Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing, death of an English princess
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Not of the Angels
Andre Lelord is a man of the world. A very different world to that which most people know. He is, for instance, wealthy, and likes to show his wealth. His suits are hand-tailored, his shoes customized, his watch is an expensive, antique swiss Tag-Heuer. He shines with pride on his accomplishments and he bathes in the admiration of others. It is hard to imagine him without all his usual décor. If stripped of it, he will in all propability just shrink and shrivel until only a hull of his former self is left.
From the day we have met at the Eiffel Tower he has ordered me to follow him around the French capital, to the country and frequently to the airport to meet different individuals, sometimes celebrities, sometimes businessmen, sometimes members of the web. He has told me to observe, to learn, and I am aware that he keeps me under close watch while he threatenes, bribes and negotiates with these people.
Little does he know how intently I listen, how soundly I regard every detail of those meetings, always on the look-out for vital clues on how far Morbier is involved and what he might want to accomplish by bribing them.
On several occasions Lelord has shown an outstanding lack of self-restraint, slapping a waiter forcefully in the face for accidentally spilling wine on his trousers or shouting abuse at a concierge who was not quick enough to show him the shortest way to the hotel bar.
What annoys me most is that he is unbearably narrow-minded. He has the air of a person who has seen and knows everything when in fact he is familiar only with the small part of life he occupies. To be more precise: his assumptions on how the world wags border on sheer ignorance. They are based on prejudices, a boasted ego and a life-long habit of turning a deaf ear to everyone who attempts to correct him.
Not that anyone tries to, though. His acquaintances are either his equal in ignorance or stupidity, or afraid of him. Because Andre Lelord does not approve of being revised. He can, in fact, get very angry if anyone tries to readjust his opinions on the world, angry to the point of being outright dangerous.
I have witnessed several of Lelord´s outbreaks towards our clients, as he calls them, two of which left his opponents injured, bleeding into the carpet of their exclusive appartments.
While we navigate the boulevards of Paris in his Lotus, Lelord drowns me in rants and boasts on how indespensable he is to Morbier and the web´s financial network, which makes it nearly impossible for me to collect my thoughts.
I loathe the man, which makes it hard for me to stick to my identity as Eric Sigerson, especially since Sigerson, as far as I was able to deduct from the sparse information Mycroft could obtain on him, was a person who resembled a clever and devoted dog, salivating on his prize - a cartload of money.
It is on a sunny day in September, gusts from the west, from the Atlantic, shaking the trees, when Lelord steers his red sportscar through the Alma-Tunnel at the Place de la Concorde at high speed. We are engulfed by the darkness of the subterranean structure when he turns to face me, accelerating the engine, grinning at me viciously.
"You know, it was him," he says.
Boasting again, are we, I think, already feeling bored. But the glance I send him is a curious Sigerson one.
"What do you imply?"
He looks ahead, still speeding up. „This English princess. Diana. Her accident. Moriarty had arranged everything." Again, he turns towards me. "A true genius," he says, the dirty grin reappearing. "People are still forging theories how it happened, and why. He forged the perfect plan."
I try to smile back, to mirror his elation on Moriarty´s deed. Apparently not convincingly enough, because his face darkens.
"Oh, don´t be put off," he snarls. "He only helped to settle a quarrel between two families."
"Always the helpful type, was he?" I ask in reply, and he laughs and reaches out to pound on my shoulder.
"Yes he was. Now we will go and help a talented young man to chose what´s best for him." He closes the subject with a wicked chuckle.
Moriarty, how blatantly obvious! I have always sensed something was amiss in that tragic accident. But fifteen years ago, in August, I was not in the condition to care about the daily news, since I recovered from detox at that time, Mycroft being my only window to the world. When he finally told me that the Secret Service was under suspicion to have had a hand in the princess´s and her lover´s death, I was too preoccupied to analyse whether the driver could have been blinded deliberately and why traces of the varnish of a white Fiat Panda were found at the scene. Later, the case was sealed and Mycroft more than relieved that the record was closed officially. That the consulting criminal had a hand in the incident is a very plausible revelation, given how clever the accident must have been arranged to fool both the secret service and Scotland Yard.
We continue to drive in silence, all the way through to Montreuil, where we stop in a street lined with office blocks, right in front of a seven-storey building, all glass and architectural design. Lelord alights, wearing this unnerving smile of his which, as I have learned to recognise in the last weeks, indicates that he is going to threaten just another reluctant subject of Morbier´s twisted plans.
He places one hand lightly between my shoulderblades, snarling. "Let´s pay a visit to one of the most talented young men I have met so far. He´s a genius with compositing software – but unfortunately he doesn´t use his talent wisely."
Lelord steers me towards the entrance and I fight the urge to shake off his hand. Instead, I shoot a satisfied grin back at him. "Well, you will certainly convince him to take orders."
He stops, looking at me with an undecipherable gaze. "Probably it´s about time you took the convincing part," he says, eyeing me scrupulously.
I just shrug."If you think so," I answer lightly. Inwardly, I curse my disguise. As much as I have no intention to hurt anyone who is innocently trapped in the strings of the web, I am not in the position to back off if I don´t want to jeopardize my mission.
We walk into the building and climb narrow steps to the second floor, where Lelord rings the bell. A young man opens. Pale face, black hair and green eyes, big, fashionable glasses, young, not French, a fiancée, working long hours, prefers thinking and meticulous work to sports. Intelligent, too, for he tries to close the door on us as soon as he has noticed Lelord´s composure and threatening stare.
But Lelord steps in, quickly, grabs hold of his arm and hauls him into the corridor of the surprisingly dark office. "Let´s go to your sanctum, will we?" he demands and the young man nods, his face twisted in pain as Lelord bends his arm at an akward angle. We reach the room in question, and Lelord pushes the young man into a chair. The office is drowned in state-of-the-art computer equipment, notice-boards with plans, sketches and printouts. The blinds on the windows are closed, shutting out the spring sunlight.
Still pinned down by Lelord, the frightened youth opens his mouth to protest, when Lelord grabs his chin with brutal force. "Good morning, Mr. Rieger. It´s a shame I couldn´t make an appointment, since you never answered my call."
Why are those criminal types are so fixed on being called back, a very John-like voice at the back of my head asks lightly as I watch my companion closely.
"We made you an offer you can´t possible consider to refuse," Lelord says. "I hope you have made up your mind now."
Rieger fixes him with a blank stare. He is afraid, his breathrate accelerating, his cheeks reddening. But he is brave, too. "I have made up my mind when you came in here first. There´s no way you can make me take part in your scheme."
A wicked smile crosses Lelord´s face. He releases Rieger from his grip and faces me. "Our young friend here has lost his good sense of judgment. High time we help him to reconsider." His smile widens. "Go on, Sigerson, display your talent of persuasion. Hit him, hard," he orders.
I hesitate, but only for a second. In the back of my mind I can hear John say: "Not good," but I can´t refrain from Lelord´s order without blowing my cover. When my fist connects with Rieger´s chin and with his cheekbone, I am aware that I subconsciously tried to soften the punch. Nevertheless, his head flings to the side and a groan escapes him as he closes his eyes in pain. As much as I don´t want to hurt innocents, I have never shied away from cruel acts when they served a higher purpose. Right now, it is me or Sigerson, it is either my plan or Morbier´s. Not one of the angels, indeed.
Lelord claps his hands, smiling smugly. "See what happens if you make us angry," he tells Rieger. "If you make us really, raging mad, I´m afraid, the only way to deal with you will be with the help of a nice little bullet."
Rieger stares back at him, one hand covering his cheekbone, where my hand has left a red trace. "I will certainly not work for you," he murmurs.
Lelord crouches down in front of the chair and grabs Rieger´s neck, pulling his face towards his own. "Oh, you really won´t?" he hisses. "I don´t think your fanceé will be all too happy to hear that."
He retrieves his mobile from his jacket and flicks it into Rieger´s face. On the screen appears the picture of a young women, wearing a costume, who is leaving a small semi-detached house, a bag slung onto her shoulder.
"We know where she lives," Lelord says. "And we know the most effective way to destroy her pretty face. Don´t you agree, Sigerson?"
I smile back, hopefully cruelly enough, and nod. "You bet," I acknowledge.
Rieger stares back at me, then at Lelord, and his gaze is full of hatred, mixed with fear. "You – you monster," he stammers.
Lelord laughs one of his most charming laughs. „Oh, finally you do comprehend. It´s either us or your family. Surely this is incentive enough."
Rieger nods, reluctantly.
„Good. Let me explain. You are going to write this pretty little programme we talked about two weeks ago, and your lady friend will be safe. Probably there´s some more work to come, so you will leave your office open to everybody who approaches you on our project. And you will not tell anybody, least of all the police, what happens in this beautiful nerdy office," Lelord orders.
When we leave, Rieger stays behind, already hacking away on his keyboard. After we have left the house, Lelord rounds on me, and slaps my shoulder.
"Good work, Sigerson. I thought you were rather the squeamish type. With some practice, you could be as convincing as I am," he states.
"Does this 'convincing' part include shooting as well?"
He laughs. „Not yet, Sigerson. Not for you, actually. You are cast for a different assignment." With this, he boards the car.
