Chapter Nineteen

One of the disadvantages of having no fixed place of business was that James Moriarty had to be fairly inventive in his choice of venue when meeting with clients and contacts whose identity needed to be kept a secret. One such man was sitting on the white leather seat beside Moran now. One of his dark angels; this one was a Metropolitan Police officer who really would have preferred to be anywhere other than in the stretch limo. It was white and sufficiently eye-catching that he was sure it would show on every one of the Met's own CCTV cameras. Of course, anyone trying to trace who was in the back behind the tinted glass would find that it was on hire to the latest US imported rap star, in London to film another video. Moriarty had got into the car dressed in his chauffeur's uniform in an underground garage, and Moran then contacted the PC who aspired to be a DC- that is, to join one of the Murder Investigation Teams full time. They picked him up in a back alley off Piccadilly, under a conveniently disabled CCTV camera.

As they drove about London, Jim was listening to the conversation through the microphone and speaker system. Safe behind a smoked glass privacy screen, there was no way that this dark angel would ever know that the man who had singled him out for recruitment was listening in as they drove. Moran was doing the talking.

"So, Hanson, you said you had something interesting for me. If it's about Holmes, then this is very welcome intelligence."

"Yeah, well; you know I'm on secondment at the moment to the MIT command. That investigation you wanted to get going finally did get off the ground, and based on his usual working relationship with Holmes, Lestrade and his team drew the case. But, next thing I hear is that the great man has gone AWOL. Lestrade's doing his nut about it, and his sergeant is trying to argue that they don't need the guy- they can do it on their own. But so far, the investigation is spinning its wheels and going nowhere."

Sebastian Moran listened to the Irish accented voice coming through his earpiece. "AWOL? Sounds like a piece of dialogue from one of those horrible muscle movies you like to watch. Ask the birk what they think is going on. I mean, is Holmes on vacation? Off overseas on another one of his private cases? Give us a clue, matey."

Moran gave a thin-lipped, slightly predatory smile at the other back seat passenger. "You're the one who wants to be a detective, Hanson. So where you think Holmes is? What's keeping him from biting the bait we've set up?"

Hanson frowned. "Don't know for certain. The rumour mill says that Holmes isn't well. Lestrade's been talking to his snouts, putting the word out on the street to try and find the guy for the last three days. The hospitals have been told to contact the Met if Holmes shows up. And I overheard Donovan talking to one of the team in the canteen. She was pissed off, really annoyed; kept saying that Holmes had been unreliable once too often. She called him a junkie, a coke head who couldn't be trusted to be there when they really needed him."

Seb didn't wait for instructions. "You think he's off on a binge?" He didn't keep the delight out of his voice. He loathed Moriarty's fascination with Holmes, thought it was a big distraction. At least the elder brother was a legitimate target for recruitment as a dark angel. If they could get something on Mycroft Holmes that would mean he'd turn a blind eye to Moriarty's activities, well, that was worth getting, in his view. But the younger brother was just a waste of space in Moran's book.

"I don't pay you to think, Tiger. And your jealousy is showing." The Irish lilt purred into his ear, anticipating the sniper's thought process. "Ask the mole if his blind little eyes have noticed anything about the evidence. Are they investigating the victim's program files at the university yet?"

Moran asked the question. The answer came back. "I don't know."

Moriarty negotiated the traffic around Hyde Park Corner as if he was born to drive a limo. "Oh deary, dear me- tell him that he is going to have to do better. He has to earn our help with that DC promotion he so covets. We didn't pay off that gambling debt out of the kindness of our hearts. If he can't come up with the goods by tonight, then we might just decide to divest our current arrangement- serve him up nice and pretty to the Met's corruption inquiry. I have to know about Holmes- in detail. And I want this policeman plod to point somebody on that team toward the computer program. It would be far better if it were little brother drawing it to big brother's attention, but if not, we'll have to improvise."

When Sebastian delivered the ultimatum, Hanson paled, but nodded. "I'll do what I can." He was let out of the car at the back of the Hammersmith Apollo theatre, the stage entrance. It was an area free from CCTV- the theatre proprietors had been forced to take the camera away when the artists performing complained that the footage was showing up on YouTube. Hanson went in and the rap star came out. Moran took the wheel as Jim handed him the chauffeur's cap. Then Jim exited through the theatre, as well.

He crossed the road and approached the driver of a taxi that had been standing at a rank just off the Hammersmith roundabout. The licenced driver got out and handed him the keys. One of "his" people- he owned this man's soul, because the cabbie had come to his organisation last year with a simple request- "help me get rid of the body and I will let you use the cab for whatever you want to do, whenever you want to do it." Moriarty had taken him at his word, sent Moran to do the dirty work and to explain that occasionally someone would be using the cab. The man never realised who the mystery driver was- just a bloke. Jim liked to drive through London. It gave him a secret pleasure to be making his way through all those intersections with traffic cameras, and never once attracting the attention of a minor official of the British Government. Jeff Hope had taught him the benefits of being a cabbie- "invisible- we're all just the back of an' ead to 'em." Jim practiced his cockney accent and tried out an English one, too. That would prove useful in rounds to come, when he needed to appear as someone else.

He started whistling as he crossed Vauxhall Bridge, heading toward Waterloo. He was on the way to pick up a particular computer programmer, who was waiting for him at the special pick up point alongside the now defunct Eurostar terminal. Private, and off camera, and very, very useful.

As he pulled up, the weedy looking man adjusted his glasses and picked up his brief case and roll-on suitcase. "Guten abend." In a thick German accent, the man asked if he was the taxi arranged for Herr Brauern.

"Yes indeed, my good man. Hop in." It was broadcast BBC accented English. As soon as the programmer settled back, Moriarty activated the door locks that came as standard on the Manganese Bronze London taxis- too many fares running off without paying had made it a necessity for every cab to be fitted. He then activated the intercom. The sealed glass that kept the driver of the taxi safe from a passenger with designs on his money also helped to keep conversations in the back private. A win-win in terms of design but it did mean the only way they could talk was by microphone.

The red light went on in the back that showed the passenger that the intercom was on. Jim asked in his cheery English accent, "Did you bring all the evidence of your work?"

"Ja, ja- as your boss asked. In exchange for the one million euros. My bank says it has been received."

Moriarty smirked. Within minutes, that transaction would be overridden and the money transferred onto a numbered Cayman Islands account.

"Well, my boss wants to thank you for your work. It's really quite credible, he says."

That brought a little frown. "Of course, it is credible. No one knows enough about the new language to be certain that it isn't what it is pretending to be."

Jim smirked. "A fake Trojan horse. How apt. Really, people should be wary of Geeks bearing gifts." That provoked a giggle from him.

There was something in the laughter that made his passenger uncomfortable. "I leave the briefcase here on the seat and you take it to your boss. You let me out on this corner, Ja?"

"Nooo, sorry. I'm not about to let someone like you get away. Just think of the blackmail potential as the new systems get implemented- you'll be knocking back on my door once a year, yapping about renewing the software licence for that little string of useless junk. Not on your life, matey- if you'd actually had a brain in that head, you'd know that I can't possibly let you go."

Jim turned off the intercom and locked the windows electronically, then operated the small canister of compressed gas. In less than a minute the man would be dead. He hoped that the programmer didn't throw up in his death throws. Cleaning the cab was such a nuisance- even worse than a party of drunks on Saturday nights.