Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers:
End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings:
Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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Causing Confusion


Lelord was right. My assignment does not include shooting so far. This part is covered by Lelord himself, who is not only Morbier´s right hand, but his contract killer. He is assigned to shoot everybody who is too slow to keep up with the pace of the web´s financial activities or who wants to back off.

From the day we visited Rieger in his office in Montreuil, Lelord has released me from his leash somewhat, sending me off to prominent financial centres such as Zürich and Frankfurt, but never too far out of his radar. Morbier doesn´t need me as a financial genius (which Sigerson never has been and I am certainly not), but as an arrogant sod who has the talent to get through to people easily, to convince them. It is an unbearable task for me, for I am forced to socialize with all sorts, mainly rather dull, business and finance people, for the past three months on a daily basis. Sometimes the negotiations were rather civilized, businesslike ones, other times they weren´t subtle at all, the threatening part being more relevant.

As much as I usually enjoy taking on a fake identity, posing as Sigerson is getting more tedious with every passing week. I am constantly under watch. Lelord never lets me go off on my own, and in several cases the threatening part involved hurting the subject of Morbier´s interest, like in the case of Rieger. Several times I have caught my reflection in the mirror of a motorway or train station rest room or in a hotel room, wondering how much I have changed except from the colour of my hair and eyes. The wound on my arm has left a traceable scar, a remembrance of my last step out of my former life. It is a reminder of what I have lost with the fall, as I secretly christened my faked suicide, of what I have left behind to be able to trace down Moriarty´s followers.

At night, I try to blend out the thoughts of London, of John, and I don´t dare to sleep long to avoid the nightmares of falling which are still haunting me. Frequently, I have been tempted to enter an Internet café to look up John´s blog, to check whether he is continuing his writing. This impulse is triggered by pure sentiment, and sentiment I can´t afford. Lelord´s people are watching me more closely than Mycroft ever did, and acting not in character to the arrogant braggart I am personating would be far too dangerous. As would to contact Mycroft to ask him how my friends are faring. I am stuck in this farce of secret-service undercover investigation for as long as it will take me to find out what Morbier plans.

But I am getting closer. There are rumours spreading within the web that the leader of their financial network plots on tempering with company shares. Rumour has it he intends to create chaos at Europe´s stock exhanges to gather capital to expand his imperium to Asia. And Lelord has announced that I will be introduced to Morbier when I return to Brussels from my latest assignment.

He calls me the day before New Year´s eve. "Call yourself lucky," he says. "Morbier wants to see you."

The following evening, Lelord drives me up to Morbier´s country house near Antwerp, just a short distance from the sea. The red-bricked building dates from the 19th century. It is ornated with juttys and high windows. Its vast garden reminds me painfully of our family home in Oxfordshire and peaceful childhood days. A car park filled with the most recent high-end products of the automobile industry indicates that we are not the only guests to Morbier´s New Year´s Eve party.

In the marbled hall, two guards are waiting for us. Despite their manners and secrecy they are obviously men who know how to fight, and they are armed. They guide us through the crowd which assembles in the hall and its adjacent salons, drinking, relishing the treats a vast and expensive buffet provides, exchanging gossip about their work and politics. I remember how wearysome my brother finds the receptions he is forced to attempt in his position with the government and how deeply we both loathed the celebrations my father organised at our manor when we were younger. I am still lost in my memories when Lelord leans in to me: "Hope Morbier won´t take us too long – would spoil all the fun." He sniggers, leering at a pair of young blonde women who stand next to the marble stairway and talk to each other. I just nod, for I can´t be bothered to answer. It is not a promising thought that we will probably stay for the evening. I am not looking forward to being forced into trivial conversations with the crest of Belgish and French financial professionals or women Lelord considers attractive.

The guards are quite insistent, and soon we leave the throng and noises behind to enter an office on the second floor. The room is impressive, all held in green and black, old tapestry decorating the walls, the blinds heavy silk and drawn, the fireplace alight, providing a comfortable warmth. The remaining equipment is not nearly as inviting, though, as it consists of a massive oaken writing desk facing the door and a chair occupied by a bulky man with a cheesy teint and a bald head. His steepled fingers rest on several files. His eyes are alert with something beyond pure curiousity. The man emanates power and self-esteem and his plain but appropriate attire indicates that he is not the one for bragging and blending, he is a force in himself. Except from the folders, there is no paperwork visible, only a slim laptop occupies one corner of the heavy desk.

"Sigerson," he greets me, his deep voice ringing with a most hospitable undertone. "I am glad you could make it."

"I wouldn´t have missed to meet you in person," I reply.

"Of course not," he says. "Especially not when your assistance is required so badly." He leans back. "I take it you have been successful in the tasks Lelord has assigned you to?"

"He has been helpful," Lelord answers. "As I reported to you…"

Morbier cuts him short with one tiny wink with his meaty fingers. "I read your reports, Lelord", he replies with an unfriendly smile. "No need to recapitulate." His scrutinising gaze takes in my demeanor, my suit, everything, leaving me with the uncanny sensation that he sees right though me. I briefly wonder if that is how people are feeling when I regard them in detail to deduce them. But I push the thought aside, sending him a self-assured smile. "You approve of my work, then?" I ask.

His already dark eyes are deepening in shade. "You would not be here if not. We are in the last stages of a most… intruiging enterprise. I do hope you will supervise one of the most crucial actions."

"And that would be…?"

Morbier leans back again, picking one of his fingernails. "Monitoring the process crucial to my plan. Going back to Paris and supervising one of our software experts."

"I´ll need more data," I reply.

The bulky man chuckles. "Of course you do. Not very far in the future, the stock exchanges will run wild – and the net will be richer than ever before. Now, there´s your challenge."

"I don´t comprehend."

He leans towards me. "The stock market is not so much based on facts but on feelings and assumptions. Terrorist attacks, political upheavals, natural disasters – all these incidents leave the financial markets in unrest. One could earn a fortune if equipped with visionary talents. Just imagine how much one could win if he could foresee the falling of a stock because of a disastrous occurrence. And if he can´t foresee an event coming, why should he not be able to feign one?"

Lelord smirks at me, knowingly, but I still fail to grasp Morbier´s concept in detail.

"You are going to simulate a catastrophe…"

"To turn the stock market in unrest, yes," Morbier confirms. "Surely you remember talking to members of different stock exchanges. They are all on our side by now."

"There´s your fortune," Lelord prods and I send him a leery smile. "What do you want me to do?" I ask.

Morbier picks his fingernail again, apparently a tic he´s acquired in his existence as the financial supermind of the web. It is rather disgusting to watch, and I surpress a wince of impatience.

"You already know Rieger, our man in Paris. He is currently writing a programme which will get us access to the supervising network of most European cities. Some other experts we…employed are currently hacking the media networks. We will be able to control the broadcast of most European nations and their security systems shortly. And then we´ll confront them with their deepest fear – that of a terrorist attack."