"Now there is a line
In Genesis 9
After the flood
Kill men who shed the blood
Sharp is your needle
Revenge is evil
Wrong or right
Blind as your justice
Cold as a Judas kiss
Dark as the night
Dead petals falling on the bed
White crosses hanging overhead
Deep is the final breath
Long as a man's death"
*Alex Parker, Another Bleeding Heart*
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The room, dimly lit, dark paneling lining one side, the rich, jewel tone color of the opposite wall reflecting off the glossy surface of the expansive oak conference table, gave the observer every impression of having been stolen from some poorly secured soundstage, a set designer's interpretation of espionage, where spies congregate, stereotypically ominous, lacking only scantily clad, voluptuous women with curiously suggestive names, and the gratuitous roulette table. The scent of spent cigar and cigarette smoke invaded every available porous surface, infused the books standing, alphabetical and idle on their massive shelves, clung to the heavy drapes that muffled the sounds of life surging beyond the ornate floor to ceiling windows, the barges and tourist ferries on the Thames beyond, ordinary lives being lived, blissful and unaware, as those seated within the needlessly ostentatious room determined their future, the future of generations to come.
It was, despite the arguably prosaic decor, the accepted nerve center to those present, each taking their assigned place, assuming their seat of power, the puppet masters, pulling invisible strings, those that unaccountably make things happen, the sun and moon their marbles to trade between them. Drinks having been distributed, ashtrays at the ready, the solitary footman entrusted to such duties quietly excused himself, customary duties completed, to the outer foyer, carefully unwrapping the sandwich his wife had prepared for him, scolding him for the late hours he kept, I just miss you so, breathy in his ear, plasticized smile coating her features. He wondered if she knew he was aware of her trysts with their neighbor, ruminating, as he waited, on various appropriate punishments for cuckolding him, some emerging blunt and straightforward, while others elaborate and fanciful, bordering on hedonistic, each image unfolding, providing sustenance of a gratifyingly nefarious sort.
He was concentrating on the exact dosage proportionate to a gradual poisoning, that nature of reoccurring illness which spoke to a genetic weakness in physiology rather than murder, when a late arrival interrupted his meditations, a curt good evening, whispered in passing, followed by the almost inaudible click as the heavy door closed behind. Momentarily distracted, sandwich cradled in his stomach like a brick, damned woman, the footman began the game he'd created on evenings such as this, initiated some time ago to wile the hours, entertaining himself as he sat in solitude and silence. He called it Identify, and it consisted of systematically reconstructing every detail associated with each individual within the luxurious chamber just beyond, and over time, he has become quite good at closing his eyes, like a child playing at dressing dolls, drawing from brief, stilted interactions, an perfect replica of each attendee in his mind's eye. He shivers then, the tickle sweeping up his spine, the chill spreading across his back, pooling just above his buttocks, his instinctual reaction to fearful circumstances, and while Identify is played entirely in his head, the fear of being found out, discovered mentally documenting the existence of ghosts, bogeymen, their eyes penetrating and squeezing his thoughts into the open remained an unpleasant, though realistic, image long after completed for the evening. He knows there is precious little certainty in life beyond death and taxes, bless, he has, nevertheless, accepted that there are two presently in residence whom he will never, with any accuracy, be able to recreate, each appearing briefly, and then gone, leaving him with the impression each had literally evaporated into thin air.
He didn't laud himself an intellectual, but he knew, like he knew day follows night, these were unscrupulous people, duplicitous, wearing disingenuous smiles as they destroy you, the kind that leave lesser men broken, left to incongruously wonder, even as they arrogantly brandish the bloodied knife, nodding silently as they smile into your eyes, did you do this to me, or did I do this to myself? These people would never find themselves cuckolded, entertaining fantasies of revenge because imagining is the worst they could do. No, these people, less than ten feet away behind a closed, soundproofed door, could do all his imagination could design, each given opportunity to delve deep into the darkened heart that beats within, exempted from the rules for having designed them to begin with. They are the ones others whisper about in hushed tones, fearing they will be overheard, nervous at being called to account, those shadows lurking under your bed who know you better than you know yourself, and manipulate it to their collective advantage. Worse still, the kind for which there will never be punishment, but rewards whose breadth and magnitude cause his eyes to blur, his head to throb, with the imagining.
More to the immediate point, they could make him disappear, erase any trace of his meager existence, rub him out like an offensive stain on an innocuous rug, his purpose fulfilled, rendered dispensable. A troubling thought, but not so disruptive that he declines the opportunity for extra income, an admittedly obscene amount, but he'd grown rather fond of the obscene facets life provides those willing in recent months. Best be prepared, he rationalizes, in the event he needs to leave suddenly, evasion being an expensive proposition, identities requiring payment in untraceable cash. He won't make the same mistakes he'd made with his first wife, an act, poorly planned, which first brought him into contact with them, the collective, as he'd come to refer to them. He'd happily continue, mistakenly taken for a simpleton, stockpiling the necessary funds, standing sentry in solitude, outside, while musing on elaborate solutions to ridding himself of another scheming wife, defining the characteristics which would be required in the next.
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The meeting having previously been called to order, the late addition silently crossed the room, a walking, indistinct shadow, sliding smoothly into the assigned leather club chair, flipping open the report provided for review, quickly assessing the topic under discussion, face a mask of calm indifference, practiced in giving nothing of internal calculations away, years in the making, the single concession made for being tardy, a stunted, barely there nod in the direction of the darkened corner. Or, more accurately, towards the shoes illuminated against the rich royal blue carpet on which they rested, shined to a blinding luster, the wearer hidden in the depths of gloom, the right foot tapping, once, recognition, in return.
"He's impenetrable professionally!" Vaulting theatrically from the chair, barely acknowledging the late arrival before throwing the report across the table, pacing furiously as the papers within, suddenly unsheathed, sifted through the air, coming to rest lazily, haphazardly about the floor, forgotten.
"Word is he's got McTaggart's manuscript squirreled away somewhere, for Christ's sake," another presence, turning from the window, the soft whoosh as the heavy velvet curtains fell back into place, punching the air with an extended finger, an angry child intent on popping a balloon belonging to another. "Could be used against more than a few of us...fucking Clive McTaggart...bloody thorns our sides, both of them!"
"Quite an accomplishment, given one is dead." Calm, smooth voice, deliberately pandering as to an intellectual inferior, speaking slowly, enunciating each word, tongue massaging each consonant, enjoying the growing frustration reflected back, contemplative as the insult strikes, the evaluation communicated, Oh, do shut up, the adults are speaking.
"That's one short of necessary, as far as I'm concerned." Reclaiming the dramatically vacated leather chair, petulant as an excessively pampered brat, the retort sniffed out, chin jutting, spoiling for an equally debilitating effect, sullen as the result proved impotent, mouth forming into an ugly sneer. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"Not relevant." A wave of the hand, dismissive in countenance, passively observing as another in their ranks crumbled from the strain, predictable though it may have been. The schemes they designed required patience, perseverance, a cast iron constitution to prove successful. Elaborate displays of histrionics had no place within these walls, and thus regarded as a crass indulgence of an inappropriate and weak juvenile nature.
"Perhaps what is needed is a drink?" The soft lighting illuminating small portions of the face, the slight tic under the left eye was easily observed. So too, the almost undetectable tremor of hand, the repeated fondling of mouth, unconscious, methodical. Oh, yes, need for a drink rather scratches the surface.
"Wouldn't you agree?" Querulous, recklessly fractious with redundant insistence, each word a verbal bullet, designed to constrain and anchor, the intended damage a voluntary verbal enslavement if answered, infinite, rather than an absolute, fatal end, finite. While that is a lovely apple, I'll not bite, thank you. This garden isn't as secure as I would encourage you to believe.
"As I said, Not. Relevant." Extending the tumbler, the generous portion of contents intended as a deterrent to further discussion in this vein, the environment surrounding replete with technological eyes and ears, though known as fact only to a few present, voluntary enslavement successfully, if only momentarily, avoided.
"We're not talking about some innocuous chess piece here." A new voice, emanating from the corner, equally calm and measured, rationality and precision a welcome contribution, equilibrium restored, temporarily.
"This is Pearce, not some infant fresh from the farm." Legs uncrossed, leaning forward into the dim light, features appearing briefly, mouth a grim line. "Very few things have the power to unnerve me in this life, and I'm certain I'm not alone in stating the current head of Five is one of those few." Pausing to look at each in turn, years of experience well known to all present, effectively impeding any urge to disagree, let alone argue or question position.
"His arsenal is impressive, of that you should have little doubt. He'll use it, ruthlessly, without a second thought." Sighing, leaning back, face reclaimed by the shadows, pale fingers brushing at imaginary lint found on the surface of an impeccably clad knee, the disagreement both unnecessary and resolved in one, the simmering impatience bred of cultivating the long game, the goal months, even years in the distance, communicated to all effortlessly, bored with the repetitive chore of having to remind. "Best we stick with bringing him on side. Safer...for everyone." Eyes hidden, yet still direct, unflinching, as though examining the best way to pull the wings from a moth while ensuring the uninterrupted extension of torture, entertainment of a particularly corrupted intellectual sort.
"There is another...opportunity...that has rather unexpectedly presented itself." Eyes scanning the room, evaluating measure of interest, finding it palpable, vulnerable to exploitation. A favorite exercise, this. Folding one's personal agenda within the guise of another previously established, the delicate art of convincing others your agenda is their creation, and you merely bowing before their greater minds at work, obligingly affable, suitably awed, silently watching as your intended ends take shape and form, the cell becoming the tumor as you spoon feed every morsel into the readied and open mouths gaping before you. I was born for this.
"Impenetrable, both professionally and personally, are we agreed?" Waiting as those present assented, a synchronistic nodding of agreement, relishing their collective attention, compelled to silence at this new development, the first of many morsels.
"More to the point, a direct move against him, say, for example, involving his children, or his agents, we've established, would be far too obvious, a futile effort at best. Even the considerable amount of time spent developing such scenarios was a wasted effort." The smile slowly forming, indulgent, hiding the internal distain, the chronic distaste for the act of wasting time, criminal, offensive on a personal level, deeply resented and tabulated, as was habit, the catalogues, legion.
The backhanded insult having penetrated the soft, malleable vanity, layer upon layer of combined ego on display in varying degrees of strength throughout the room, volatile, easily affronted, tedious in weakness, the sense of personal satisfaction beginning to wane as the ease of insult, the opportunity to poke at simpletons, increased in frequency, the blood beginning to thin between sharp teeth, less vibrant and potent, yet habitually irresistible. Who will it be this time?
"Much as I enjoy a history lesson, yours is a well travelled path I find little to no inter-"
Ah, disappointingly predictable as always. "A back door has presented itself, completely unexpected, unforeseeable after all this time, but which will, by that exact nature, prove fortuitous to our ends." Interrupting, teeth clenching against the overt sarcasm meant to goad, mouth not so much forming the words as spitting, each slicing through the air in response, refusing the bait.
"Elaborate, please. Starting with how you came by this...back door...of yours." Skeptical, cool, feminine tone, a purr, not surprising, though annoying in its latent rote predictability, another slight catalogued, this nest of vipers, merciless within and without, callously re-imagining alliances, relentlessly brutal in chasing their varied goals, single minded in their shared self absorption, justifications, desire to keep their own hands spotless.
"As it happens, it was in front of us the entire time." Smiling as the shock made itself known on the faces present, preemptively cherishing the inevitable gratitude for divining a solution otherwise given up for lost, a challenge unvanquished, the morsels bestowed meticulously, each more beguiling than the last. "We simply failed to...consider the...possibility, is all. Ironic, now, really." Holding the tumbler up to the light, observing the crystal colors spark and shine, the amber liquid change hue and depth as it swirled within, watching the legs make their way slowly down the inside of the glass with hooded eyes. "That he would hand us the very thing needed to suit our purpose, provide the means for his own undoing. Unusually careless, even."
"Dangerous assumption, there. Pearce is not a careless man, never has been. Thoughtless, singleminded, ruthless, callous, brutal even, at times...many times. But careless? I can count the number on one hand, minus a couple of fingers." Holding up three fingers in superfluous illustration, and the urge to inform that a thumb is not a finger becomes very nearly impossible to resist.
"You understand he could just as easily be running you about. He's imminently capable. You know that as well as I, well...we, do." The purr taking on a slightly hardened edge, hand extended, palm up, sweeping through the air, the pantomimed equivalent of and, I speak for everyone here.
Certainly, lets get everyone's opinion, shall we? All the time in the fucking world.
Heads nodding affirmatively, in unison, sheep all, almost laughable as observed, their esteem for Harry Pearce matched only in their collective suspicion for the reliability of this newfound intelligence, its sudden revelation a serendipitous event deserving of wide berth, forensic examination, their confidence in Harry's innate skill verging an embarrassingly awestruck in nature.
"You understand our...hesitation, surely. Or, shall I expand? Amanda Roe, Robert Morgan, Dicky, Khurvin, all designed to succeed, involving agents of your choosing, all spectacularly costly failures." The seductive purr now all but gone, replaced by thinly veiled contempt, mouth curving in an ugly sneer.
"Results were not as expected, fair enough, though the Khurvin-"
"Results were not as expected? Christ, we're not talking about a child's disappointing science project. This undertaking, this cultivation, all of it, is a new world order, and I, frankly, am no longer confident you can either deliver on, or handle, your required contribution. I question whether you have the balls." Each word emphasized, the attack on full display, finger tapping the table with each poison dart.
"Interesting. Care to test that theory?" Leaning forward, cold eyes gleaming with prospective challenge, welcoming it with serpentine appetite, an unapologetic willingness to consume and swallow whole.
"I'm sorry, are we throwing our cocks on the table now? If so, I suspect you'd fail in that, as well." Purr reasserted, the tone cloying, disingenuous, unnerving to the ear.
"Making you a hermaphrodite. How very provocative-" Eyebrow raised, smirking in return.
"And you a eunuch." Eyes dead center, unblinking, the master stroke delivered, awaiting response.
"Fuck you." Fuck you, and your moth-eaten...
"Well, now that is a bit out of your wheelhouse, isn't it?" Eyes wide with feigned innocence, voice saccharine sweet.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you're not the only one in the room capable of covert surveillance. What exactly draws you to them, their rugby uniforms or their prepubescence?"
I'm going to enjoy watching you twist, listening as you beg me to save you.
"Enough." Issued calmly from the corner, a wearisome participant, resigned, yet fundamentally intolerant of these habitual outbursts, the oneupmanship of clashing individual temperaments. Like rats in a cage, unavoidable they would begin to view each other as a meal, their frequent tendency to nip and bite at any opposition, tedious, all the succulence and appeal of rotted, festering meat spoiling in the sunshine.
"If I might be allowed a bit of time, I could arrange for the placement of surveillance-" adopting a genial tone, despite the verbal barrage, despite the expected distrust, placing the morsel before them, contentedly awaiting the first to reach forward, claiming first taste.
"Christ, the man could sniff that out in the midst of a bloody coma...For fuck's sake, have you not been listening?" Pacing resumed, fraying at the edges, pouring another measure, the routine of self medication, the exasperation felt by all for having to endure an additional outburst, witness yet another conspicuous display of in-fortitude and weakness, pronounced, discernible, eyes glaring, collectively, at the offender.
"AS WE ARE MOST PAINFULLY AWARE, YOU MEWLING INFANT!" Thundering, all efforts to remain serene and patient exhausted, emerging from the solitude of darkness, the corner emanating malice, white knuckled against the strain, an uncomfortably shifting audience, eyes now round with shock, surprise, distaste mixed with apprehension, understandable given the myriad of reputations assembled, the extended moments of silence suitably awkward as the seconds passed, ruffled feathers smoothed, masks reapplied with exacting precision.
"Please, do sit down, and shut up." Throats clearing intermittently within the room, the genial tone of moments ago reestablished, calm indifference projected from a source deep within, controlled, again, the menacing visage so familiar firmly back in place. "We all have our skeletons. Move on."
"The...placement of surveillance, which...as was so eloquently pointed out...would be waisted on him, I suspect will prove quite...bountiful placed elsewhere." Chin resting on the tips of templed fingers, eyes concentrating on the middle space, mind appearing elsewhere, likely constructing elaborate wish lists of technological gadgetry suited to the task, the names of persons uniquely qualified, skills precisely attuned effortlessly forming.
"That place being? And I am rather tiring of this bit of cat and mouse..."
"A house. More specifically, a woman's house." Perhaps you'll find that cat and mouse more to your liking, preening twat.
"Ahhh. Well...that...that is...interesting."
"Do we have a name?" Delivered in a whisper from the corner, emerging from the shadows, attention keen, taking the stage, unseen.
"Evershed." Eyes narrowed in return, peering towards the darkness breathing in the corner, the audience momentarily forgotten.
"Wait, what? Did you...The analyst? You're certain?" Looking excitedly around, every bit the salivating, riled dog, rabid for salacious details, crass and unimaginably tedious to the rest. "You're certain...no doubts, he's fucking her? Christ's tears, she's...what, bloody twenty, twenty-five? And he's fucking her? You've indisputable proof?"
"Precisely what surveillance was designed for. I should have thought that obvious." The gradual smile deceptively obliging, the last addition carried past subtlety curved lips, delivered in a dismissive tone, deliberately contemptuous, as close to a pat on the head of an overexcited family pet as would be wise to risk presently. The eyes, nevertheless, sharpened as they continued to peer into the darkened corner, confident the sting of insult had found its target elsewhere, difficult to miss given the elaborate and preening display of vanity and ego the group had been forced, by necessity, to endure, for the greater good, throughout these measured and lengthy gatherings.
"You've agents appropriate to the task in place then?" The conversation thus devolved, as was increasingly customary, to include only the two, the Alpha seated apart, enshrouded in darkness, and that counterpart, by necessity a foil, in design the Omega, eyes sharp, meditative, calmly placing the morsels of intelligence down for the others, subordinates, to silently follow, ingest, interjecting barbs, cutting insults at will, the two together, a tenuous alliance, each believing themselves superior to the whole, silently raging within the pack, maintaining a delicate, shared dominance.
"Soon, yes. A woman for the placement, I think. Familiar with the analyst, so her presence shouldn't draw any unwanted scrutiny. Very skilled, accomplished...presently semiretired, disillusioned, or so I've heard. Should be easily manipulated to side. I'll handle the arrangements, regardless." Eyebrow raised triumphantly, dipping a finger into the contents, circling the rim, drawing from the cut crystal tumbler a delicately wavering sound, musical, floating above the silence, yet inexplicably, vaguely obscene, the subtle imagery of innocence corrupted.
"She'll come to find it...favorable...to see things my way." A deft puppet master relishing the euphoria of power, the adrenaline of ambition surpassing all other forms, rather sexual in nature, the satisfaction of another's submission, the draw of divining pain, the manipulative power of secrets known.
Disillusioned, a paltry excuse for description, dissolving from within, the volatile extraction of her soul, slowly, fiber by ephemeral fiber until extinct, more accurate, without doubt, purposefully withheld from verbal exchange, extraneous details singularly useful in the knowing, rather than the public divulging. The cornerstone intrinsic to amassing power, the refinement of knowledge, the knowing, the nine lives of a cat protected within, awaiting use, providing and withholding in turn, calculated, cold-blooded, the potency of restraint. Those who fancied their chances at usurping position would be well advised to reconsider. That, or update their current will and testament.
"Make the arrangements. Let's call it an end, for the moment." The disembodied voice speaking from the distance, the gathering thus adjourned, each participant took their leave, whispered words, hushed in deference to the two who remained seated, their collective tongues caressing these new developments as they exited, the seduction of gossip, a lurid opiate impervious to caution, the act of fucking a subordinate proving too delicious not to sink one's teeth into, unavoidably effective bait, as was expected by them both, playing a chess game unknown to the others.
Unfolding from the corner, extinguishing the surveillance present in the room via a control switch hidden within the bookcase in passing, moving towards a vacated club chair, the dim light illuminating a vibrantly colored shirt, tailored lines accentuated, custom made, the moneyed accouterments befitting an Alpha, taking the crystal tumbler as it is offered, the chair's position balancing, exactly, it's opposite across the expanse of darkened oak, facing a likewise festooned and coutured Omega, sipping intermittently, eyes watchful above the rim,
"Am I correct in assuming the proposed surveillance has been initiated?"
"A week ago. She installed both audio and video, as we agreed. I was briefly concerned...Evershed appeared to sense something amiss, though we couldn't identify why. Nothing to concern ourselves with, her routine remains predictable. Nothing to indicate she's aware, in any case."
"You're still nursing that wound." A statement of vapid fact, exhaled as undisguised exasperation.
"Not at all. She tried her hand and, surprisingly, was successful in circumventing-"
"You. She circumvented you, and by doing so, allowed Pearce enough time to deal with the Quinn situation. He should have been removed then. I fear you have gravely underestimated them."
"Underestimated them? You would prefer I genuflect in accordance with the sycophants that just left this room? It is precisely because I don't underestimate them, him more specifically, that I'm even sitting here."
"Your point being?"
"That it takes a game player to beat a game player. We're cut from the same cloth, he and I. Don't make the mistake of discounting our...history. History can be wonderfully informative. With Evershed in play, the game significantly tilts in our favor. I can predict with complete accuracy what his play will be. His history tells the tale."
"How so?"
"That's need to know territory. All you need to know is lovers or not, he'll want to protect the analyst."
"Pulled her right out from under you, didn't he?" Chuckling, recognizing that for someone possessing this manner of temperament, the wound of having been outsmarted festers, an offense which required a correlating consequence.
"She was slated for elsewhere but, to be clear, I declined. No one made off with her under my nose." Cagey bastard bagged her before the interview was even completed. I know because I watched the video. Not that I would admit as much aloud.
"Of course. And direct contact will occur..."
"Tomorrow. Details of the committee were provided, as instructed, some time ago. The suicide, when viewed from that perspective, was strategically useful. Rubbish, but useful."
"So, extrapolating, Wells is rather...off, as has been intimated?"
"Without question. Fortuitous, really, the association with Haigh, and by extension, Evershed...you have seen the psych assessments I provided?"
Nodding, silently plotting, appearance that of a deceptively still and tranquil pond.
"It's all there, albeit only to the trained eye. The operation she was most recently involved in was completed satisfactorily. If all goes as planned, the removal of our primary obstacle should occur within, if I had to pinpoint, twenty, maybe thirty hours."
"Shame."
"I'm sorry?"
"She was an excellent agent. If it weren't for the Haigh distraction-"
"Fixation..."
"Quite." Pausing, progression measured, prudent. "She understands...She's prepared to die?"
"It appears so. You've read the assessments...Psychobabble about having turned a corner on some indeterminate clinical scale." Fingers pinching the nose at the bridge, irritation for psychological weaknesses in others on display despite their frequently manipulated usefulness. "Her skills remain useful, however. Mentally I'm confident she can perform, but emotionally...a walking powder keg, and rather fortunately for us as such, one less loose end, it would seem." Pulling a folder secreted from a compartment hidden within the underside of the table, sliding it across its smooth surface, a simple flick of a finger, the distance between travelled effortlessly.
"Anything of note from the house?" Drawing the additional report closer, eager to examine the details within, a mask of nonchalance adopted to hide behind, not a ripple of disruption in the offing.
"Nothing. If he's involved with her, sexually speaking, the physical...expression is occurring elsewhere. Not surprising, we're talking Harry Pearce, here, not your average politician."
"I'd put my money on unconsummated, tentative courting, if I had to guess," leafing casually through the additional report. "It would be preferable...to our goal. Rather lending a heightened sense of loss...just that much more acute, hard to ignore, hard to maintain rationality. More to the point, easier to manipulate." Brows furrowed, attention drawn to some obscure detail, "She's thirty-four. Where did twenty come from?"
Rolling eyes, the unspoken who fucking knows communicated effectively. "An idiot. De rigueur for every group whose agenda is devoted to undermining the accepted status quo. Keeps us honest." Smirking, the half smile an unnervingly ghastly imitation of happiness.
"A particularly appropriate fall guy. Couldn't happen to a more deserving person. Master stroke there." Closing the file, content to examine it further later, anxious to part company, but for the threads, the ever expanding network of threads comprising their web, all needing constant handling, massaging, delicate and tedious busy work, exhausting and exhilarating in one.
"And Shaw? I'm assuming she initiated this surveillance?" Manicured fingers tapping absently on the closed report, attention beginning to wane, well travelled paths of manipulation proving wearisome, tedious with frequency of usage.
"Nursing a bruised ego, I would assume. He's not interested. Ironically, it was his refusal that led to the latest intelligence. She brought it to my attention, if you can believe it. Dropped it right in my lap." Head shaking side to side, eyes closed, incredulity at their unexpected luck clear, the impression misogynistic, the frailty and weaknesses of women. The fact that Pearce has been under periodic surveillance since the Quinn cock-up was left unspoken, falling under the canopy of knowledge is power, secret knowledge is power, plus leverage.
"Started it some time ago. I'll leave you to guess why." Nodding, eyebrows raised, ruminating over the ease with which human beings never fail to undermine themselves, self inflicted wounds more pernicious than that dreamt up by even the most malignant of antagonist.
"Beware a woman scorned..." Fingers stilled, chin down, cold eyes gazing across from underneath thick, darkened lashes.
"Particularly one who's surmised who you do fancy. Christ but she's a vindictive bitch. And ambitious, which works in our favor. Dangle a carrot, and she'll do what she's told. As far as you need to know, she's a necessary, but dispensable, catalyst." Striding purposefully across the room, retrieving an ashtray, lighting the tip of a much longed for cigarette, clicking the lighter's lid open and closed, the corresponding snapping sound designed to irritate the listener, the joys of obvious provocations, juvenile, yet still unsurpassed in the catalogue of personal satisfactions, imbalance the ultimate reward.
"Anything worth highlighting?" Watching with feigned disinterest, the expelled smoke circling above, undulating as it dissipates, only the stench remaining to merge with expensive cloth, an olfactory betrayer which would require elaborate lies of explanation later.
"It's all included, but as for highlights, surprisingly little. Between the two, they spend more time on the grid than outside. Pass card reports indicate either one is first to arrive, last to leave. Nothing obviously untoward, but there was a missing two hours, shortly after Clive's death, where they were both simultaneously unaccounted for. Well, as far as Shaw knows. I've included the pictures." Pausing, a direct and invasive stare, knowing instinctively the tells, the twitch of the mouth, strumming fingertips, suggesting the desire to reopen the report, examine the photos, intellectual fencing of a sort. "Physically suggestive, if I had to sum it up." Gossip, a consistently effective weapon.
"You're rather overtly pleased with yourself." Unnerving, this ability to discern the inner thoughts secreted deeply within others. Useful, effective, even profitable. But alarmingly unnerving.
"Not without reason. He'll be blindsided." Smiling, extinguishing the spent cigarette, marring the pristine beauty of the crystal ashtray, enjoying the subtle imagery, the corresponding interest in the nature of lurid details marring the otherwise pristine reputation of the person seated across the table. I can read you just as effectively.
"I find resorting to these, your, methods unseemly. We were supposed to be rid of him with Quinn. Then Khurvin. Would that he would simply see the value and benefits of joining...stubborn, hard headed bastard." Sniffing at the air, wrinkled nose manifesting as distaste, not the first, or likely last, occurrence. "I wonder, why is it I always feel in need of a scalding and rigorous bath after a meeting with you?"
"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, at a guess."
"Clever."
"Fondness for self flagellation, then? Look into it."
"You wouldn't be so cavalier were you the target. Blindsided, as it were."
"I wouldn't be so careless."
"I imagine that's exactly what he thinks."
"He thinks, I know. Significant difference."
"We shall see..." Inner alarm bells beginning to sound, a dangerous game, each move forward as likely to be as rewarding as, alternatively, producing the first step towards desolation, their alliance built with all the strength of filigreed, filmy webbing, and like a host spider, drawing the victim in, destroyed by his own hand and volition, one's chosen vice becoming a sudden inescapable downfall, trapped without recourse, awaiting an agonizing end. Overconfidence, vanity, a dangerous, internal betrayer, requiring systematic attention, the vice most likely and commonplace, perpetually addictive. Like power. Like knowledge. A cocktail, inebriating quickly, corroding from within.
"Indeed, we shall." Pausing, sizing up, resentments simmering, the catalogues of insults and innuendo wielded earlier erroneously addressed, stoking the tread upon vanity, suggesting an unacceptable position of inferiority, inadvisable to ignore.
"There is just one more detail of which you should be made aware." Draining the contents of the tumbler, placing it gently on the table, deliberate, methodical, face a mask of quiet contemplation, hiding the menace beneath.
"Change, necessary change, happens because decisions are made, and those decisions are made by people who have the courage to make them. But let's be clear, those decisions only evolve into action because of people who possess the skills and backbone to see the entire picture, the fortitude and mettle to know and do all that is required, the fearlessness to gather and document all the offensive, debauched, unseemly bits of pestilence secreted away to serve the greater end." Eyes hardened, face a visage of stone, cold, unyielding as the tongue prepares to flay.
"So while you sit there in your corner, hiding, understand this, you will never be clean. You dare to sit there, coating yourself in sanctimony and judge me? At best, you're the one who waits to be told by people like me what needs to happen, every sordid detail not fit for Christmas dinner because you haven't the skill or stomach to act. You want to remain clean, you need a fucking bath? Fuck you, and your misguided belief that we can, all of us, initiate this and remain pristine. You, my pious friend, are the worst kind of bloody hypocrite." Rejoicing as the face begins to pale, the skin grows tight around the eyes, the jaw clenches with words not spoken, the truth an ugly mirror to behold.
"And it may well sicken you, cause you to rail in the face of God, that there are people like me. Worse still, that you, and the silver spoon bed wetters just like you, the whole fucking lot of you, need people like me. We compensate for your collective and unfathomable levels of weakness, we balance, so don't start believing your own lies, the ones that help you sleep at night, washing your conscience clean with a, what was it, scalding and rigorous scrubbing? Have no illusions, you are, at the end of the day, nothing more than a sanctimonious, unctuous dilettante playing at world domination, and just a fucking filthy as me." Head tilted to the side, relaxing back into the chair, the single indication of awaiting a response the hand which reached to adjust a shirt cuff, smoothing first one, then the other, once done, folding together to rest on top of the table, still.
"How very kind of you to take the time. Now, shall we bring an end?" Uncomfortable with the menacing stare, the consistently serene countenance, the proven ability to divine internal calculations unspoken, the slight shiver along the spine alluding to having been involuntarily revealed, cold, a sliver of precognition that stings as it evolves, the stench of smoke nauseating, face revealing nothing of the disruptions within, voice smooth as honey, soft and caressing.
Rising in unison, each movement a reciprocal counterpart, they silently extend their exit, extinguishing the dim lighting, reactivating the hidden surveillance, puppeteers both, calling an end, an understood and momentary stalemate, each recognizing the considerable adversary in the other, their faces exuding confidence, mastery, loyalty, the lie inherent to all three roiling under the adopted, carefully constructed facades, shoes echoing the halls until silence vanquished the distance sound.
And as the silent footman returned home to receive the counterfeit arms of his adulterous wife, Ruth Evershed returned home to encounter a different manner of counterfeit woman, wearing the face of a sometime acquaintance, trailing the memory of Peter Haigh behind her, secreting an explosive document, unaware that they were, all of them, pawns moved about on a chessboard, an agenda unseen gaining strength, fueled by those who lauded themselves gods.
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A/N: So, I do not advise writing a chapter where you can't identify anyone by gender or name. Surprisingly difficult, which accounts for the time delay for this one. Also, I'm trying to figure out where the idea that Harry was a master with the opposite sex came from. Is it cannon, or just our elaborate imaginations at work? Any suggestions would be welcomed, I just don't remember it being covered in great detail during the series (American, Netflix versions). Took some liberties with the basics of Diana, and this chapter is much more dialogue driven, with very little H&R, so forgive me, but I needed to establish some elements. Hope you enjoy, thanks for taking the time to read, and for reviewing, if you've the time. Also, if you've a mind, the songs that are quoted are lyrics which help me to define the mood in my head relative to each chapter. I'm curious, has anyone listened to them? No pressure.