Chapter Four


Mycroft's phone rang two minutes later. He hit the green key, opening the connection and waited silently. He was going to wait, and make Moriarty take the first step. He heard someone on the other end breathing softly. Then a series of tuts. "Oh, dear. Mister Holmes, what a shambles you've got yourself into- almost makes me feel sorry for you." The Irish accent did nothing to soften the fact that the tone was almost gleeful.

"Name your terms." This was delivered in Mycroft's calmest, coldest tone.

That provoked a laugh. "Oh, no, no, no; it's not going to be that eeeasy. I've waited far too long for this moment to rush it. In fact, I might just end this call and make you sweat a teensy bit more."

That would not serve Mycroft's purpose "The time it takes to come to terms does not matter to me in the slightest. However fast or slow, you know that the plane will never leave the ground now. So, why go to the trouble of calling me if you are not going to open the discussion?" He gave the question an almost bored intonation.

"Oh, this is not a discussion. It's a gloat."

"How tedious." This was definitely boring.

There was a huff. "You really know how to hurt a guy's feelings, Holmes. Or should I call you Lord Holmes? I've never bothered to acquire a proper member of the English aristocracy before. Life peers don't count. You are a trophy, you know. Does that butter up your ego enough?"

"You haven't 'acquired' anything yet, Mister Moriarty. That's what we are supposed to be discussing."

"Then think about the timing of this little conversation. I've let you go as far along as possible- right in up to your blue-blooded neck. Public money has been spent, the resources consumed. Promises to allies have been made, and, why, I'll just bet that today you've told your brethren across the pond that 'it's all systems go'." He said the last as if he was someone on a NASA space launch, the American accent twang just perfect for Houston Control.

"I mean, I think I deserve just a little recognition for my exquisite sense of timing. It's all so perfect that when you do pull the plug, it will cause the maximum damage to your reputation. Not 'tedious', Holmes, it's marvellously meticulous."

"What would you require to let the flight go ahead?" Mycroft didn't for a single moment think it was possible, but he wondered if it was greed that was motivating the master criminal. He had never met him, never looked into his eyes to understand what made the man tick.

"There is no possibility of that happening, and both you and I know that, so don't insult my intelligence. We both know where this is going. I can offer you a plausible story that would explain the decision to cancel at this last minute. The Yanks won't like it but they won't demand you take the blame. You'll be damaged, but not destroyed. I don't want your head on a pike, Mycroft Holmes- I want you to do that voodoo you do so well- just for me, instead of against me. The ultimate fallen angel, able to protect me, because I protect you."

"I am slightly puzzled by all this, Mister Moriarty. What leads you to believe that I would ever be so selfish as to put protecting my own reputation and position over the needs of the country?

Moriarty sniffed. "So, you're a willing martyr then, happy to fall on your sword to protect Queen and Country? How boring."

Mycroft's retort was positively frosty. "All careers end. But, you will need to explain why I should do anything other than resign. Nor have you actually explained why anyone would hold me personally responsible for whatever breach led you to discover the truth about the plane."

"Oooh- you're fishing! How quaint. Is that how you negotiate in the corridors of power? If so, then you need to know that you've only got half the story. So, before I ask you for your soul, don't you want me tell you the worst of it?"

That piqued Mycroft's curiosity, which, of course, was exactly what the Irishman wanted. But, it would not do to be too obvious. Mycroft decided to attack on the flank- a distraction tactic. "Why would you want to help the terrorist cause? I thought your area of expertise was simply criminal, rather than political. Or, have they hired you?"

The subtext in those sentences was so very, very clear- and designed to irritate. The "simply criminal" was the ridicule of one who played on a geopolitical chess board of nation states, who thought common criminality beneath him. The comment about being for "hire" was the condescension of the English aristocracy for anyone so base as to be involved in "trade". Both comments were designed to press a few buttons, to see if he could rattle the Irishman.

Jim giggled. "Careful. Your prejudices are showing, old boy. If you think you can get me to underestimate you as some upper class twit, then try to pull the other one. I won't be deflected. You won't be allowed to resign. You are far too useful for me right where you are. So, no act of sacrifice on your part."

"How could you possibly stop me?"

Moriarty laughed. "Oh, my- this is what I've been waiting for! When at last you realise that I'm smarter than you are. OK, are you ready? On your marks…get set….GO! Here's the first grenade I'm lobbing in your direction. Whatever excuse you concoct to explain why you are cancelling the flight, if you don't agree to the terms I set, then I will let the truth out. And it will come not from me. Oh no, that's far too unsubtle. No, it will be thrown at you from across the pond. Play the game my way, or the Americans will say it's all your fault that the 'Special Relationship' is no longer special. Even if you were to resign, the toxic fallout remains behind. The UK can kiss goodbye any sharing of intelligence in the future. And it will have your fingerprints all over it."

Mycroft did a risk assessment on the likely consequences of trying to tough it out. If the CIA blamed him, and it escalated to the NSA and the Presidency, then the knock-on loss of intelligence from the Americans would devastate the UK's security services and the Foreign Office. The British punched above their weight in the international arena simply because they were recognised as being unimpeachably better at espionage than their American 'cousins'. If that reputation were to be tarnished, and the flow of raw data coming in from the USA to be choked off, then the consequences would not be confined to the back rooms. It was a serious threat that altered the UK's position in geopolitics.

The Irishman wasn't done. "So, while you're mulling over that little explosion, let me pull the pin on my second grenade and roll it across the table at you. Want to know who gave me the meaning of Flight 007? It was none other than your baby brother. Of course, his gorgeousness didn't realise he was giving it to me- it was just a little love token from him to The Woman, breaking that MOD man's code. The Dominatrix seems to have dominated him right into submission."

Mycroft did not trust himself to speak. Sherlock, you bloody idiot, what have you done? The idea- that the whole project had been scuppered by Sherlock's blunder made Mycroft's personal exposure increase exponentially. But it was worse than that. Mycroft would lose his career, no doubt. But for Sherlock, exposure would be even more devastating. He'd never be able to work again for the Met. No private client would ever work with him. Mycroft found himself wondering just how long it would take for the isolation and inaction to destroy his brother's new found equilibrium.

"Ah, do I catch the scent of blood, Holmes? Have I just nicked a little artery? How long do you think your brother would survive if he has every door slammed in that gorgeous face? Hmmm- if it's on the front page of every tabloid that the man is a traitor selling secrets to terrorists, well- it's not just your reputation, is it? Who knows, if he can't work that marvellous brain of his, then he might well come and work for me."

Moriarty's triumphant sneer dripped from every syllable, and he carried on in the same vein. "You call this a 'negotiation'; I call it 'surrender'. Your brother is the hostage that I hold over you. You will not resign. You will use the excuse I give you to cancel the flight. You will become one of my dark angels- there to be called upon whenever I need some assistance or a blind eye. And if you don't, then I will destroy not only you and the Special Relationship, but I will burn the heart out of your brother, destroy him piece by piece, inch by inch right in front of your very eyes and in the full glare of public scrutiny, until there is nowhere else for him to go except up a needle of cocaine or come work for me-and it will be your fault."

The voice on the other end of the phone halted to draw breath. Then, "Welcome to the dark side, Mycroft Holmes."

Stall; get some time to consider what on earth can be used as a counter-measure. Mycroft kept his voice absolutely calm. "Don't congratulate yourself too soon, Moriarty. I need time to consider this."

"Oh, poor Ice Man. Feeling the heat a bit?" His voice took on a cartoonishly false sympathetic tone. Then came the snarl- "I can afford to be generous. It's not like you can do anything to stave off the inevitable. I KNOW you. You will meet my terms, because you are arrogant enough to think you can outsmart me. So, be my guest; take your time. I'll call back in an hour." The line went dead.

Stunned, Mycroft realised he was sweating. How banal. His body was betraying him. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and poured himself a brandy from the sideboard, taking a sip. He returned to the head of the table and sank into the chair again.

Lord Mycroft Holmes, the Viscount Sherrinford, put his elbows on the table and folded his hands in front of his mouth. Wide eyed, he started to think, to really think, as if his own life and that of his brother depended on it- because they did.