AN: ...in which we discover who Miss Ollivier is. Well, not exactly. But we learn what Mycroft knows, anyway.
I still don't own any of them. Sir Edwin in particular would be apalled at such a notion, I think.
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The problem with meeting Miss Ollivier again, of course, was location.
The flat they'd used last week had been one that was known – known by only a few select individuals, but still, known – to be Mycroft's place for affairs.
Her coming to his official home address was impossible.
Another 'chance' meeting in a bar was too risky. It could catch attention.
In the end he'd allowed for her flat. It was a one-off solution, of course. If this went on longer, they'd have to think of something. And somehow, he feared that Miss Ollivier wouldn't be quite as easy to read as to make just one additional meeting sufficient.
She welcomed him in 'her place', smiling pleasantly, wearing her day-clothes.
"I think I'm going to like this," she said. "Not having to go to all that disguise bother is a huge relief."
Myroft knew precisely what she meant. He felt ridiculous every time he put on this kind of evening outfit. He felt like Sherlock. He even looked a bit like him, which was disconcerting.
"I envy you," he said.
She nodded in understanding.
"We'll have to arrange something that would allow us both equal advantages," she noted, getting undressed.
He gave her a quick smile to indicate his gratefulness and crawled to bed with her, kissing her lightly. She concentrated on his neck and then muttered, very quietly: "You know, it would really do things to my reputation if I said I slept with the British Goverment. It's a pity I can't tell anyone."
Ah, yes. Starting a conversation. Necessary, of course, if one hoped to gain any information at all. But risky, too. As he directed his mouth to her breasts, he replied: "I understand your plight. Claiming French Foreign Office as a conquest could certainly be interesting too, if I got into these sort of discussions in the first place."
She laughed. "I think I'm almost offended."
He smirked in understanding. "By me selecting that particular institution, or by the word French?"
She laughed again. "Both, actually."
"Well, you do live in the UK."
She bit him slightly. "Have you been to Paris? C'hallaoued."
"I can't but agree with you there. If the capital of my own home country was like that I would most certainly elect to operate from elsewhere too," Mycroft stated, completely untruthfully of course, and watched her reaction. All he got was another laugh, and he judged this was quite enough risk-taking for one night, seeing that he wasn't getting anything. He didn't want her to start asking questions. So he moved his attentions lower, and their dialogue ended.
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Well, that had been unsatisfactory, Mycroft thought. Not the sexual act itself – that was quite the opposite – but certainly the information-gathering part of the encounter.
He'd chosen to call her French Foreign Office on purpose, to see if she'd believe that was the scope of his knowledge, and if she'd react to the first adjective. She did neither, of course – not really – and so his second remark was aimed directly at discovering which was more important to her directly, and the second had the same purpose, only indirectly. His statement about living in the UK could have been read both as a reason for why he connected her just with the Foreign Office, and as a reason for calling her French – regional differences disappeared from abroad, he knew. Oh, how many times have the Scots been called English in France! He wanted to know what she'd pick. Of course, she'd replied equally ambiguously as he'd asked, her answer being for either or both of these. Not that he'd expected anything else. Miss Ollivier would remain a mystery for just a little longer.
It was known by many people that she was the most important person in the French Embassy in London, a similar kind of éminence grise that Mycroft was in Whitehall. There were, however, speculations about whether she wasn't just a little more – in particular, whether she wasn't actually directing the entire foreign policy, or at the very least as far as Europe was concerned.
As soon as Mycroft met her and identified her, he'd known that was true, and was now wondering if she didn't direct even more that that – a speculation that he had heard, but that was usually laughed at.
The main reason no one believed that was that she lived in the UK. That was another objective of Mycroft's remark about it, and naturally her answer had just been a diversion. Yes, Mycroft wouldn't have wanted to live in Paris, but Mycroft wasn't French. Well, of course, she wouldn't call herself French either, and she likely honestly disliked the capital. But that was pure sentiment, and Mycroft doubted it would be enough to keep her from the most advantageous position for her work. She wouldn't have made it this far had she been this sentimental.
He tried to consider what would make him leave London for any period of time. Well, there was that stunt with going to Serbia to get his brother. So perhaps something sentimental after all? Perhaps there was someone she cared for, too, who was to be taken care of in London? A relative, a friend?
Or was it purely professional? Was there something particular the French wanted to achieve in London, so much so they'd send a relatively important puppet master (well, mistress) to attend to it personally?
And, most importantly, was any of those two options tied to her meeting Mycroft in a bar?
He'd gone through these thoughts while she was in the shower. As she got out, she asked: "In two weeks' time?"
That meant she was going to France. She did that rather frequently, one of the main clues that she didn't run only the Embassy – she wouldn't be leaving it so often if that was the case.
Likely, it meant she'd report their affair to her superiors. Well, that was all right. It was very reasonable, actually. Mycroft didn't really have a superior to speak of, but he reminded himself to mention it in front of the three people who actually knew about his flat for affairs because he told them and not because they spied on him that he was trying his luck. There was no better way to prevent any accusations of disloyalty to his country – absurd as they would have been.
It made the situation easier, too. It meant they didn't really have to hide quite so carefully.
"In two weeks, my place," he said.
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In accordance with his goal, when Mycroft next needed to speak with Edwin and Henry (Vernon will have to be taken care of some other time, he decided – having him together with either of those men was never a very good idea, let alone with both), he asked them for dinner and booked a table at The Ledbury. The irony was not lost on him.
They were done with work by dessert, and Henry, who has always been the most cordial of the three of them, sat back, sipped his wine and asked: "So, how are you, gentlemen? How is the new year so far?"
"Busy," replied Edwin succinctly.
"Isn't it always?" Henry wondered.
"Quite," Mycroft agreed. "But in fact, I have been thinking that it has not been so bad until now. That is bound to change, naturally, but so far, I have even found time for some relaxation."
"Moriarty should try harder, then, I gather?" Edwin quipped.
"I leave that business to my brother, thank you very much. He is what you might call an expert on this topic, after all."
"No, let's focus on the important part here," Henry jumped in as Edwin opened his mouth to reply something, probably something scathing about Sherlock. "You said relaxation, Mycroft? Are you ill?"
"No, he's just lying."
"I'm afraid Edwin caught me. Or rather, I wasn't entirely lying, but I was oversimplifying. I assume you remember my flat in Covent Garden?"
Henry smirked. "Oh, that kind of relaxation."
Edwin, on the other hand, frowned. "I though that was strictly non-business."
"It used to be, yes. But I came across an opportunity I simply could not pass up. You have heard of Miss Ollivier, of course?"
Edwin sat up straighter. "So, is she or isn't she?"
"She most certainly controls the foreign policy. I am now trying to ascertain whether she doesn't do more."
"Oh, so you're one of those, aren't you?"
Mycroft gave him a withering look. "I'd thank you not to call me one of anything. Except, perhaps, one of the people who adore this tartlet," he allowed, staring lovingly at his dessert.
This made Henry chuckle, and when both of his colleagues gave him looks, he shrugged and said: "Sorry. Just though Miss Ollivier wouldn't appreciate such a title."
Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued. "Anyway, you know I'm not given to believing in conspiracy theories," no, when there was a conspiracy, it was usually because he organized it personally, so it wasn't exactly a theory, "or anything much at all, really. Trust me, if you met her, you would be of the same opinion. Well...most likely."
This time, it was Edwin who looked briefly to the ceiling before saying: "I'd thank you not to insinuate my intelligence is lesser than yours."
Mycroft managed to swallow the comment he burned to utter, but he exchanged a short look with Henry. This was the thing about these two of his closest colleagues: while Edwin was better at what he did, Henry was aware of his own limitations, which made him more dangerous in some ways. He knew very well that Mycroft's intellect was much superior, and so was more careful around him. Edwin, while generally more danger, was relatively easy to play.
"I'm interested in your updates about Miss Ollivier," Henry put the conversation back on track. "And allow me to say 'lucky bastard' for being able to conduct your observation in such a manner."
"I take it you've seen her, then?"
"Yes. She came to the palace with the ambassador a few times."
That was strange. "Why?"
"Search me. If we knew why she does the things she does, we wouldn't need your noble sacrifice, would we?"
Very true. More true than Henry knew, in fact.
His phone beeped at this moment, and he took it out to look at the text. Not many people texted him, and when they did, it was usually important, so he didn't have any qualms about reading it in front of his colleagues, even though it was a little impolite.
The name of the sender was AGRA, and the message said: "I've just given birth. Her name is Shirley, and we are both healthy."
Mycroft almost smiled. Good. His favourite assassin was going to be back to normal functioning soon. If the things with Miss Ollivier got too out of hand, he'd have someone to take care of it. The thought was calming.
Also, well...Shirley. Sherlock was going to be insufferably smug.
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AN: I really like Paris, I honestly do, but the Parisians are sometimes rather a lot to handle. Hence Mycroft's sentiment on the topic.
Also, The Ledbury is a French restaurant. Hence the irony.