Sherlock
The next morning is too bright for me. Beaming sun, not a cloud in sight. The first fat man, undereducated or maybe just hopeful, has donned patterned cargo shorts above his Nike trainers. He rolls between me, at a wooden table outside a riverside café, and the raised flowerbeds, red and purple lifting their heads up into the new day. It all looks so happy, so oblivious, so ignorant. Hateful. It's not often I get to feel like the honest one. This morning, I very definitely should not be able to feel like the honest one. But shivering, shying from the sun, with an old twitch in my neck resurging, somehow I feel like a more accurate representation of the world than the barista laughing at a video on someone's phone. That laugh cuts right through me.
Maybe I'm wrong; certainly when Mies arrives she's enjoying this early burst of summer. Bare legs, a scarf in her hair. Bit beneath her, isn't it? I mean, that scarf does nothing to hide the little black bud pressed into her left ear. I don't know, maybe the legs are meant to distract me. They don't. And when she sits down at the table they're out of sight. Maybe it's too early for her. She was up late last night, answered right away when I called. Maybe she's not at her best. That's why, the moment after she's bid me good morning, she touches the sleeve of a passing waiter, and holds his eyes with hers.
Starts to say, "Straight black, no fr-… Hector! When did you get out of Nero?" And stops to have a full blown conversation about the career moves of a Spanish student. When she finally lets him go, turns back to me, "He used to work round the corner from me." Smiles to herself, "I feel like this is going to be a good day." More and more I'm starting to believe that good days are a fallacy. 'Good' days are just the days where nothing happens to make you think otherwise. It balances, in the end. But there's no sense in telling her that. Maybe something will happen to make her realize on her own. "So how are you, gorgeous?"
Not gorgeous, and she knows as much. Mere days out of a lapse and it's too early for me too, too weighed down with other things, too aware, oh, all too aware that there might not be too much logic in doing lots of wrong things just because the world around you seems to be so wrong.
Mies was reaching for a cigarette. Her eyes flutter to the ashtray on the table, with three butts in it since I arrived. She stops reaching. "What's the matter? You're not very talkative."
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I take it you have good news for me, about Hedegaard?"
"Very good news," she says, looking calm, looking helpful. But that's all she says, and she just looks.
"Yes, I got what you asked for." The mission statement of the project known as Diogenes, certain records appertaining to the senior staff. And it was promised to me that the more internal communication, memos and such, I could pick up, the more easily available Hedegaard would be made. "So where's the killer being kept, then?"
"Now, dear, have a think; if we told you that it would reveal something about us, wouldn't it? About our operation, the way we move those under our protection."
"That's not the royal-we, is it?"
"We don't have a crown yet. Matter of fact, at the moment, we're being beaten all around the town. Arm and armour us, Sherlock. Then you can tell us where you want your nutter dropped off and it'll be done."
"And I have your word on that, do I?"
"Cross my heart."
And she does, elegantly, playfully. I can't stand it. Nausea, for a moment, is overwhelming, and as the twitch goes off again, shuddering my head down almost to my shoulder, it could almost have its way. The SIS should use more people like me for their meetings. How could anybody ever think anything of me, except perhaps that I was expendable? Or worse, Donovan's mistaken word, useless. But because this is Mies, because it's something that comes very easily to her, she forms her face to pity and concern. There's nothing in it. I know that. Still, I have to stop her; "I just need you to make him go back to his flat."
Still so patient, so calm, "Alright." Still waiting. I put my hand up on the table, just to tap ash. She reaches over and squeeze my wrist, just once. And as her hand withdraws again it takes the black memory stick from my palm. "As soon as the contents are confirmed, it'll be done. I'll let you know his ETA." Mies says it all with such openness and caring I look up. Not quite at her. "What?" she smiles. "What do you see? The sparrows singing in the trees, kid on her first tricycle down the towpath? Or the fella coming over my shoulder with the bag ready to go over my head?"
Yeah, that last one.
He looks wrong, in his suit, in the bright sunshine. He looks wrong anyway, they always do. And there is, as Mies said, a very small bulge in his jacket pocket, that could well be black hessian.
"You swore," I say. She tips her head, but I wasn't talking to her and I don't have time to explain. "You swore; you said she gets to leave, that I get Hedegaard before you take her." For the first time since I sat down here, there's no response, on the clear and practically-invisible bud in my ear, from Mycroft. But she's alone. They told me earlier she's alone. They found her first from three streets away and she's alone. Over her shoulder, I'm watching Mycroft's operative, still approaching. Telling him again, "You swore."
Mies says, "Keep watching, Sherlock."
No more than four steps from her back, unfolding the cloth from his pocket, he is seeing only the back of her head. Then he vanishes from view, blown suddenly sideways as the back of his own is taken off with a high-powered rifle. He's dead before he crashes into the wall between the café and the gift shop next door.
In my ear, I hear Mycroft and company go to panic stations. That shot, though, came from the other side of the river. There's a boat over there, moored; that could be it.
"Are they scrabbling?" Mies grings. "Tell me they're scrabbling. Of course, after last time, there'll be back-up, but I would advise against them approaching us." A pause, "And now they've all gone silent, am I right?"
"Yes."
She raises her voice, leaning in towards me, the tilt of her head indicating she knows exactly where the microphone has been taped along my collarbone. "Mr Holmes, your brother is in no danger. I'll give him back when I'm finished with him." Then reaches over and, thumb and forefinger, pulls the little device away, yanks it out on its wire and drops it into my coffee.
The world around us is in chaos, a mull of staff and shoppers gathering around the dead man, a dozen phones all taking pictures or calling ambulances. In the middle of it all we are seated and still. "Well, if you will act the pawn, dear, don't be surprised when you get played. I just wish you hadn't involved him." There's no need to ask; she means Mycroft. "I wasn't sure you would. Lucky for me, someone else knew better." She holds up the memory stick, "There's nothing useful on this, is there?"
"There was when I was shown, but given recent developments I'd say there was a swap somewhere along the line."
"Me too. Do you know enough yourself to warrant my giving you Hedegaard? Please, Christ, say yes."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I don't want the scary fucker anymore."
"Then just give him to me." She raises an eyebrow, the beginnings of a laugh. I agree, wholeheartedly; that wasn't even worth a try. I still want Hedegaard; therefore he still has value. It's all just commerce.
"Define 'enough'."
"One weak link."
Jim
He talks. While Moran watches down the rifle sight, I listen in. He talks until he says the right thing, the thing that makes me clap my hands, "Oh, yes, that's us, that'll do nicely!"
Muttering from the corner of his mouth, through his protruding tongue, "You really can't make me jump when I'm holding this thing."
Now that Mycroft's not listening in on her, "Nor can you shout when you're right in my ear."
"Wrap it up, Dani. Get yourself out." She tells her poor sad boy we'll get back to him about Hedegaard, as promised. I wish I'd brought binoculars. Moran's concentrating, won't give me a go on his sight. But it would only be icing, anyway. As things stand, we take everything from him and leave him poorer and sadder than ever. Good. Maybe he'll know not to tangle with us again. Maybe he'll take my little hint, and never again so much as contact our dear Danielle, because she's not just one person on her own. We had a chat about that, after Carl. We've come to an understanding, her and I, about what it means to be senior management in an organization. Moran guides her away, protects her along the towpath until she comes to somewhere she can lose the man following her, climb the steps to the road and meet the driver I sent.
"I'm taking this damned thing out of my ear," is the next I hear from her, "and I'm going home." Last thing I hear from her too. Moran's looking daggers at me like I've done something.
"What?"
"Nothing," he mutters. I start to move the boat while he dismantles his rifle, drops pieces after piece into the river as we go along. I keep thinking to myself he could at least try and look happy. After all, it's solved. Even if he hasn't figured out the plan (and he might not have, because it's another stroke of genius, and simple as it might seem to me maybe you need my intellect) he heard that reaction. I made him jump, for fuck's sake, he has to know that this is good. We've got him now. Mycroft Holmes, totally compromised, opened up and pinned down on cork, dissected like the greasy fucking rat he is. This is what Moran wanted! Him and her royal Huffiness, but she's got a few bits and pieces on her mind. She can flounce off today, it's alright. Moran, though… I would like a bit of congratulation from Moran, y'know? Is that too much to ask?
"You're usually a lot chirpier when you've just opened a recruitment opportunity at MI5."
"Seriously. Nothing wrong at all, mate. You got what you needed, then?"
"Did you tell me once you could read lips down a sight?"
"Not when they're both sitting in profile."
"Oh. Yeah, yeah, I got what I needed. And, extra bonus round, we can give up the Creep now. We are up on the day, Moran, now will you crack a smile?"
He doesn't. He sits where he is a while longer, giving his stock to the Thames. Then, with empty hands, he turns round and asks me, "Is this 'next', then?"
"I think you went past 'next' round about your fourth footballer."
"For you, I mean."
"Well, I don't know about that. I mean, I'd like to still have my own flat, after all. And we're still sailing far too close to the wind with Creepy, I won't lie to you there. There's maybe just a bit much stress in it for this to really count as… Then again, I don't suppose I'd have gotten to this today if none of that had-" He's just watching me talk through all this. "Wait," I say, "Is that the point you're making? That I should be worried? I'm all hopped up today, yeah, but look what it took to get here?"
He laughs (finally), shakes his head. "Nah, mate. Dani's the only one that makes points at you."
"So you're not pissed off at me, then?"
"No."
"Good, because you might be in a minute." He looks up, sharp. It's like he already knows what I'm going to say. Like there's only this one thing in all the world that I could take away from him, and he knows I'm about to do it. "I'm really sorry, but you might not get to shoot Holmes."
"Not right away, you mean. Like you said. There might be some destruction done, some havoc wreaked, first. Like you said."
"Not… Not within the foreseeable." It's like I've taken his teddy bear away. There's this one, high-pitched, choked little noise in the back of his throat, break your heart if you let it. And he stares, as if he can't quite think of anything to say, or anyway I might have broken his heart with more speed and efficiency. "Aw, I'm really sorry," I tell those big mopey eyes, "Honest I am. I'll get you a nice MP to do in, and whatever way you want it."
"But-" he begins, then falters, mouth flapping like a caught fish. "But-" and the same again. "But… just… Just why?"
"Because the way I've got it in my head, we might have a lot more fun with letting him live. Still need to work out the details, but I think I can manage it and… Moran, it's an opportunity I can't pass up. I'm really sorry."
I've known this for a couple of days. I was just trying to think of a way to break it to him. Then I didn't feel right doing it under his own roof, which is, after all, where I made the promise in the first place. I only promised him 'if', though. This doesn't count as breaking my word. And if the opportunity were still to make itself known, he's still first in line. But it's getting to be a very small 'if'. An if-all-else-fails sort of an if.
"I don't understand," he admits, hanging his head. "When you know all the details will you explain it to me?"
"Yeah, of course. Trust me, you'll like it. You'll laugh. And later on when he can messed about, I'll give you a free go, alright?" It's not really alright. He's not happy with me, not at all, not one bit. But he nods anyway. He's got no choice in this, so he resigns himself while I'm still making offers, getting as much out of this as he's going to. "It's nobody's fault," I tell him. His head flips up, glaring, and I stop talking. Apparently it's my fault.
After a good long sulk, Moran takes an experimental stab at cruelty. He shouldn't. Shouldn't stab. Like he said, there's only one person waves points in my face. But, in her absence, "Have you told Dani we're not killing him?"
"…Why?"
"She'll be just as upset."
"Oh, she just wants him skewered; she'll be alright. I've no explaining to do to her."
"It would be a consideration."
She's no right to ask for consideration, not at the moment. Dani will hear the plan when I need hands in the field to put it into action. She will come to terms with the result when she realizes what it's going to be. And if the cow doesn't like it, well, what else is new? Consideration? No, not likely, not soon.