The train came to a screeching halt. James was awake. The sniper next to him had fallen asleep though it was hard to tell from his black circular glasses. He shut the old pages he was reading, careful not to damage them. Fearful of its age. The Journals of Sebastian Moran were slipped safely into a briefcase.
Leone's head stirred though he gave no indication he had been sleeping.
Leone Montana was an Italian hitman, though he sounded more french to James's ears. Bond had decided out of boredom and Irony to reread from his copy of Moran's memoirs, the last gift from his late Grandfather. The Greek Invertebrate was chosen because Bond had found himself on a train with several spies, except this time it was not a trap but a secret meeting that he was knowingly a part of.
He had retired. Nixon had taken down most of the American spy organizations with him following the Watergate scandal back in 74'. It had been the end of an era despite the fact that he was British. The two least harmed organizations to walk away from it were U.N.C.L.E. which was a UN organization and so the American agents like the famous Napoleon Solo could simply find careers in other countries who were excited to recruit them, most went to the UK. Solo was one of the few Americans welcomed in the Soviet Union due to his long time partner KGB agent Illya Kuryakin who enjoyed the same courtesy in the States. Secret Service agent Frank Horrigan had once told him he was the reason he got his Job.
Both the American and the Russian were on the train.
The Impossible Mission Force was the second organization to walk away unharmed from Watergate thanks to their habit of self destructing every message once they had been received and refused to update to any of the digital new software offered by organizations like ENCOM since they feared this would leave some type of invisible trail. Many other organizations had taken this approach but often made the mistake of overdoing the explosion. IMF messages often simply fizzled out of existence with smoke and no flames. Other explosions actually put the agent they were sent to in danger. They had many sub groups such as one in charge of a team of Superheroes and a paranormal detective agency called the Ghostbusters, no relation to the scientists in the Firehouse in New York, though there was a lawsuit because they'd pick the name not realized it had been taken. It was finally settled. The scientists called marketed themselves "the Real Ghostbusters" which is ironic since the IMF sponsored team came first.
Onboard the train were individuals from various Spy Organizations past, present and possibly future. Their enemies. The big three as they were called of SMERSH, who had taken to calling itself SPECTRE, THRUSH, and KAOS had came together in desperation like animals hunted to extinction by the presence of super spies and super heroes. Despite this, there were several regretful vacancies on this triumphant day. The most notable were any members of the now defunct CONTROL, especially Agent 86. He was with them in spirit however. Following his injuries in a shoot out he was entered into the witness protection program, there were rumors about a surgical operation to turn him into a high tech robotic being like CONTROL Agent Hymie and that he was living with his estranged niece after changing his name to Gadget.
Agent Powers had followed in the footsteps of Adam Adamant.
The old spy wasn't even the only James Bond despite being the original. His replacements were J1, a former Private Flanagan who despite sounding Scottish was actually an Irishman named Michael McBride who lied about his name to join the army. He only smiled when his compatriots joked that he had "Leprechaun Luck". Somehow he landed the role of James Bond despite a less than stellar record. He operated as Bond from 1962 to 1967 until he faked his death and then dealt a crushing blow to SPECTRE. He saw this as a sign that he was to retire since many believed him dead. He claimed that he would Never Again claim to be Bond but he would do so on at least two more occasions.
The current Bond was there. After the retirement of "J1". J2 attempted to be different. He actually married the woman whom he'd fallen in love with, something which baffled the two Bonds that came before him. It ended with the murder of his wife at the hands of a drive by shooting by Ernst Stravo Blofeld, whom seemed to change face just as Bond had. J2 was never the same both mentally and physically. He was still by far the friendliest Bond, far more charismatic than the first and the second. He underwent a transformation through surgery into a new man, yet despite this he occasionally visited his late wife's grave.
The number of imposters was the elderly Bond's own fault, back in 1967, he had taken control of MI5 and following a string of agent murders, he requested every agent be named after himself. It had ended badly and somewhat nonsensically with the destruction of Casino Royale and the death of his nephew Jimmy Bond, or James Bond Jr.
Bond stepped out and moved along with the other two Bonds. They acknowledged each other with the usual politeness.
"James"
"James"
"James"
The Hitman stepped out of the car. His head looked between them.
"Leone." He said blankly before walking between them. The eyes of all three drifted to him and they spotted the American and The Russian. There were two others with him, Derek Flint and...Hugh Drummond...Jr.
The presence of this particular investigator made the elder Bond back away,though he was careful not to break his stern composition.
"Comrade. Have you got it" said Kurakin.
"Yes. Indeed I have." Bond spoke while presenting the Case.
"Good. It will aid in our briefing." Solo stated.
"I fail to see how" J3 said. " I thought all of U.N.C.L.E.'s agents knew the details.
"This is not only about the details of how THRUSH was formed. These memoirs." At this Solo reached into his bag and pulled out a copy, flipping through the pages. "Are their Crime Bible. The organization looks up to Moriarty. They have attempted to replicate him."
Bond Prime was nervous that somehow Solo was aware of his connection, though he'd tried to bury that with his grandfather. Of course once the word got out, the official story at least that U.N.C.L.E. had discovered evidence that THRUSH was formed following Moriarty's death and Reichenbach Falls, Bond had decided to do a bit of grave robbing, claiming to have found the old pages. They were an immense aid to the familial organization, and also served a secondary propaganda purpose. Of course Moriarty's reputation had grown by this time that any depiction of the flesh and blood individual would do him disservice, but the truly demoralizing part was how such a man had met his end.
"They've set up camp there. There's an old castle on the opposite side of the mountain, occasionally used for UN meetings. That's where what's left of the big three are holding up. It overlooks the fall. There's an excellent spot for a Sniper. That's why Leone is here."
The Italian removed his hat and bowed.
"Of course its better to have a plan than go in guns blazing. Instead we have an informant on the inside. A woman." he gestured to the three Bonds. "That's where you come in" Solo concluded.
The three Bonds looked between each other. J2 spoke up first.
"If you wanted to seduce a woman, inviting three James Bonds is a bit of an overkill. You could've just gotten me." He said in his Scottish accent.
"I have roles for each of you." He pointed out the elder Bond specifically. "She's an old flame of yours."
The elder Bond was surprised by this.
"You have no idea how very little that narrows it down." He said.
The group began their walk passed the train station. Bond spotted a silhouette in the darkness. It wore a deer skin cap and held up a pipe to its mouth, appearing to be sitting comfortably on the rock. The sight of it troubled Bond. As if sensing his discomfort, J3 approached his inspiration.
"The Swedish are big fans. There are statues and plaques all over the place."
Bond didn't want to talk. He said nothing on the journey there. He was positioned at Reichenbach Falls, overlooking the running water in a small cave side path. He'd brought the suitcase with him and began to pace back and forth, looking over and gesturing to the figure of Leone, who was positioned with a sniper rifle. He waved back. Bond turned away and waited patiently, wishing there was a place to sit. Out of boredom he approached the plaque on the side of the wall. The date 1891 was displayed with a silhouette of a head in a deerstalker hat. Below were written the same words in multiple languages including English and German.
AT THIS FEARFUL PLACE,
SHERLOCK HOLMES
VANQUISHED PROFESSOR
MORIARTY, ON 4 MAY 1891
Lies, James thought. Of course he was not one to talk. His family had withheld the information of what happened to his namesake from him. He grew up with no Sherlock Holmes stories, or at least no mention of Moriarty. After 34' he had devoted himself to learning as much as he could.
It is evident that Moran wrote his memoirs after Watson but before their publication. The two men offer differing accounts of the incident at Reichenbach Falls which Watson published. In 'The Final Problem', the narrator writes that 'the best and wisest man I have ever known' died at the Falls; in 'The Empty House', it is alleged that Watson's friend survived but, for reasons no else has ever found convincing, decided to let the world think him dead for a few years. Moran barely touches on the many other theories which have been advanced as to what actually happened… that Moriarty was merely an alternate personality of a mentally ill man who threw himself alone off the mountain… that Moriarty survived to take his dead opponent's place in the world, and thereafter fought against crime as he had previously fought for it… that Moriarty evaded death by mentally projecting himself into a succession of other bodies and has lived on as a series of masterminds; the names of Carl Peterson, Gregory Arkadin, Alexander Luthor, Arnold Zeck, Professor Marcus, Peter Cornelius, Ernst Blofeld, Justin Sepheran, Derek Leech, Hannibal Lecter and 'Count Jim Moriarty' have been mentioned — and some of those aren't even real people… that Moriarty was never in Switzerland and faked his death so he could rebuild his just-shattered criminal empire. He also reveals nothing which will comfort the many theorists who have advanced the notions that Moriarty was a total innocent persecuted by a paranoid cocaine fiend, an alien invader (this might arise from dim rumours associated with The Red Planet League), a vampire, one of his brothers in disguise, a multiple personality (in this scenario, the Professor, the Colonel and the Stationmaster are aspects of the same person), a self-aware hologram, a giant rat (either from Sumatra or somewhere else), a woman, a clone from the future, gay, or (like every eminent Victorian from Alfred Tennyson to Vesta Tilley) Jack the Ripper. It's unlikely that Moran was blithely unaware of this feverish speculation, which was well underway during his later life.
There were other discrepancies. Moran initially thought Moriarty left no notes yet it seemed this changed. Irene Adler was a Coloratura Soprano yet none of the roles mentioned were Soprano roles.
It hardly matter now, still the memoirs had served him well. He himself and others such as the explorer Allan Quatermain and some Belgian Explorer who wrote his narrative pieces exposing criminal plots under the pen name "Tintin" had saved their own lives by claiming to be responsible for an eclipse that just so happened to be occurring at a moment where they were about to be executed.
Bond was knocked out of his thoughts by the arrival of the woman in question. She was older than he had expected and it saddened him to realize who she was.
"James Bond"
"Emma Peel"
"I'd say it's great to see you again but its not polite to lie"
"You're not the first of my exes to say that."
"No I didn't think so, But I'll probably be the last."
"Yes I suppose you will be."
There was genuine sadness in his voice. For a moment they did not speak and there was only the roaring of the falls.
"You made it easy. Inviting Drummond's son. Reichenbach falls. A sniper in the same spot. You've been showing me how much you know."
A figure stepped from the shadow. He seemed as old as Bond. It seemed his style had not changed as he still wore a bowler hat and a grey suit.
"John Steed" James said.
"Bond James Bond" The old spy responded back at him. "You've made an impressive name for yourself but you're still a punk."
"My Ex Girlfriend and my School Bully" James retorted.
"And yourself" a voice said before the two James Bond imposters emerged, guns raised to their fore father. Bond could only back away towards the ledge. Emma spoke up, her weapon drawn as well.
"You know I'm on my way to becoming the new M. I guess this means I'll be in charge of the James Bond program."
"Must be hard for you" Bond commented
"I have a few candidates for new Bonds. A Spy named Charles Lord, an Irishman named Mark Taffin, and a young Scottish boy, a member of your family."
"I suppose Christmas dinners with the lad are out of the question, but answer this. How did you know?"
"Watergate"
"ah"
"Of course we received a list of potential CIA moles from the leak. The straw that broke the camel's back when it came to you was when some young United States army recruit named Michael Westen shared this information with us. Your name was on the list."
At this Bond seemed to admit defeat and raised his arms in surrender. Emma approached him.
"James Bond. You are under arrest for the murders of John Knight and Hugh Drummond."
"Only the two. I don't suppose it helps my case to say I was working for the CIA."
Hugh Drummond Jr, the son of the dead man now walked forward to detain Bond, who stepped back to the ledge slowly. The raised guns walked forward. He looked back. Emma flashed him a look that basically said "don't do it".
Bond leaped back. Several bullets were fired. Leone took the shot.
I
You know how this ends. Someone goes over a waterfall.
A lot of rot has been spouted about what happened to Moriarty in Switzerland. One of his brothers and that medical writer in The Strand muddied the waters with a public row. It was a surprise to me when Colonel Moriarty of 'f-k off back to your blackboard' fame put the Professor up for posthumous sainthood.
In letters to the press, Moriarty medius tossed off accusations about his brother's demise, which he laid at the door of 'an unlicensed, semi-professional adventurer'. This Watson oik piped up with a spume of 'most dangerous man in London' piffle to exonerate his long-nosed, trouble-making former flatmate. Lawsuits were threatened. Arguments raged in clubs, letter columns and the streets.
In a battle which might interest scholars of modern urban warfare, the Conduit Street Comanche whipped the tar out of an irregular band of crybaby destitutes who pledged allegiance to the Watson's departed mucker-wallah.
The third James Moriarty — with bloody cheek! — sold the Pall Mall Gazette personal, intimate memoirs of all the wickedness his brother the Professor was behind. Even with an Irish spinster scribbler as a ghost, Young James was unable to cough out anything publishable and became the only Moriarty ever convicted in court of anything. The Gazette had him up for breach of contract and reclaimed the advance fee.
Colonel Moriarty and the Mycroft Holmes of Whitehall — who was the brother of Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street — exchanged cryptic, terse, bitter communiqués under the letterheads of their respective clubs which where in reality a front of their respective secret governments. No one outside 'most secret' circles will be allowed to read these until one hundred years after the death of someone called 'Billy the Page'.
Holding myself aloof from this hullaballoo, I found it expedient to continue a continental holiday with pleasant companions. I followed the controversy via week-old newspapers left in hotel lobbies. Always good sport on the French Riviera. You can see North Africa from there, which offers exotic game and fragrant souks.
My longstanding curiosity about whether those Mississippi riverboat gamblers were half as sharp with the pasteboards as their reputation has it, still pricked. And, not satisfied by two go-rounds with the yeti (home court advantage helped neither of us to better than a draw each time), I still felt honour bound to make a third attempt at bagging a big shaggy mi-gou pelt from the Himalayas.
Many — indeed, most — surviving members of the Firm were, by then, in police custody. Only one, Charlie Vokins of the Royal Opera House, came close to naming the Prof — whom he called Macavity — in his statement. He was subsequently killed in his cell, bitten by a venomous spider hitherto unknown outside the tropics. Its presence in Holborn has set the world of arachnology afire. The rest of the gang took a sensible 'don't know nuffink' line from arrest to arraignment and beyond. Bond would repeat his name. which he shouted in response to every question — usually with a violent hand gesture.
It was said the Moriarty Firm was smashed completely, but you have to pay attention to who's saying it. To whit… Scotland Yard, who'd only just been forced by this nagging Detective to admit such an outfit even existed. On the whole, the Yard would rather not have known about it because (adopt the proper brandy-soaked drone), 'These things can't happen in London, don't you know, and if they can, they couldn't last out the week because Great Britain has the finest police force in the world.' Depressingly, this may be true — foreign rozzers generally make imbeciles like Lestrade, Mackenzie and MacDonald seem towering geniuses.
The only other person to declare the Firm defunct was a certain John H. — or James H., to cloud an already fogbound issue — Watson, MD, whose literary prospects had just washed over the Falls. I have it on good authority that The Strand doesn't care to run reminiscences about beastly bad backs, mysterious gammy legs or interesting appendicitis.
Oh, we'd had setbacks, but I wasn't the only one of the Firm in the wind. Parker the garrotter, for one, escaped notice. Simon Carne came up with another disguise, and posed as a private detective who swore to bring 'that scoundrel Carne' to book. 'PC Purbright' was working a scam with Filthy Fanny, shaking down monied toffs the faux waif accused of molesting her in Seven Dials. When the raid came, PCP mingled with the real coppers and 'arrested' Filth. He said he'd get her swiftly to the Yard for questioning. They hopped on the Brighton Belle and vanished from history. After a good wash and dressed in grown-up clothes, Filth would have been unrecognisable.
Mrs Halifax willingly confessed to crimes from gross indecency through baby-farming and living off immoral earnings to impersonating a Mother Superior, but swore up and down that the old gent and his military pal who rented her upper rooms were complete innocents and unaware of what went on at her now-notorious address. I like a trollop who knows her business — you don't pay 'em just for the tumble, you also pay 'em to keep their mouths shut about it afterwards. Her girls were all credits to the oldest profession. It brings a tear to the eye, a tickle to the loins and an irresistible urge to check the inside pocket to see if the wallet's still there when I think of any of 'em.
Polly Chalmers, 'the occasional maid', claimed she had just woken from a horrible dream and had no memory of the last seven years. Ceridwen Thomas, 'Tessie the Two-Ton Taff', put three constables in hospital (one permanently) during her arrest and swore no gaol cell could hold her (fit her, more like). Halina Staniewiczowa, 'Swedish Suzette', answered questions only in Polish, to the confusion of the Swedish interpreter Scotland Yard had brought in at great expense for her interrogation.
Wing Liu Tsong, 'Lotus Lei', was released after mysterious strings were pulled and got a job lighting joss sticks in Limehouse for the Lord of Strange Deaths… whom, truth to tell, she'd been working for all along; her new duties sound innocent enough, but you don't know what happens to the mandarin's guests if they don't comply with his polite requests for cooperation or information by the time the stick has burned down.
Molly Duff, 'the Ranee of Ranchipur', formed a Thuggee strangling sisterhood in Aylesbury Women's Prison and queened over the place for twenty years. Lady Deborah Hope-Collins, 'Mistress Strict', went up before a judge she recognised as one of her overgrown schoolboy regulars; she was given a good character by the court after all charges were dismissed. Marie-Françoise Lely, ma belle Fifi, slipped through the net by marrying Inspector Patterson, the plod in charge of the Conduit Street round-up, then disappearing with the wedding presents two days into the honeymoon… at that, Pie-Eye Patterson was lucky to have had forty-eight hours service from the finest truncheon-polishing lips in Europe.
Neverthehowsoever, the cat was at least halfway out of the bag.
During his long career as an evildoer, Moriarty shrugged off rumours about his true enterprise and maintained a respectable false front to the outside world. All through our association, even as he cut himself into crimes and netted one of the highest private incomes in the Empire, he kept at a dull teaching job which brought in just £700 per annum. The Devil knows where he found the time to give lectures, mark papers and expel slackers, but he did.
None of his former students or present colleagues spoke up in his favour when the press had a field day maligning him. I gather the inkies were as terrified of the dear old soul as anyone who met him in his criminal capacity — once, I know for certain, he slowly put a youth to death for misplacing a decimal point — even before it came out that he was, as the sensation papers have it, 'a diabolical mastermind'.
So, the world now knows — or thinks it knows — the truth about the terrible Professor James Moriarty.
Well, that's fair, so far as it goes.
Still, in Fleet Street terms, I've an 'exclusive'. Only two people really know how Moriarty died. One took that long plunge into the foaming torrent, and is in no position to reveal anything. The other is me. I've kept schtumm so far, but now it's time to tell the end of the story of the worst and wildest man I have ever known. Have I your attention? Good, let us continue…
