Chapter Text
Someone has been peddling dangerous wares around London. Whilst it seems unlikely that the threat is real, Mycroft prefers not to take any chances. (The last known stock of those particularly nasty supplies had vanished with the disappearance of a rather troublesome strongman they had overthrown almost ten years ago.)
He has his operatives look into the seller – a young woman – in detail. Curiously, they do not discover anything useful: no known family, affluent but nebulous foreign background, though a British passport and schooled in the UK, income from an offshore trust fund – he suspects it is a front set up by someone with money and power.
He has his operatives pull the seller off the streets and bring her into one of their warehouses for a private chat.
When Mycroft finally gets there (his meetings had run late), the target is sitting in a chair, waiting. She is a pretty-ish, fairly unremarkable woman of around 25 years of age (a good nondescript face for an operative, he thinks). The only noteworthy thing about her are her dark eyes that study him with keen intensity.
Surprisingly, the young woman does not seem intimidated by the impending interrogation at all; she appears calm and collected, perhaps even mildly amused by his signature three-pieced appearance.
Her first remark also surprises Mycroft: “Mr Holmes, it is truly a pleasure.” (She is in the know, how unexpected.)
“I do not believe I have had the pleasure,” he replies coolly, though irritated that she seems to know more of him than he of her (that is not a common occurrence, and he prefers it stays that way).
“You do not recognise me, then?” she seems entertained by his opening.
He makes no reply; there is something familiar around her eyes, but he cannot quite place the fleeting memory (it will come back to him soon enough, he is sure of it).
He decides it is best to get down to business, as she will no doubt reveal more in time: “The word is that you are seeking to sell something rather dangerous.”
She proceeds to throw him off his game for a second time in the evening: “I’m afraid that that was merely a ruse. I was hoping it might get me a meeting with your illustrious person.”
That sounds decidedly ominous, though he knows that his men have her in their cross-hairs at all times, ready to take her out should she pose a real threat.
Despite the potential danger to his person, Mycroft is not one to leave the job half done: “You do not have access to the wares you claim to possess, then?”
“I do actually,” she replies. “If I may take something out of my pocket?”
Mycroft nods, knowing that his people had frisked her upon arrival. (They had discovered a small handgun and an elaborate dagger.) She proceeds to pull out a small notebook and a pen, writes a few lines on a page and then rips it out, handing it to Mycroft.
It is a set of instructions on where they may find the goods.
While she does have an excellent poker face, Mycroft has the feeling that she is playing a dangerous game and that she might be more out of her depth than appears.
As he has little time for games, he proceeds to ask her what it is that she wants.
“I have a proposition for you,” she states, and he finds the glint in her eye distinctly unsettling. “I want you to get me access to a certain exiled oligarch hiding in London.”
Ah, so she is presumably hoping to assassinate someone difficult to access.
“And why would I do that?” Mycroft asks her (his patience is wearing thin).
“You were not swayed by my show of good faith. How disappointing,” she says mockingly. “You know I could have made good money selling those things on the black market.”
“You could have, but would you have wished them to fall into the wrong hands?” he asks her in a sudden flash of insight.
She laughs, looking delighted. “You are quite right, Mr Holmes, I am not without morals,” she replies. “I do, however, have something else that might tempt you – a set of items that was stolen from the Tower some eleven years ago and that the Crown would no doubt be very happy to see return.”
She proceeds to describe the items and the theft in sufficient detail to convince him that she does have some insider knowledge of the affair.
“You might also consider it a personal favour,” she then says, and her dark eyes look decidedly murderous. “You are, after all, the man I hold responsible for the death of my father.”
At that revelation, all the indices that she has given suddenly come together. First, the dangerous goods she has access to and their link to the deposed strongman. Second, the exiled oligarch had once upon a time had close dealings with the strongman before a falling-out. Third, the jewels taken in the heist – the very same strongman had been obsessed with black diamonds and a particularly famous specimen had been a part of the Crown Jewels. Fourth, the fact that she seemed vaguely familiar – he had seen a very similar set of cold eyes on the face of another.
“Contact me when you’ve thought about it,” she says, and Mycroft has the distinct feeling of being dismissed.
When his people return her to where they had taken her, she tells them to keep the silver dagger they had taken off of her person – it is, in fact, one of the objects stolen from the Tower.