a small table beside. There is nothing else, just a man in a chair, and the little table. Everything is shadows of grainy grey, and I realize that the recording is in very low-resolution black-and-white. The picture is shifting and rolling, like it's taken with a hand-held camera.
The picture zooms out of focus and back in again, and I can suddenly see clearly that the seated man is blindfolded, with his hands and feet manacled to the legs of the chair. With a twisting churn in my stomach, I glance over at McCutcheon to tell him to turn it off. I don't want to see this kind of shit. I don't want this in my brain.
"You're gonna miss it!" he says excitedly, and gestures at the screen. I look again, and the camera has panned over to show a door opening and a figure in a dark waistcoat and rolled-up shirtsleeves entering the room. My mouth goes dry.
It is unmistakably Mycroft who enters and carefully locks the door behind him, although from the level of his hairline and the contours of his face, it has to be at least a decade ago, probably more. He glances in the direction of the person holding the camera––McCutcheon, I guess––and gives a slight nod, then gazes intently at the seated man. Mycroft's expression is absolutely calm and remote, except for the slight telltale tightening of distaste around the corners of his mouth.
I know that look. It's the same one I saw when he pinned me in the lift. Seeing it gives me a shudder, and I feel sick. McCutcheon pauses the video with young Mycroft centered in the frame. He's watching my reaction closely, eyes glittering.
"Ready to watch the show?" he asks, and positions the cursor over the 'play' button. "It's fucking amazing."
"No," I tell him, flatly. "NO. That's enough. I can guess the rest, I don't need to see it. Play it and I'm out of here, full stop."
McCutcheon sighs and looks disappointed. "You'll be missing the world's only identifiable footage of a master at work, you know. He was the best, the absolute best, but so goddamn camera-shy! I got him on this one, though; the bastard never suspected that I'd actually use something as cliché as a watch-cam." Chuckling, McCutcheon waggles his eyebrows roguishly at his own cleverness. "Goddamn genius at interrogation. You know what his nickname was in the Coalition? 'Ice Man.' He could get information out of anybody, didn't matter who." McCutcheon gestures at the screen where Mycroft is frozen in time, glaring at the captive in the chair. "One of theirs, one of ours, men, women, young, old, didn't matter. Ice Man never hesitated. You could count on him not to mind racking up the body count. He didn't give a shit."
I have no doubt that McCutcheon is exaggerating things, none at all. Still, I can't tear my eyes away from the figure on the screen. "Okay, so Mycroft used to do interrogations." I shrug. "You're obviously trying to make him out to be some kind of inhuman monster––why should I believe what you say? Do you expect me to hate him now?"
"No," McCutcheon replies evenly, "Not just yet." He clicks back through the files on the screen, saying a soft "Ah!" when he finds the one he wants, and hits play without further comment.
Better quality than the first one, but still black-and-white and grainy low-res. It's a well-appointed, very posh office of some sort, one I've never seen before, and the point of view is from up high, looking down at a tilted angle. For all that, I can see fairly well. Two men, both seated. I don't know the elderly gent sitting behind the desk, but the other one is definitely Mycroft, sitting at his ease, legs casually crossed. It looks recent; in fact, I know the suit he's wearing, the dark pinstripe. I keep watching because, frankly, I'm intensely curious. If McCutcheon thinks he can get me to hate Mycroft with recordings of shady government deals, he's completely mistaken; but then, the man doesn't know me at all.
"What do you think? Should we intervene or not?" The older gent has his hands splayed flat atop some papers spread on the desk before him, and his lined face is creased with deep concern.
"Oh, best to hold off, in my opinion," Mycroft offers. "Everything our agents have––"
McCutcheon softly curses and pauses the recording. "Damn it, wrong place. That shit is boring. Hang on." He fast-forwards it nearly to the end.
Neither man on the screen has moved much, but a curvy brunette in a dark skirt-suit has suddenly appeared in this later frame, standing with her hands clasped behind as if at attention; I know her.
"Sir," Anthea says, addressing Mycroft, "Are you sure about that? Without our protection––"
Mycroft doesn't have to say a word to stop her in mid-sentence; he just lifts an eyebrow slightly. Too late, though. The gent across the desk leans forward, asking "Well? What happens then?"
With a glance at Mycroft, Anthea clears her throat softly and continues. "Well, sir, without our protection, it's certain that Dijkstra will be terminated by one faction or another, and there will be consequences. There were some...safeguards he put into place, information that would be released to certain people if anything happened to him..."
"A deadman switch, of a sort," Mycroft observes. "Quite clever, and it's kept him alive this long, but I think the time has come where we can no longer delay the inevitable. In any case, the balance of probability is for the outcome to fall in our favor."
"I see." The grey head nods in agreement. "Well, then you should proceed as you think best." The old man frowns down at the papers, shuffling through them. "There was another issue... Ah, what about this young woman?" He pulls out a large photograph and lays it on top of the pile, I can see it, it looks like... Oh, my god. I stop breathing.
"One of Dijkstra's associates," Mycroft explains, his face completely neutral.
"And she is...?"
"Currently of some use."
"Enough to justify Grade Four active surveillance? And a Level One access as well?"
"In my opinion, yes." Mycroft offhandedly flicks an invisible speck of lint from his knee.
"I'm disturbed that her involvement in this matter seems considerable, Mycroft, but we have no safeguards for her discretion."
"She has a family attachment that would suffice, I believe." Oh, god.
"Hmm." The older man leans back in his high-backed leather desk chair. "Do you remember the Jenkins affair, Mycroft?" he drawls.
Mycroft draws a deep breath. "Vividly," he says with distaste. He shifts slightly in his chair, looking thoughtful. "If you like, we could simply terminate when the operation is concluded. A waste, to be sure, but it would prevent future problems, and certainly avoid a Jenkins-type scenario."
Looking slightly appalled, the grey head backpedals, "That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"
Mycroft raises his eyebrows eloquently. "What is extreme in one circumstance, is completely reasonable in another. Context is everything."
"Absolutely, but I hardly think an automatic termination is justified in this case. However..." He picks up my photo again, regarding it closely. "That certainly would be an option, if it proves necessary." He sighs, filing my photo into an envelope. "You may act at your discretion, but bear in mind that any repercussions are on you alone."
Mycroft's expression doesn't change at all, but he parks his tongue briefly between his molars. "Of course."
There is a click from the mouse in McCutcheon's hand, and the recording pauses. "You want to see that again?" he asks dryly.
I shake my head and stare wordlessly at the figures on the frozen screen, then gradually slump forward like a rag-doll, the bitter taste of betrayal rising like bile in my throat as I press my forehead against my knees.
Terminate. Mycroft was offering to murder me.
And he let Steen be murdered. Deliberately. He let them have Steen. No wonder he figured out so easily who was responsible for Steen's death––he already knew who the likely suspects were.
It hurts, it hurts, but what hurts even more is the confirmation of my deep-down worst fear. I was afraid he wasn't for real, that it was all a sham. And I was right. Who was I kidding, believing that someone like me could really matter to someone like Mycroft?
'Broken-hearted' is such an odd phrase. Hearts can't break, they're made of muscle, sinew; I dissected a cow's heart once in a biology class. Impossible to see how that lump of thick muscle could be described as breaking, but there's no other word for the hollow crushing in the centre of my chest. Broken. I can't think, I can't run, all I can do is breathe, softly chanting, "Ow...ow...ow..."
McCutcheon reaches out and pats my shoulder gently. I want to flinch away from his hand, but I can't move. "It's hard, I know," he says, and god help me, the compassion in his voice sounds genuine. "But better now than later, right?"
Suddenly I feel hot tears pricking behind my eyes, a gathering flood that I willfully blink back. I'm not going to snivel like an infant, especially in front of this creep. I pull myself bolt upright again, sniffling and carefully wiping a finger under each eye to get rid of the moisture without smearing too much eyeliner.
"So." My voice quavers a little, and I ruthlessly steady it. "So, is this supposed to be your fucking good deed for the day, Evan? Your charity work?" I ask bitterly.
He shakes his head with a mirthless chuckle. "Charity begins at home, in my book. You could call this enlightened self-interest, though."
"Enlightened? What's enlightened about it?"
"Like I said, better now than later." He cocks his head and adds, "I bet you feel pretty stupid right now, don't you? He's played you right from the beginning, you know. In everything. It's all been his game, and there wasn't any reason for him to play it except for his own fun. It was real for you, and he knew it. And he didn't care." McCutcheon turns to look at the screen. "Don't you want to get even, Angel? Don't you want some revenge?" He looks back at me, and his expression is compassionate and sincere, and just a little outraged. "Don't you think you deserve it?"
And wouldn't that just be so damned useful to you. I don't doubt that he has set this up for me to become a weeping harpy, hell-bent on making Mycroft pay...and doing loads of favors for Mr. Evan McCutcheon along the way, of course. Just incidentally.
My stomach explodes with anger, red-hot rage boiling up and flushing my face again. Damn you! Damn you both! I have had it with being anyone's pawn, in any game whatsoever. I'm done. No more. I am so bloody done.
McCutcheon must see my anger rising, because he gives me an encouraging smile and croons, "You have a right to be angry, Angel. I can help you."
Oh, I'll bet you'll help me, you bastard! I almost tell him off, but I have a change of mind at the last second. I'll be able to learn more if I let him think he's winning me over than if I deal out to him what I'm actually thinking. I want out of this, and away from every one of these arseholes––but first I want to know what is really going on.
"I...I don't know what to think, Evan. I'm so angry and confused!" I let him see my hurt, and he happily eats it up with an expression of the deepest sympathy. "How can you help me?"
"Lots of ways, lots," he says soothingly. "But you have to calm down and mellow out first, okay? And I need something for pain as much as you do. My back is killing me." McCutcheon smiles, and reaches into the drawer of the steel and glass end table beside him, drawing out a blown-glass pipe of the most exquisite blue. "Come over to the Dark Side, little Angel––we have the best goodies!" He laughs softly at his own cleverness, and tamps down the herb packed in the bowl before lighting it up. He draws in a deep hit and then offers it over to me, slowly releasing a cloud of acrid smoke.
I reflexively take the bowl, the same reflex making me glance over at the open door. McCutcheon laughs out loud, and shakes his head. "Angel, the only cops in this place are on our payroll. You can relax." He waves a hand at the pipe in my fingers. "That's my own blend, you'll notice just a little heaviness in the aftertaste; I have it blended with a pinch of opium, for pain relief."
I look at the pipe, honestly admiring the artistry of the smooth cobalt glass. I remember the last time I tripped on something that McCutcheon gave me; it turned out to be more than I bargained for. "Oh, so this is medicinal, then?" I ask archly.
"Fuck, yeah, it's medicinal." His eyes are already a little heavier-lidded, I think, his face more relaxed. "My insides are so completely fucked up that the only thing keeping me alive is massive doses of anti-inflammatories, which fuck you up in other ways, you know?" He looks at the wide-screen, where the tableau of Mycroft, Anthea, and the old gent is still paused in mid-meeting. "Basically, I'm dying. Well, we're all dying, aren't we? But I'm dying faster than I should be, thank you so much, Uncle-fucking-Sam."
I decide to go along with smoking up, or at least pretending to, since that seems to be McCutcheon's way of bonding. I light up and take the smallest lungful that I can manage to, hoping that I'll look more inept than reluctant, handing the bowl and lighter back with a question. "So, what happened? Why are you ill?"
"It's a long, boring story, but it comes down to getting my ass sacrificed for the good of a mission. I survived it, but I got exposed to some nasty shit that gave me cancer and a bunch of other problems––and guess what? My fucking government won't even foot the bill for decent treatment; I get the same bullshit that any other vet gets. Fucking VA hospitals and fucking VA incompetence." He re-lights the bowl and takes another long, deep draw. "Over here, I'm closer to the clinics that do things that actually help, but they are fucking expensive, you know? There's a private hospital in Zurich that actually might have a cure for the type of cancer that's killing me, but it's gonna cost over twenty grand up-front to even check in." He shakes his head and hands me back the smoldering pipe.
I can feel the effects even from that small hit I took, so I make sure the next one is barely anything––but I can still feel the corners of my mouth tugging up for no reason at all, and behind that a lovely floating feeling that must be the opium... No more! I pass it back quickly to McCutcheon. "So, is that why you work for the Pigman?"
McCutcheon laughs so hard his belly shakes under the black t-shirt stretched over it, and he nearly drops the pipe. "Work for Sacha? I don't work for that pig-fucking Russian! He works for me!" I wonder what Doreshchenko would say to that? McCutcheon draws on the pipe again, but doesn't pass it back to me; I guess my lack of enthusiasm was apparent. "I run the operations, Sacha provides the manpower and casts a big enough shadow for me to hide in, but the kind of piddly-assed operation that I've been able to scrape together with him just isn't going to cut it. I need some serious money, and I need it while I'm still breathing, so that's why I've been dicking around trying to pull together a deal for both parts of that goddamned Torch."
He takes one last hard hit on the pipe, and grinds around with his little finger in the ashes in the bowl, finally tapping it out carelessly onto the carpet. "You would not believe what a cluster-fuck that's been. But I'm almost there, now that I know exactly where the code book is and how to get to it." Laying the pipe and lighter onto the coffee table beside the games controllers, McCutcheon settles back with a contented sigh. "I'm going to be so goddamn happy to hand off the formulas and the decoding keys to my buyers, afterwards I am going to have a fucking one-man party and not regain consciousness for a week."
I giggle at the thought of being passed out for a week. He's so funny! "So, you're not going to keep it? The Torch thingee?"
"Fuck yeah, I'm giving Sacha a copy of the code book to go with his copy of the coded lab notes. That was the deal, and I've got no reason to screw him over. But the originals, those are going to my buyers, for lots and lots of money, more than Sacha will be making selling brain-candy out of this crap-heap here." He gestures vaguely around us. "You know, that lab spent a decade cooking up some very interesting shit, some real game-changers." A grin splits his face, and McCutcheon starts to chuckle. "Me, I'm such a son of a bitch that I'm hoping some of that shit actually gets deployed. I want to watch the bastards panic!"
Suddenly I remember hearing what was in those lab notes. "Like, chemical terrorism? You're talking about chemical weapons, aren't you?" He nods. "They could kill people!"
McCutcheon shrugs. "Yeah. Maybe. I don't care what they do with it, to be perfectly honest. Even with good treatment, I probably won't last another five years, so whatever my little camel-jockeys decide to do with the shit that they cook up is pretty much not my problem. I give no fucks at all," he finishes serenely.
Dreaminess gone, I stare at him in horror. "You're completely mental. You can't just sell weapons like that to terrorists, knowing that they'll turn them against your own people!"
McCutcheon's face is supremely indifferent. "My own people? I have no people. Let me tell you a story, little Angel: Once upon a time I was willing to die for the fucking freedom of the fucking free world. You know what? I found out it's nothing but a goddamn lie. Once they used me up, once I was no longer an asset––pffft," he shrugs carelessly. "Done. Expendable. There is no happily ever after."
He waves at the wide-screen with the three figures emblazoned on it. "Do you honestly think that any one of those motherfuckers cares if you live or die? Of course they don't! Why would they, for fuck's sake? There's no advantage in caring. They're the ones who have the power, you are one of the ones who don't. It's very simple."
He's utterly convincing, but it just feels fundamentally wrong––and my automatic defense against that cognitive dissonance is to get preoccupied with details. "So how did you get that footage anyway?" I wonder aloud. "That's obviously a high-level government office, and I bet they've got ways of finding cameras and stuff."
"Good girl! You might have a brain behind those pretty eyes after all." I restrain the urge to slap the patronizing look off McCutcheon's face. "You're right, they monitor the hell out of all energy signatures in that building. But you know what? Those cheap-ass cameras I get from China don't register on their high-tech sophisticated equipment––because they don't believe that anybody would actually use that low-grade crap. Except that I love that low-grade crap. I'm not proud, I'll use anything."
"And how––" McCutcheon clicks away the video program, and I get distracted by the flashes on the screen, forgetting what I was going to say. "How..."
"––how did I get the camera in there to begin with? Cleaning crew, same as your apartment. Nobody pays much attention to the cleaners, do they?"
"And...and––"
"––why did I bug that office?" McCutcheon chuckles again. "It wasn't to get footage of Mycroft talking about you; that was just a lucky byproduct. My main objective––let's just say I was doing a favor for a friend, right? Politics is like that, Angel, people doing each other favors, calling in favors, shitting on the guy who won't return favors, stuff like that. What I do is politics, unofficial politics."
I close my eyes for a moment, resisting the urge to rub the dry irritation I suddenly feel in them. That would be the weed, I think; it's been a while, I probably have no tolerance for any side effects. I open my eyes with a sigh to find McCutcheon gazing at me thoughtfully.
"That's how things get done, Angel. People doing each other favors. You help me, I'll help you."
"Like, help me how?"
"Well, you want to get Mycroft, don't you?"
Not really, I think. I don't want revenge. I probably should, but I don't. At the moment, I just want to stay the hell away from him, but what I say is, "Of course..."
"Well, then, I can help you, and you'll be helping me at the same time. See how nice that is?"
"Nice, yeah."
"What you're going to do is use your security clearance––"
Huh? "I don't have a security clearance, Evan. What the hell are you talking about?"
"Yes, you do. It's on that recording, you have Level One access. That's not much, but it's enough." He looks at me closely, then starts to laugh. "You didn't even know that? How could you not know? God, you're dumb."
"Nobody told me." It shouldn't, but McCutcheon's casual derision makes me want to cry. "Mycroft never told me."
"Well, you've been to the basement, right? Nobody gets into the basement who's not at least a Level One."
"Basement? What basement?"
"Jesus, girl, are you always this dense, or is it the pot? The. Basement. The one under the Diogenes Club."
It dawns on me. "Oh, Mycroft's office?"
McCutcheon shrugs. "I suppose he has an office down there, I've never been. It's just called The Basement, and it's wrapped up even tighter than MI6."
"And you want me to get in there?" I ask with alarm. "Why? How?"
"No! For crissakes, you stupid cunt, will you just listen?" I ball up my fists and clench my teeth. If he's been trying to woo my cooperation, he just lost it completely––but maybe the pot is making him stupid, too. He had a lot more than I did.
McCutcheon goes on. "You visiting The Basement just proves that you've got Level One clearance. Among other things, that means that your fingerprints have been added into the system, and that gives you access to low-level security areas anywhere, in any building that's part of the Central Security grid. Get it?"
"Okay, I got it." This is so bizarre, it's like finding out you have a secret superpower or something. "Like, what sort of people have Level One access?"
"PA's, maintenance, catering, that sort of thing. Support staff. The fucking tea lady. What I need for you to do is really, really simple. I need you to get inside a particular building, access an electrical junction box, and cut a few wires. That's it. I don't think even you can fuck that up."
I ignore the dig. "What would I be cutting wires for? What are you trying to do?"
"Oh, my fucking god. Will you just stop and think for a minute instead of flapping your mouth? Why do you think I would need to be able to get inside a secure building? What the fuck did I tell you just a few minutes ago that I really wanted?"
"The book containing decoding keys for the Torch, that now you know exactly where it is." My brain feels thick as treacle, and it takes a while for the thoughts to move through it. "Oh! The authorities must have gotten the code book from Cobb. And now they're holding it somewhere..."
"A government research lab not very far away from where we're sitting, actually. Just a short cab-ride away." McCutcheon smiles happily. "I know people who are willing to sell information, just not willing to risk their necks doing more than that. So I need you to make it possible for our guys to go in, grab what we need, and get out again. Just a few wires, snip, snip, snip."
"Disabling the security system?"
"Something like that."
"But, they'll know it was me. How am I supposed to get out again? And what happens after that?"
"My guys will scoop you up and take you with, and after that...well, I think you could use a change of career, don't you?"
Like I trust this arsehole! "No, not really. I LIKE working for the Agency, you know. I've got no complaints."
McCutcheon slouches further down and puts his hands behind his head. "You like supplying blackmail material for a living, then?"
My slow, thick brain sifts through that. "I don't supply anything to anybody. Sherlock said the same thing, and I'm totally confused. How is that supposed to work? How can I be supplying blackmail material without knowing it? Nobody has approached me about that at all, and I've been with the Agency for over a year. Steen never said anything about it, and he was with them even longer..." Of course, he didn't mention a lot of things. Oh, Steen!
"How the hell should I know how it works?" McCutcheon shakes his head. "All I know is, the Agency is owned by Magnussen, and you do not fuck with Magnussen, period, or he will destroy you. I make it a point to stay the hell away from that motherfucker, he's out of my league. But I'm telling you, it can't be a coincidence that the man deals in high-level blackmail, AND he owns a string of whores––and not just on these blessed shores, either."
"He doesn't own us," I snap irritably. "Nobody owns us."
McCutcheon just gives me a nasty smile. "Sure."
I started out disliking this man; now I really hate him. "Whatever. So you think I need a career-change? Got something in mind?"
"Sacha already offered for you to work for him, and he wasn't joking. You'd have to wrap your hands around his dick pretty frequently, so that's a downside, but he's your best bet if you wanna stay in London." McCutcheon stretches his arms out along the sofa in the way that a man does when he's claiming space. "On the other hand, if you want to get the hell out of here and live someplace that doesn't suck...Well, once I'm finished with the treatments in Zurich, I'm retiring to my villa in Greece. That's where I want to die. You ever been to the Mediterranean, Angel? It's fucking beautiful. The most fucking beautiful place on Earth, and I'll need a new PA because Sergei won't leave London. Why don't you think about it?"
I don't want to think about it, because I can't imagine anything I'd rather do less! No, thankyouverymuch. But I give him a charming smile instead. "Why, thank you, Evan."
"We can discuss the specifics tomorrow," McCutcheon says, picking up his phone from the end table. "I'll have my driver Lena come and pick you up; she's very, very experienced, and won't have any problem losing your security detail. Shit, my blind granny wouldn't have any problem losing your detail. I don't know where Mycroft digs up these clowns." He enters a text as he speaks, ignoring my stuttering protest. "I want to get this thing over with tonight while Mycroft is still out of town, so let's meet at one of Sacha's safe-houses. Leo is in charge and he'll brief you on––."
"What? Wait! Bloody hell, Evan, I haven't agreed to anything! I thought we were still negotiating!"
He stops and looks at me, a reptilian glitter in his eyes. "Negotiating? What the fuck would we be negotiating?"
"Whether or not I'm going to waltz into that building and disable the security for you!"
"Nope, that's a done deal, I'm afraid. Whether or not you actually do it, you'll have done it. I set that up days ago. The only thing for you to decide is if you want to do it for real and gain my eternal gratitude––as well as ruining Mycroft––or just get blamed for it and have Mycroft kill you for ruining him."
He holds up his phone with the text message entered, finger on the 'send' button. "Think fast, Angel."
