Fallen Angel

Summary: Just how did the Holmes brothers plot the Reichenbach Fall? Angst, arguments, secrets and lies abound. A Series 2 multi-chapter case fic with a series of story arc, in which Moriarty meets his match, and the seeds are laid for Series Three.

Chapter One Sowing Dissent Part One

"Prime Minister?"

The gentle query dragged the man's attention back to the reality of the Cabinet Committee Room A. The baby-faced man with a receding hairline was thinking about the meeting due to come over lunch, when he would be briefed by his Special Adviser on the latest poll figures. The calendar was relentless- six weeks to go before the European Elections, and at last count his party's figures were trailing not only that of his coalition party, but of the latest spoiler group, UKIP. He sighed.

The grey haired civil servant on his left was the new Permanent Secretary to the Cabinet Office, Sir Stephen Reynolds. Grey was a good descriptor. He was colourless, a 'safe pair of hands'. Given the traitor he was replacing*, the Prime Minister reckoned it was all he could expect.

He shifted in his chair and looked back down at the printed agenda on the table in front of him, before drily intoning, "Right. The final item - Update on Pending Issues. Anybody got anything earth shattering to report, or can we safely adjourn?" He put a bit of sarcasm into the tone. Not that the monthly meeting of COBRA wasn't important, but his party political concerns were more pressing today than national security. If he wasn't in office, then national security wouldn't be a matter for him anymore.

Down the long mahogany table, the MI6 Director General leaned forward. "Just one, Prime Minister. An update on the Moriarty issue."

The PM racked his brain for a moment, then found the memory. "Yes, that's the bloke that supposedly has a computer skeleton key? The one who caused a bit of a fuss with the Yanks. Well, that's died down and there's been nothing new for the past three months, so perhaps it is time to remove this one from the pending category." He felt pleased. The PM's head was stuffed with far too many bits of trivia; it wasn't always easy to remember who was who in the world inhabited by most of the people sitting around the table. The heads of MI6, MI5 and GCHQ, plus the Security Liaison Service sat at their usual places; their various hangers-on were scattered behind their masters, sitting in the uncomfortable hard chairs against the sides of the committee room. The PM thought of them as 'faithful spaniels', willing to spring forward, retrieving some odd bit of information that might have fallen out of their masters' grasp. He always ignored them, even if he couldn't ignore the spymasters sitting in the comfortable chairs.

At the centre of the table directly across from the Prime Minister, Mycroft Holmes opened a file that lay in front of him. By that simple movement, the others around the table knew that Moriarty would not be dropped from future COBRA agendas, no matter what the PM might want. The PM sighed again. "Oh, very well; tell me why I am wrong, but just get on with it."

Mrs Ffoukes drew breath to start, but the PM interrupted again. "Briefly, please; I have an appointment in…" he gave an all-to-obvious glance at his watch, "…sixteen minutes in the House."

She carried on, undaunted. "You are aware that the damage done to the Bulgarian and Romanian organised criminal networks eighteen months ago changed the patterns of traffic. Instead of the southern route, we've seen more illegal arms, drugs, immigrants and money laundering making its way into the UK via the northern route, through Scandinavia. We think that Moriarty is behind this shift. Our sources suggest that he has been 'consulted' by various parties on how the improve their ability to evade our usual procedures."

"Last month, we had a breakthrough- the Swedes arrested Karl Levander, the brains behind the new routes being set up. That was as a result of an anonymous tip-off that arrived, complete with the evidence needed to get a conviction. We suspect someone in the network itself, a competitor, gave Levander up. We also know that the Swedish Sakerhetspolisen were about to get Levander to turn over some interesting evidence linking Moriarty to it all. But then he was mysteriously killed in the maximum security prison where he was being held in Stockholm."

Elizabeth Ffoukes exchanged glances with Mycroft Holmes, sitting across the table from her. It had been a blow to lose the chance to interrogate the Swede. Her agents were on their way to Stockholm when the news of the murder led to their recall.

Mycroft took up the baton. "Within the past month, we've had reports that the network has a new man, known only as "the Viking" at the helm. All we know is that he is Norwegian. He's managed to get Moriarty's ear somehow, and the volume of business going through the Nordic route into Britain has literally doubled in the past two weeks. It's a problem, and we are working on it. But, this is a setback, sir, and one we felt obliged to report."

The PM sighed again. "Very well, Mrs Ffoukes, Mister Holmes, you have done your duty. Duly noted." He closed the file and handed it to the Permanent Secretary.

oOo

In the back seat of the anonymous black government car, Elizabeth Ffoukes leaned back and closed her eyes. The PM was…annoying. His over-riding concern now was getting re-elected, and everything else was being pushed aside. The local and European elections in six weeks would be a barometer of his party's fortunes in the general election that had to come in June next year. From now until the day after that election, she knew that he would be driven by priorities other than what was good for the security of Britain. A price paid for being a democracy.

The car was heading west on Millbank and approaching Vauxhall Bridge when her mobile went off. She pulled it out of her handbag and took a look at the caller ID. Number blocked.

That didn't happen very often. Very few people in the world had her direct phone number; fewer still whom she would not have known. She wondered. Wrong number? It was possible that a civilian might hit a certain series of keys without realising. Elizabeth Ffoukes decided to take the call, knowing that her people would be able to find the number of the caller, and make sure it did not happen again.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Ffoukes."

Not a wrong number then, but not someone I know. She realised that the man's tenor voice on the other end had a foreign accent.

"Yes? Who is this and how did you get this number?"

She heard the smile in the voice that replied. "Consider me a fan. We have…reason to communicate. And I would like that to be face-to-face."

Now she could detect a Scandinavian accent. Soft, with a trace of a suppressed lisp. He spoke good English, but was clearly not a native.

"You haven't answered either of my questions, and until you do, then we are not going to communicate any further." She put as much authority as she could into her tone of voice.

That provoked a chuckle. "You know me as The Viking. How was the COBRA meeting? Was the Prime Minster even remotely interested? I doubt it, really."

Alarm bells rang in her head. "How do you know about such a meeting?"

"The same way I know what your phone number is. I have sources."

She was still digesting that fact when he continued. "In any case, it is irrelevant. The only thing that matters now is that I am in London and I wish to meet you."

"Why?"

"Because we have mutual interests."

"That's…" She was about to say "ridiculous", but held her tongue. He would know that she would do everything in her power to capture him, interrogate him and then hand him over to his home country's intelligence services.

"Yes, of course, Mrs Ffoukes. You are wondering why I would risk such a thing, and are even now, as we speak, considering how to inform the Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet and the Politiets sikkerhetstjeneste about my contacting you. I can assure you that would be pointless."

She wanted to keep him talking. The longer he was on the phone, the more likely that her people would be able to trace the call. She pressed the button that opened the privacy screen between her and the front seat occupants. Catching their attention, Elizabeth mimed the fact that she wanted the agent in the passenger seat beside the driver to contact the office and listen into the call.

There was another chuckle. "I do recognise the sound of a Daimler's privacy screen, and the fact that you are now communicating to your people. No point in trying to trace the call. The phone is pre-paid, anonymous and being routed through more than a dozen ISPs; don't waste your time. I am not a novice, Mrs Ffoukes."

"Then if as you say you are not a novice, why would I risk putting myself anywhere near a person such as you?"

"Because I mean you no harm. And I am going to be quite helpful to you."

Now it was her turn to be amused. "I should believe you simply because you say such a thing?" Her incredulity was clear.

"Of course not, I won't insult your intelligence. First, a few confidence building measures: let's start with the fact that I am the person who tipped off the Swedes about Levander. Unfortunately, Moriarty got to him before you and the Swedes could learn anything useful from him. But, there is more where that came from. I am sending you a little present now. I suggest that you read it while you tell your driver to turn left onto Lambeth Palace Road when he gets across the bridge. It should take you until about Waterloo Station to digest it. Then we can resume this conversation." The caller disconnected. But it was followed almost immediately with the soft ping of an incoming e mail message.

She told her driver to go left, away from Vauxhall Cross. If she decided to take the scenic route back to HQ, that was her business. Her eyebrows rose when she realised that the message was not a text, but rather something sent to her e mail account. The blackberry was the most secure phone in the world- and this one had special firewalls custom-built to encrypt every incoming and outgoing e mail. Who IS this guy?

Elizabeth leaned forward to the passenger sitting next to the driver. "Frazier, tell the boys and girls that I have picked up a file that has broken the encryption wall. Scramble some discrete backup following us. I need protection now." There was something in the tone of her voice that made the agent check his weapon even as he hit speed dial again on his own blackberry to put her orders into effect.

She leaned back onto the leather seat and eyed the file icon on her phone screen. The Viking had managed to breach protection that was supposed to be fool-proof. For a moment, she wondered if opening it would cause some sort of virus attack. Elizabeth then kicked herself mentally. Anyone able to subvert that encryption would not need to attack her phone. She clicked on the file.

And drew a startled breath, as it opened. It was a document – a bill of lading, to be precise, for a container arriving in Folkestone port tonight. What caught her attention was an embedded note.

Enjoy. Look under the floorboards of the container arriving from Bergen, destined for Birmingham. You will find heroin with a street value of £30 million, destined for the B515s.

If true, as a piece of intelligence, this was priceless. The B515s were a notorious street gang in England's second city. The 'gift' had the desired effect. She was now incredibly curious why a criminal would be willing to trade such valuable information simply to impress her enough to make her willing to meet him.

Elizabeth punched the re-dial key. When it connected, she did not hesitate. "You have my attention."

"Good. Tell your driver to proceed along Stamford Road onto Southwark Street. And you can pass that information onto the car that is about to swing in behind yours; wouldn't want to lose your security blanket, would you?"

Whoever he is, he knows my protocols as well as I do. That alarmed her almost as much as his gift intrigued her.

Author's Note: * If you want to know why his predecessor was a traitor, then read my prequel- Level Up, which covers the story of what happened next after the Scandal in Belgravia.