Where Angels Tread

by stellamira1936

An erotic thriller that explores, from an original point of view, how incredibly complicated it is to be Mycroft Holmes, and how he could go from "Caring is not an advantage," to "Your loss would break my heart." Sexual situations (although that's not the main point), prostitution, light bondage. The timeline tucks into the six-month lacuna of "His Last Vow." Canon? What canon? ;)

36. Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-six: "The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsensae, not between right and wrong." ~ C.G. Jung

Sometimes the hours drag along like a wounded snail, and sometimes, well, you blink and you've missed the better part of a day. I guess I must have blinked.

The departure lounge of London City Airport is busier than I would have thought, it being Sunday, but I suppose a good number of the travellers are weekenders on their way home. I'm watching the flight announcements as well as listening as best I can for my flight to Amsterdam to board, and I'm not sure if the butterflies in my stomach are from being excited, or scared, or both.

I was definitely excited when Alex escorted me from the conference room to the division downstairs where, he assured me, I would be outfitted with everything I would need. I couldn't wait to get my kit; I mean, this was the real thing, right? Real secret-agent stuff.

But it was pretty disappointing. Alex took me to the offices of a bloke he introduced as Kew who looked even younger than me, although he was rather hot in a nerdy kind of way. Kew called my file up on his computer, glanced at the work order, glanced at me with a smile, then went and fetched me a hearing aid. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's a nice hearing aid –– one of those that fits inside your ear all the way, basically invisible–– but it still looked like something your gran would wear.

Alex informed me that it's not a hearing aid, it's a "two-way audio transceiver" for me to communicate with Argus. I wasn't too happy about the idea of someone talking right in my ear, to be honest; it's a little too much like having someone looking over my shoulder. I really resisted the idea, but Alex told me the deal was off if I didn't let them put the transceiver in, so eventually I said okay.

Kew carefully wedged the little earpiece tightly into my left ear, warning me to leave it in and not mess with it or else I could cause permanent damage. There's a teeny on-off switch I could just reach by poking far in with my fingernail, although in order to save the battery I was told not to turn it on until I get to Amsterdam.

"Where's the mic? How is Argus supposed to hear me?" I had to sit on my hand to keep from twiddling at it right away.

"Your analyst will be able to hear whatever you can hear, including the sound of your own voice. The pickup can be modified from your analyst's end; they will adjust the sensitivity and volume."

Then Kew handed me a sleek new mobile phone. Yes! "What does it do?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow and adjusted his nerd-standard-issue black glasses. "It sends and receives phone calls and texts."

"What else does it do? Like, does it have. . . explosives. . . or something. . . ?" I let my voice trail off when I saw how Kew and Alex exchanged a Look.

"Well, no," Kew admitted. "It's just a mobile phone. However, it does have all the usual functionality you'd expect of a smartphone; camera, gps, and so forth. It can access the internet, although you don't have unlimited data, so do be careful how much video you stream. I wouldn't game on it, either."

Bloody disappointing, really. "I have a data cap? I'm on a mission for MI6, and I've got a data cap? That's kind of cheap, isn't it?"

"Austerity, miss. It's affected every level of government." Kew didn't smile, and I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

After a quick, stale sandwich in the staff canteen, which was exactly as exciting as it sounds, Alex drove me to the Dormitory so I could freshen up and pack a "small overnight bag." The little carry-on he gave me was not much bigger than a handbag, but I managed to cram a few necessaries into it, and changed my outfit while I was at it.

I wanted to wear something flirty and fun––I mean, Amsterdam, right?–– so I pulled on a pretty floral skater-skirt dress, tall sheer white socks and, on a whim, my bright-red cowboy boots. They're actually quite comfortable and practical, although they don't look a bit of it. Alex's remarks this morning left me a little self-conscious about my hair, so I topped off the ensemble with a slouchy little white crochet beanie.

Then Alex brought me here to City Airport, where he checked me in for my flight and we said our goodbyes, as he was to leave me to wait for the rest of my team. I was actually kind of glad that Alex wasn't going to be waiting with me; after being immersed all morning in his chatter, the charm was beginning to wear a little thin.

So now I'm sat waiting; every now and then I sort of compulsively reach into the top of my boot to check for my mobile and the little wallet of euros that Alex gave me with my passport. It's so nice to have money again! The first thing I'm going to do when I get to Amsterdam is buy a packet of cigarettes and smoke up like a nasty chimney.

I poke and fiddle with my ear that has the transceiver in it; it feels really weird, not quite uncomfortable, but weird. The ambient noise is transmitted through the device, so I can still hear perfectly well, but the sound quality is distorted just enough to be annoying. I'm so preoccupied with my ear that it takes me a moment to realise they've made the first call for my flight; there's still no sign of Jason, nor Aaron. What to do? I deliberate whether I should board without them, or stay and wait.

A few minutes later, last call for boarding comes over the loudspeaker and they still haven't shown up! Bugger it, I'm going anyway; I've got an open return ticket London to Amsterdam and five hundred euros in my boot, why not go? I'm the last one through the doors as the flight attendants motion me to hurry, and once on board I ease myself down the narrow aisle, trying not to thump any of the already-seated passengers in the head with my carry-on. In the bustle of everyone last-minute trying to get situated, I locate my assigned seat, middle in a row of three. . . and there are bloody Jason and Aaron already settled in on either side of it! I slam my bag into the overhead and step over Aaron's knees to my seat.

"For fuck's sake, you could have said something about meeting on board," I grumble, flopping down and feeling around for my seat-belt.

Aaron's immaculate goatee frames a patronising smile. "We wanted to know what you would do if things went a little pear-shaped. You handled it very well."

I really want to kick this weedy berk in the ankle with the pointy toe of my boot, but I settle for implying a rude gesture in his direction, muttering "Handle this, mate."

On the other side of me, in the window seat, Jason clears his throat quietly. "Right, then. Let's get something settled straight away, shall we?"

"I'm all ears." I can feel the vibration of the engines revving under us as the plane lumbers slowly away from its parking space.

"It's very simple. I am senior intelligence officer on this little expedition. What I say, goes, in any and every situation. If, for any reason, I am unavailable, then Aaron here is in charge. Refusal to follow orders and complete your assignment results in you being sacked, which renders your agreement with the department null and void, and it's back to jail you go."

I can only imagine how satisfying it would be to kick him in the ankle, too. "So, what IS my assignment?"

"Not here!" Jason hushes, glancing pointedly around the crowded plane.

Well, I suppose not. Any further discussion is cut off by the flight attendants doing their safety show in front, and then our little plane lurches into the sky. My stomach does a loop-the-loop as we take off, but the rest of the flight is calm, and my seat companions are silent; they've popped in their earbuds and are ignoring me. The flight is so short, it seems like we barely get into the air before we have to strap in again for the landing approach. I wish I had the window seat so I could enjoy looking at the city below as we descend, but I'm able to peer over Jason's head and glimpse shimmering ribbons of water and miles of red-tiled rooftops below. It's so foreign-looking, so different. I love it.

I once asked Steen what Amsterdam was like, and he just shrugged. "It's a city. All cities are pretty much the same if you ignore the language and squint hard enough at the funny writing." Bollocks. I don't even have to leave the airport to know this is a completely different city, different life, different everything. I can't wait to see more.

Unfortunately, once we collect our car from the airport hire, it becomes obvious that I'm not going to get in any sight-seeing with this lot. Aaron takes the wheel, and Jason, sitting in the rear seat with me, pulls out his tablet computer and an air of authority.

"This is a simple mission, Angel. You aren't undercover, so we don't have to worry about disguises or much in the way of cover stories: You've just come to notify your friend's father of his son's sudden, tragic death. You may be as emotional as you like in dealing with Jan Dijkstra; in fact, the more the better, I should think. Grieve with him."

I give Jason a hard look. "Have you ever met this bloke? He's not exactly warm."

My comment is blithely ignored. "Our sources indicate that Dijkstra and his son were estranged for a number of years, but in the last few had completely reconciled."

"I was Steen's friend, remember? I think I have a good grasp of the dynamics here, probably better than your 'sources,' Jason." Steen told me he had had grown up hating his dad, actually, in that matter-of-fact way that happens when dads can't or won't stick around. When they finally met properly, though, Steen found there didn't seem to be any point in hating the man. They got on well, actually, and sort of became friends; not best mates, but congenial enough.

I guess the only really bad patch was Jan's issue with Steen's orientation. He knew that Steen was a male escort, but apparently that sort of gay was okay, as long as Steen pretended it was just for the job. People can be so weird.

I gaze out of the car window at the tantalising city-scape rolling by, glimpses of lovely, tall, narrow buildings queuing right up to the edge of mirror-smooth canals. And the bridges! Everywhere I look there are little stone bridges arching over narrow waterways. Somehow or other, I am going to find a way to spend some time wandering around this city.

I pull my attention back to Jason, and my briefing. "Is Jan in prison? That was a mug-shot that you showed me earlier."

"He's not yet been to prison. Dutch authorities have arrested him several times but they haven't been able to get a conviction yet. We're taking you to near where he lives in Amsterdam-Noord.

"Now, Angel," Jason leans toward me for emphasis, "Please listen carefully: Steen Dijkstra acted as a go-between for his father and the UK-based Russian mafia, coordinating the smuggling and distribution of controlled substances––"

I shake my head sadly. "It's still kind of difficult to believe, you know? I mean, Steen liked to party as much as anyone, and sometimes popped a pill just to get through the day, but it's hard to imagine him being a trafficker..."

"He didn't directly move contraband, he was more of a . . . facilitator and informant. Steen had dozens of government and law-enforcement contacts from his years as an escort, men he could press for information about border policing operations, useful details which he could pass on to the actual smugglers. He recorded samples of the conversations, texts, and emails that he exchanged with these contacts to use as evidence, just in case he ever needed leverage.

"Earlier this year, Steen got in over his head with the Russians over the theft of some lab notes," Ha! I bet I know more about that than you do, Mr. Jason-i'm-in-charge! "And he came up with a scheme he thought would force us to protect him; he claimed to have sent these records to a trusted individual, with instructions to release them to the public if he were to disappear or die suspiciously.

"We are now certain that his father is the trusted individual. We want you to tell Jan Dijkstra that his son was murdered, and then find out how he plans to proceed with the information Steen sent him."

No wonder Mycroft kept Steen's death under wraps! "How do you know all this?"

Jason frowns at me and lectures, "You don't need to know. Teamwork, remember? Each of us is responsible for a piece of the mission, but none of us has the entire picture, not even me."

"Right." I shrug. "So, my part is to just wheedle Jan until he tells me what he's planning to do with the information? That's it?"

"That's it. Your transceiver is also a tracking device, of course, so we'll be able to collect you immediately after you accomplish your objective. "

"Or find me if anything goes wrong!"

Jason shakes his head. "Nothing is going to go wrong. This really is what the Americans like to call a cake-walk assignment, Angel. Simple."

"Right." I look out of the window again, watching flocks of cyclists cruising down the wide biking lanes. People are actually smiling as they cycle along, not looking grim and terrified like they do in London. Fancy that. "How do I locate Jan?"

"You'll find that his address and phone number have already been saved in the contacts on your mobile. We're going to let you off at the Amsterdam Centraal, you're to phone him from there as if you've just arrived on the tram from the airport."

"Why don't you take me to his place directly? I can always say I took a taxi or something."

"We don't know what security surveillance Dikstra has, and it's important that he believes you are here alone; Aaron and I are to stay clear unless you run into serious difficulties. Don't forget, you'll have Argus with you."

"I doubt that I'll be needing his help. I don't need a nanny."

"No, you don't, " Jason unexpectedly agrees. "Just between you and me, sticking an analyst in your ear for something like this. . . it's like killing flies with a hammer! Complete overkill. But," he spreads his hands, "Ours is not to question why, is it?"

"That's right." From the driver's seat, Aaron bobs his head agreeably, eyes on the road.

"Well, maybe I'll just forget to switch the transceiver on."

"You could," Aaron glances in the rear mirror at me with a grin, and Jason glares at him.

"No, you can't!" Jason objects. "Angel, your instruction is to turn on your transceiver before making contact with Dijkstra, and to leave it on thereafter. Argus wants to gather intel from your interactions."

"I didn't agree to that!" I protest vehemently. "That's not part of the deal. I don't particularly like Jan, but he's my friend's dad, and I'm not here to help bring him down; his business is not my problem!"

"Don't get your knickers in a twist!" Jason frowns. "Why shouldn't we use the opportunity to get any information we can? Dijkstra might let something slip, something important; that bloke has contacts all over the world. Whose side are you on, anyway?"

I don't know exactly how to answer that, so I just bite my lip and look out the window.

Amsterdam Centraal is an enormous affair, a multi-level terminal for trains, buses, trams, the metro, and even little ferry-boats that zip across the lake behind the station. Even though it's late on a Sunday afternoon, the place is still bustling. Jason and Aaron let me out at the kerb, handing me my overnight bag and wishing me luck.

First things first: It takes me a while, but I prowl around the station until I find an open shop where I can buy a bottle of water, a packet of cigarettes, and a lighter. A little more prowling takes me back out to the lake-side where smokers are actually allowed to light up.

I puff away blissfully, watching the little blue-and white ferries ply their route across the placid IJ, the lake that runs through Amsterdam like a very slow Thames. From the big map on the wall, I can make out that the city on the opposite shore is Amsterdam-Noord, where Jan lives. Well, that's my destination anyway, and it looks nicer over there; I hop on one of the ferries for a quick ride across the water.

It's not exactly a park, but there's some grass and trees and a few seats on the beach right beside where the ferry docks; even though it's not a completely private spot, I figure it's close enough. I settle in on a bench in the slanting sun, stretching out my legs, feeling the bright warmth soak into my skin and watching the points of sunlight flash on the rippling lake. I prod a little at the healing wound on my thigh, and it feels only a teeny bit tender, not really painful at all. The swelling is completely gone now, and I don't even need a plaster over it. John Watson definitely got the antibiotic right, bless his rumpled heart.

Well, I have work to do. Best get to it. Poking gingerly in my ear, I flick the tiny switch upwards with my fingernail, and clear my throat. I can't believe this thing will actually work, but whatever.

"Hey, is anybody there? Hullo?" Oh, good grief, I'm sitting alone on a park bench talking to myself! I don't want to look like a nutter, so I quickly pull out my mobile and hold it up to my ear as if I'm on a call. "Hullo? Argus?"

There's a crackle-popping noise, then a steady hiss of static as a man's voice murmurs directly into my sensitive ear, low and intimate. The vibration sends a thrill up and down my spine, making me shiver in the warm sun, but the volume is too low for me to make out any words.

Get a grip on yourself, Angelica! You don't have to melt into a pile of goo just because some bloke whispers in your ear long-distance. I clear my throat awkwardly. "I'm sorry, could you raise the volume just a bit? I can hardly hear you."

"Is this better?" The voice is slightly louder than the static now.

"Yeah, I can make out what you're saying well enough." Barely, but whatever.

"Then listen to me, please. I know you aren't happy about this arrangement, but I am here to ensure your safety, nothing more." He's speaking urgently, like he's afraid I'll switch him off any second. "Recent developments mean that this assignment could be more dangerous than we originally thought. The mission is still go, but it's been decided that additional precautions, like this monitoring, are necessary."

I reckon I know who made that decision, but before I can ask Argus if a certain Mycroft Holmes had anything to do with it, the voice in my ear crackles on. "However, it doesn't have to be me; I can put another data analyst online immediately for you, if you would prefer."

Six of one, half-dozen of another, as Auntie used to say. "Doesn't make any difference to me, really. Although they did say you were the best analyst ever. Are you still the best?"

"I've enjoyed some degree of success," he observes. I wish the sound quality was better, so I could tell if he was being ironic or just overly modest.

"Well, then, I suppose you'll do."

"As you wish." There's a pause. "Thank you, Angel. Shall we proceed with the business at hand?"

"Sure." Why would he be thanking me? These SIS types are a little strange.

"Very good. Now, what is your approximate location?"

"I'm in Amsterdam-Noord, and the sign over there says I'm at the Veer Buiksloterweg. There's a little strip of waterfront park or whatever it is right beside where one of the ferries from Amsterdam Centraal disembarks."

"You are outdoors?"

"I'm sitting on a bench soaking up the sunshine, right beside the lake."

"Excellent. Please stay where you are, it may take a while to access a satellite that's in alignment. We could even be lucky and get a visual; the cloud cover is very light." He goes quiet for a bit, and I hear keystrokes in the background.

"Well, that was easier than it might have been," Argus's voice buzzes in my ear. "And there you are. That's an attractive dress, but bright red boots? Really?"

I tap together my outstretched toes and laugh. "Really! I like them. They make me feel good. So, you can see me on a spy satellite right now? That's wild."

"I can, but only because your transceiver allows a precise fix. And those boots are hard to miss."

I look up into the blue sky above me, streaked with high white smears of cloud. "Hullo, Nanny!"

"Argus," he says reproachfully.

"So your emblem is a peacock?" I'm showing off a little; I always loved Greek mythology.

"Perhaps." He sounds amused. "Yes, quite possibly so." Then, brusquely, "Now, tell me what you understand your assignment to be."

I repeat what Jason told me, adding, "So, I'm just supposed to have a cuppa and a sit down with Jan? That's all?"

"Yes, that's all."

"Okay, but what if I––"

"Angel, none of our agents has been able to infiltrate Dijkstra's little organisation, nor to gain his confidence. You are the best chance we have of determining if he indeed has the information, and what he intends to do with it. Just that alone will be invaluable."

"But, what if I can steal the disk or usb drive or whatever it is that Steen sent him? Before Jan has a chance to make it public? Wouldn't that be even better?"

"No! Absolutely not! You are to attempt nothing of the kind. We've seen this coming for some time and prepared for it; in fact, that there will be difficulties if the scandal doesn't break soon."

I can't help but laugh. "So you actually want to make sure that there's a scandal? Okay. Sounds weird, but okay."

"It's so much more effective to channel a calamity than to try and prevent one," Argus observes, "And this will remove some dead wood that desperately needs pruning. A win-win situation."

"Except for the blokes who'll get caught up in the scandal!"

"Does that bother you?"

I consider. "No, not really," I answer honestly. "Does that make me a bad person?"

"Would you be upset if it did?"

"Do you always answer questions with riddles? Maybe you should be called Sphinx instead of Argus." Argus Panoptes, Argus the All-Seeing. I look up at the sky again. "Will you be able to watch me the whole time?"

"Direct visual will only be possible when you are outside, and under light cloud cover. I can track you through your transceiver, though, and I have limited access to the Dutch surveillance camera network, such as it is. Be assured, if anything goes wrong, we can extract you very quickly."

"I'm not really too worried, to be honest. If keeping an eye on me makes you guys happy, then whatever––but you'll be quiet most of the time, right? You won't be chattering in my ear constantly?"

"You'll forget I'm even here," Argus promises.

"And I can turn off this transceiver for privacy when I need to, like going to the toilet and things?"

"I would much appreciate it if you did, thank you!"

Even the transceiver's shite sound quality can't mask the fervour in his plea, and I laugh out loud again. Okay, if I have to have someone in my ear for the next few hours, this bloke is all right. "I will, promise."

"Very good. Well, I think you should be getting on with it, don't you? Good luck."

"Yeah. Thanks."

There's a soft click, and the sound filtering in through the transceiver changes, the background noises of people and the ferryboat engines become louder and more defined. I have to keep in mind that, as long as I don't turn off the transceiver, Argus can still hear everything that I can hear, even if he's got himself on mute.

I look at the contacts on my mobile, and as promised there's already an entry for Jan. I'd rather text, but as he's an older bloke ringing him is likely to get a better response.

I'm surprised when he answers right away, but it doesn't surprise me that he can't remember who I am. "Angelica? Angelica who?" he asks.

"Steen's friend, Angelica Talbot. You and I met last year, in London. I really need to speak with you in person, I've come all this way. I'm in Amsterdam, at the Veer Buiksloterweg, I took a ferry across . . . "

"You're here? Now?" There's a pause. "Why are you here?"

"I need to talk to you. About Steen. Please, can you meet me someplace, for just a little bit? I promise I won't take much of your time."

There's another pause, and I'm framing how best to wheedle him into meeting with me when he says, "I'll come for you, okay? That's very close to my house. You stay in place, I'll be there within, say, half an hour?"

Relieved, I promise to be waiting for him right by the ferry landing, and he rings off. Well, that was easy, at least so far. I keep my arse glued to the bench and have a smoke or three while I'm waiting, gazing at the city across the water, thinking about my conversation with Argus. Does not really caring if I'm bad make me bad? It's all a little disturbing.

Not even twenty minutes later, a shiny silver Audi cruises by slowly, twice. That's gotta be Jan; I stand, smiling and waving, and he pulls the car over to the kerb, jumping out to greet me. He tosses my overnight case into the car's huge boot and settles me in next to him in the front seat. "Well, Angelica. Welcome! This is a surprise." His mouth is smiling, but his hazel eyes are wary.

Jan Dijkstra looks much like he did last summer: a tall, lean man in his early 60's, more or less attractive but not exactly handsome, with an odd twist to the set of his shoulders. His grey-blond hair has way too much product, and he seems to think that careless beard-stubble is a sexy look; combined with the open-neck black polo shirt and designer jeans, he looks a bit of a 1980's leftover.

I don't exactly know how to tell him that his son is dead. I mean, it's not the kind of thing I've ever had to do before, so I just launch into it. "Thanks for coming, Jan, I really appreciate it. I don't know how to say this, but––"

"We have a saying, we Dutch do," Jan smoothly interrupts. His English is heavily accented but very fluent. "'Everything sounds sweeter to a full stomach.' May I take you to dinner? And then have our serious talk, later."

"Well, yes, dinner would be lovely, thank you." I'm totally starving, to be honest, and dinner should be the perfect way to connect with him and ease into his confidence.

So Steen's dad takes me out to a very posh, cosy little restaurant, and it's weird as fuck. He's quite a lot more personable than when I met him last year; in fact, he's so personable that it's making me a little uncomfortable.

"Jan," I say hesitantly, after he makes yet another flattering remark, "You're being really kind to say such nice things, but it feels a little inappropriate? I mean, Steen and I––"

"––were nothing but friends." My surprise must show on my face, because Jan gives me a tight-lipped smile. "I wasn't fooled, not for a minute. I knew Steen was . . . well, we Dutch are supposed to be tolerant, right? If one has other views, one keeps them private. But I knew, even if I kept silent and let Steen have his little show."

That's fairly shitty –– plus I notice that Jan's using the past tense. There's one question answered, I guess. I try to shift the conversation toward talking more about Steen, but Jan isn't having any of it; instead, his banter gets more flirtatious, and he invites me to go with him after dinner to his place where we can "really relax."

I'm not sure what to do. I could just go for it, I guess. Jan's not totally repulsive, and it would probably make it easier to get the information I need. But, I really don't want to shag Steen's dad! There have to be other options.

By the end of the meal I'm sipping a demitasse of strong coffee, still unsure of my next move, when my ear is flooded by familiar static and a soft voice saying, "I need to speak with you, urgently. Perhaps you could excuse yourself for a few minutes?"

Now what? I place the tiny cup down on its saucer, and tell Jan I need to use the loo. He gives me a toothy grin and a wink, saying he won't be going anywhere without me.

How reassuring. I find the ladies' room, a plush pink-and-gold affair, and quickly check under the stalls to make sure they're unoccupied. "I'm alone. What's up?"

The voice in my ear is distorted but I can clearly hear his impatience as Argus gets right to the point: "You're holding back too much. This is no time to practice being coy."

"Holding back? If you mean I'm not racing to jump into bed with Jan, you're right, I'm not. He's Steen's dad!"

"You have to set your personal feelings aside and focus on accomplishing your mission!" Argus lectures. "How you feel about it should play no part. You must use any and all means at your disposal to gain his confidence."

Goodness, that sounds familiar! Didn't Sherlock say pretty much the same thing just a day or two ago? Men. Always happy for me to use my body for their benefit. "Gee, Argus, thanks for the encouragement or permission or whatever, I'll keep it in mind. But, just so you know, I have no intention of getting intimate with Jan. I don't want to, so I'm going to find another way."

"He's trying to seduce you, Angel! I didn't anticipate that, but it's perfectly obvious that he fancies you, and it would be foolish not to capitalise on that, although with caution, please; he remains an unknown quantity. What I want you to do is to agree to accompany him––"

"Why are you trying to talk me into it?" I demand, as I'm struck by a nasty thought. "Is it because you want to get off on listening or something?"

"Certainly not!" Argus emphatically denies, then adds, "Listening to you, or anyone else, having sex is utterly unappealing to me."

"Oh?" I'm skeptical. "I've never heard of a man who didn't like porn."

"Evidently I lack the empathy or imagination or whatever it is that allows people to properly enjoy such things. So if you would be so kind as to pack away your suspicions, perhaps you could concentrate on accomplishing your objective as efficiently as possible?"

"I'll get the job done. In my own way."

Argus mutters something that I can't quite hear through the hissing static. "Pardon?" I ask.

He repeats it, louder. "If it's because of me, I can assure you that that is no longer an issue."

"Why would it have anything to do with you! What do you mean, no longer an issue? What are you talking ab––?" Oh, bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

"For fuck's sake, Mycroft, what the actual fuck are you doing!" I'm shouting now, and I don't even care. "What are you doing? I can't. . .I don't even. . .Oh!"

I'm in such a frenzy to turn off the transceiver that I scratch the inside of my ear with my fingernail, drawing a little blood, and have to grab a wad of toilet tissue and press it hard against my ear to make the pink oozing stop. God, I am such an idiot! How could I not recognise Mycroft's voice? Okay, so there was a lot of static and distortion, and he was the last person I would have expected, but, still, how could I be so stupid . . . !

I'm so angry that I'm shaking. I close my eyes and focus on my breathing, calming down so I can think instead of just raging.

Why is he doing this? There has to be a reason; it's not as if he sits around with loads of time on his hands and nothing to do. This means something, and I need to know what it is. I need to know if I can believe in him again.

I reach my finger into my poor scraped ear and carefully flick on the transceiver. It pops and crackles.

"Mycroft, why are you doing this?" I ask quietly.

"I believe I already explained that quite clearly: You are the best chance we have of finding out what Dijkstra intends to do. And please call me Argus; this transmission is encrypted, but even so, one does not use an agent's civilian name in the field."

Figures that Mycroft would be the Miss Manners of spies. "Right. Okay, I get why you sent ME, but why are you the one in my ear? Why are YOU doing this?"

He sighs extravagantly, sounding very put-upon. "As the old saw would have it, if you want a job done properly. . ."

"But you can't do all the jobs yourself! Why this one? Either this mission is more important than you're letting on, or I am."

"Begging to have your ego stroked is rather pathetic, don't you think?" he observes dryly.

I have to ball up my fist to keep from slamming the wall in frustration. "Piss off! I am not looking for validation from you, you miserable toe-rag! I'm trying to understand what the actual fuck you think you are doing! Do you have any idea how much this is messing with my head? Do you?"

This time his sigh sounds heartfelt, and there is a long, static-filled pause before he admits, "Obviously, I do not."

Actually, I didn't realise how much it was messing with me until I said it just now. "Well, it is! Severely! It's like, you're cold as ice and can hardly wait to wash your hands of me one minute, then the next you're crooning in my bloody EAR and pretending to not be you! What the fuck? Did you have a good time fooling me and proving yet again what an idiot I am?"

"How was I to know you didn't recognise my voice?" he snaps crossly. "You were being extremely familiar––"

"It's called being friendly, for fuck's sake! I'm a friendly person! I know that's a bit of a stretch for you to imagine, being friendly!" I stop and calm myself down; it's not like an emotional scene is going to help me here. "Okay. Okay, so you didn't know that I didn't know. Okay. Now we're both on the same page. I just. . . I just need to understand why you are here, doing this. I need to know where I fit into things!"

When he answers, his words are clipped and precise. "Where you 'fit into things,' Angel, is in having a certain amount of potential utility that I wish to preserve. Is that answer enough? Or," he threatens in a silken voice, "Would you perhaps like me to sing your praises for you?"

"No," I answer sullenly. Would it kill him to admit, Because you matter to me? Apparently, it would.

"I think I should go now," he adds.

"What?"

"Another data analyst should take over, immediately. You aren't capable of being truly reasonable with me. I'm sorry, I should have anticipated that. It's my fault, not yours."

What's really infuriating is that I can tell he means it. "Don't bother finding a replacement," I snarl, "That will not make any bloody difference, because I am switching off this bloody transceiver right now! Monitoring me for this piddly assignment is total overkill; you're the one being unreasonable again, My––Argus, and I'm not going to stand for it!"

Mycroft shouts something or other at me, but I switch off the transceiver anyway. I'd pull the thing out, but I don't want to damage my ear; besides, it's good insurance to have them able to track me. Just in case.

I spare a few moment to wee, wash up, and adjust my beanie at a jaunty angle, then I saunter back into the dining room, swaggering in my red boots. It feels bloody good to draw boundaries with that man, and stick to them. About time!

Jan is waiting for me a little impatiently, and I apologise for taking so long to "powder my nose," but I immediately regret using that particular phrase.

"Well, if you wanted to powder your nose, you should have said so!" he laughs. "At home I've got all the powder you could want, finest quality. And some excellent weed, too. . . "

Oh, good lord, the last thing I want to do is party with this fossil! But I have a plan now; I know precisely what I'm doing, so I smile widely and act as if I had just been waiting all along for him to offer up the good stuff. He laps it up as eagerly as I thought he would, and before long we're headed for his house "to relax."

It turns out that navigating through Noord-Amsterdam is very tedious tonight, as there's some street festival going on; automobile traffic is diverted and slowed to a crawl as it winds through the neighbourhood.

Jan drums his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. "Bloody hipsters. Noord used to be a quiet place, you know? A post-industrial wasteland. Nobody wanted to live up here on the wrong side of the lake."

"What happened?"

"The fucking artists 'discovered' it. And then everybody else, because suddenly it's hip, and before you know it there's a McDonalds and a Starbucks and thousands of tourists. And fucking street parties," he waves a hand at the revelry around us, "For no reason whatsoever. It was better when they left this place to the drug traders and the whores and the other despicable folk."

Grrr. "Sex work isn't despicable, Jan. Sex doesn't ruin lives the way drugs can."

Fingers still drumming, Jan looks at me with a smirk. "Some of your clients are married, right? You think maybe visiting a prostitute could strain a marriage? You think maybe you might have ruined a few lives?"

"It's not my job to police people's morality!" I protest, feeling an unwelcome shock. I didn't think Jan knew I was an escort. I wonder what else Steen told him about me.

Jan shrugs. "Nor mine," he observes.

There's a flaw in his logic, but I'm not invested enough in the discussion to figure it out. Finally, the traffic starts to move again, and Jan weaves the car through the crowd on the street, revving the engine now and again to encourage people to scurry out of his way.

Jan's place isn't some skeevy little flat, it's actually quite a nice, modern home with a tidy garden and an attached garage. The inside is totally luxurious and spotless, with lots of sparkling glass and light oak floors and comfy furnishings. I settle in at one end of the big, beige sectional sofa that curves around two walls of the living room. Playing the gracious host, Jan disappears into the kitchen to open a bottle of some incredibly special wine that I apparently have to try, "Before anything else!" he says with a wink.

Jan brings out the opened bottle and pours a wine-glass full for me, then fetches several bottles of beer for himself. He pours his glass and raises it to me: "Proost!"

"What do you think of the wine?" he asks eagerly as I take a sip. "It's made by friends of mine who just migrated to South Africa to open a winery. You have to drink at least one full glass so you can give me an honest review, okay? They are trying very hard, but I can't say if it's any good because I don't drink wine." Jan pauses his info-dump to brandish his beer glass at me.

I swirl the wine gently and sniff it. The bottle says Pinot Noir, and it smells and tastes pretty much like it should; which is saying something, because Pinot Noir is really hard to get right. There is a little bitter bite that I've never tasted in a Pinot before, but it finishes round and smooth; overall it's good shit, and I tell Jan as much. He looks genuinely pleased and relieved, grabbing the bottle to top up my glass.

"Oh, not too much, Jan! I don't want to get silly. I can never tell what I might do after too much wine."

To my relief, he doesn't follow up my opening with more flirtation. He just sets the bottle down, smiling, and we chat about wine versus beer, and Jan tells me far too much about his friends who migrated to the South to grow grapes. It's horribly boring, but I'm saved by the unexpected sound of a toilet flushing upstairs.

"Who. . .?" I ask, looking at the ceiling.

"My girlfriend, Vera, is home right now. She'll be going out shortly, don't worry."

It shouldn't, but this feels terribly awkward. "Erm, would she like to join us? That would be fine with me."

"She doesn't like new people. Sorry, no offence, you know?"

"That's fine, I understand. Well, what's she like?" I ask, still feeling awkward.

"Tall and slender, like you," he shrugs.

That's not what I meant, but whatever. I'm getting tired of waiting for Jan to decide we can talk about Steen, so I drink a little more of my wine and take a deep breath. "Jan, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. Have you heard the news about Steen?" I'm pretty sure I already know the answer, but I have to be certain.

He nods once, then takes a deep draught of his beer, knocking back almost half of it. "What?" he growls, wiping his mouth with the edge of his thumb, "That he got himself killed? I heard."

Right. No surprises here. "I knew his mum was officially his next of kin, so I wasn't sure if you would be contacted as well."

"I wasn't. Not by the cops, and certainly not by that bitch in Sydney. Good thing I have my own networks."

"Steen's mum lives in Adelaide now."

"Whatever." He takes another drink of his beer. "So that's it? That's why you came all this way?"

"No. I need to make sure of something. . . "

"What?"

I look down at the shimmering garnet of the wine in my glass. Showtime, Angelica! "Steen told me that he trusted you with some sensitive information, stuff that you were to take to the media if something should happen to him. Something did happen to him. . . so what are you going to do?"

Jan sprawls back against the cushions, crossing his ankles. "Why do you care? I think it's none of your business."

Why do I care? Why is it my business? I have a feeling he'll know I'm lying if I start spouting off about justice and honouring Steen's last wishes like I had planned to. What will Jan believe? A lie springs to my lips so fast, I don't even have to think about it. "Because if you don't want to take the story to the media yourself, then I want to do it. I want to be on the telly, I want to be famous, even if it's just for a week. This could be my big break!"

He takes it in thoughtfully, but then shakes his head, tight-lipped. Damn. "Sorry, but I have to tell you no. I'm going to hang onto Steen's little gift for now. You never know when a bit of blackmail material might be useful. I'd be stupid to give away an advantage like that."

"But Steen––"

"––is dead. He miscalculated, and he lost. It happens." Jan is very matter-of-fact. I could tell him what a cold bastard I think he is, but I doubt that he'd give a bloody damn what I think.

I settle for glaring at him. That's that, I guess; I know what Jan is planning to do with the information Steen gave him, mission accomplished. I suppose I really ought to make my excuses and get the hell out here, right now. . . but not just yet. I want to see what else he'll tell me.

"Well, that's your perogative," I pout. "And you're right, it isn't any of my business. I just was really, really fond of Steen, and I miss him lots and lots." I don't have to fake the glimmer of tears in my eyes, or the sadness in my voice. I give a little sniffle and drink some more wine. Once you get past that initial bitter bite, it's really quite good, and I'm getting a buzz off it already. I can feel the tension dissolving from my neck and shoulders, tension I didn't even know was there until it went away. Nice.

I rest my head against the soft cushions behind me, asking plaintively, "Why did they have to kill him? I know he was in deep all over the place, but. . ."

At this, Jan's lined face crinkles up and he barks a harsh laugh, finishing his beer and opening another to pour into his glass. "All over the place, that's an understatement. The boy was trying to diversify, I'll give him that. About time, too, you know? He was getting too old, he had to find other work. That's why I hired him, you know? I wanted to help."

I snort a laugh. "So you helped him get into trafficking? Like that's a great career move with a bright future?"

"It's the family business," Jan growls. "It was good enough for my father, and good enough for me." I kind of like it when he growls, it's throaty and more than a bit sexy. Now that Jan's not putting the moves on me and being gross, I can appreciate where Steen's casual sex appeal came from. There's something about him that is so much like Steen. . . Jan's quite okay, really, despite his vague skeevyness.

"Sorry, that came out kind of harsh. I just . . . I just want to know what happened to him. I just want to know."

Jan cocks a speculative eyebrow at me. "You want to know? All of it?" I nod my head, Yes. He glances at the nearly-empty wineglass in my hand, then shrugs. "Why not? No harm in telling you." He begins rubbing his thumb back and forth slowly across the rim of his beer glass, staring into the foamy amber. "Steen was ambitious. He had plans. Investment ideas, some good ones. Surfing resorts on the Gold Coast, things like that, but he needed a lot of money to get things going, more than he could make turning tricks, you know? Especially at his age. He made some extra money head-hunting for that escort agency," Jan looks up at me meaningfully, "But it wasn't enough.

"So I gave him a job, to help me deal with the fucking Russians, that Doreshchenko and the rest. They had Steen do distribution for them at first, working under McCutcheon. Once they felt they could trust him, he was allowed to take on coordinating the major drop-points, making sure we could stay one step ahead of the cops. The Russians loved that, treated him like one of their own.

"Then he rang me one day, saying Doreshchenko had gotten his hands on some valuable information, and that McCutcheon had offered him a considerable amount to nick it for him. I advised Steen to stay the hell out of a double-cross like that. McCutcheon was obviously looking for a someone to take the fall for him, you know? But McCutcheon kept offering more money. . . Finally Steen gave in and did it, but while he and McCutcheon were still negotiating the final payout, Steen changed his mind and wouldn't sell. He never said why––"

"I reckon I know why," I say, although I'm feeling so relaxed it's an effort to form the words. "McCutcheon was going to sell the information to terrorists, and Steen found out. McCutcheon didn't care if innocent people would be killed, but Steen cared."

"That would be like him, wouldn't it? You know, caring doesn't do you any good in this life," Jan shakes his head. "Caring just makes you the bigger fool."

"What happened then?"

"Then McCutcheon did what he probably planned to all along; he told the Russians. He lied and told them it was all Steen's idea. Then Doreshchenko sent some hitmen after Steen––foreigners, but not Russians, he didn't want any obvious ties with them––"

"The Iranians? They weren't exactly hitmen, more like wee punks. . . "

Jan shrugs and finishes his beer. "I don't know who was sent. Somebody. They weren't successful. So my idiot son decided that if he returned the book to the Russians, they would give him a kiss and a hug and all would be forgiven. He was so frightened by then that he was taking handfuls of pills just to cope, but getting wasted only makes you more stupid, you know?" I remember the phone message that Steen left me the night he got killed, and I nod. Yeah, he had sounded pretty incoherent, and why else would he assume that I knew who "The Pigman" was?

"And, by then it didn't matter what Steen did," Jan adds, "McCutcheon couldn't let him live."

"McCutcheon. . .?"

"Yeah, it was that American bastard that shot him. At least, that's what Doreshchenko was told." My cheeks flush with anger. Fucking McCutcheon. No wonder Mycroft wouldn't tell me who killed Steen; I would have gone after him myself, and probably gotten killed as well.

"Of course," Jan adds, "that means you'd have to believe McCutcheon was telling the truth, even though that fucker lies just for the fun of it. It's a hobby with him. He's a bloody menace."

"Not any more," I say with savage satisfaction.

"Oh?"

"MI6 have him." The thought makes me smile from ear to ear.

"I wouldn't think you'd be so pleased about your boss being in jail." Jan leans forward and puts his empty beer glass on the coffee table, taking my nearly-empty wineglass from my lax fingers to place beside it.

"My boss? No, never." I shake my head vigorously.

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong. I did one little job for him, because he convinced me I didn't have any choice. It was stupid of me, I was stupid to let him convince me. . . But I don't work for him." I realise that Jan is looking at me skeptically, and I shrug. Whatever.

"Who do you work for, then?"

I almost, ALMOST say, Mycroft Holmes! But I turn the "Myy-y" into "Myy-self. I work for myself. I'm an independent escort. Like Calypso," I add helpfully. I'm certainly not going to have any more of that wine; I don't want to get any drunker than I already am. Either I'm so run-down that I've got no tolerance for alcohol right now, or that wine was really strong. Or both.

"Calypso?" Jan laughs.

"You probably never heard of her, she was––"

"I know who she was. I just can't believe you think she worked for herself."

"She did! She was self-employed."

"She may have been a self-employed prostitute, but she worked for your government. Everybody knows that."

I stare at Jan, nonplussed. "I didn't know it. What happened to her?"

"She got greedy and out of control, so her name was 'accidentally' leaked as a government informant. Then it was only a matter of time before somebody with a grudge decided to settle the score."

"No evidence. Just rumours. . ." I stifle a yawn. For fuck's sake, this is no time to be napping!

"I know what I'm talking about," he counters. "Besides, it's the kind of thing that happens. Make promises, break promises, dispose of inconvenient people. . . It's all just business. Governments are just the biggest business there is. Rich people invest in governments like they do in stock markets––"

He goes off for a bit on the evils of corrupt government, but I'm not listening. Listening takes effort, and I'm having to work pretty hard just to follow one line of thought at this point. Calypso worked as an informant? Maybe even for Mycroft? Then what about her and Cobb and those nasty photos? And why did that Russian gangster Mike, or Mica, or whatever his name is, have them? And, why, why, why. . .

"What about the other two?" I ask suddenly.

Jan stops in mid-rant. "The other two what?"

"Sex workers. Killed same as Calypso. Same gun."

"To cover it up, of course." Jan looks at me like I'm being stupid. "To muddy the waters."

"Murdering innocent women. To muddy the waters." I'm not so out of it that I don't feel outraged all over again. "Bollocks. Bloody bollocks."

He shrugs carelessly, then pulls out his phone to check the time. "You are feeling pretty sleepy by now, yes? You look sleepy."

I nod my head, struggling to keep my eyes open. "I'm so sorry, can't hardly keep awake. It's been such a long week, so much." Wait a minute. "You're expecting me to feel sleepy!"

Jan puts his phone back in his pocket and stands up, crossing his arms and looking down at me. "It's nothing personal, Angelica, it's just business. I'm sorry." He actually sounds slightly regretful. "Whether or not you work for McCutcheon, you are too well-informed about my business, and it risks my security to leave you alive. But don't worry, you don't deserve to suffer. I won't let you suffer. You'll fall asleep, and you just won't wake up, okay?"

While he's talking I heave my hand up to my ear, fumbling to switch on my transceiver. . . to call for help . . . my head is a boulder lolling against the cushions; I'm all but immobilised. My eyelids flutter as I try to focus on Jan standing over me with a sad smile on his fucking face the fucking fucker fucking roofied me he ROOFied M . . .?