The First Time I Killed a Man

I didn't do it with my own hands, naturally. Nor was I in the general vicinity when the deed was done. It was a decision that had to be made and I was the only one at the time with the ability to make it. Oddly, while the intellectual knowledge of my action was with me the entire time, it wasn't until some while afterwards that my other analytical faculties accepted I had killed someone. It was a finely balanced sensation somewhere between trepidation and liberation yet I felt not the slightest pang of moral repugnance or self-abhorrence, nothing, in fact, that you might consider a suitable accompaniment to the official beginning of one's own moral decline. Even though it was the first time I had orchestrated a death, I realised it would not be the last. It had not been a hard decision to make; it had been utterly logical, after all, but the ease with which I signed the man's life away surprised me for quite some time.

It was 1990. I was twenty-two years old and had been in my new job for less than a week.

###

They had come for me even before I had completed my Masters at Merton; an MPhil in early modern history and contemporary politics with Languages on the side. My tutor Lewis Kershaw, lovely chap, initially demurred at my choice of studies, hinting heavily that I was being too acquisitive in my interests, following this with a slightly confusing homily on the perils of casting one's seed too thinly upon stony ground. To this day, I'm not entirely certain what he meant, though his intentions were kind, of that I am confident.

The first time I was approached, it was by a man I'd noticed previously sitting at the back of a Political Society debate. I was crossing the Quad on a grey afternoon in late October when I saw him a second time, waiting for me, leaning against a cold stone wall. It was obviously me he wanted since I was the only one heading in his direction when he straightened and besides, everything from his physical posture to the several crushed cigarette ends at his feet screamed he'd been waiting from someone for some time. That his expression changed the moment he recognised me, suggested I was that particular someone.

"Mycroft Holmes?" The man's expression was affable and polite. He was reasonably well-dressed and wore decent shoes, Lobbs by the look of them. His accent, military posture, the fact that he smoked Players and the precise line of his haircut told me he was an ex-Naval officer, though interestingly, he'd not retired through either age or ill-health. That such a person had been making some effort to locate and track me spoke of several possibilities. Given the preponderance of Oxbridge-educated personnel in the security forces, one of the most obvious was that I was about to be sounded out on becoming an intelligence operative. Though which side he might want me to spy for was quite up in the air. This was Oxford, after all.

It was enough that I paused my stride as he spoke my name. I was the man he wanted and I was curious enough to wait and see exactly what he wanted me for. The afternoon was already growing dark, I've always enjoyed the Michaelmas term for its long evenings but it was also becoming cold. Even though I had my college scarf wrapped tightly around my neck, my feet were beginning to chill and my ungloved hands were also starting to make their discomfort known.

"Yes," I nodded. "You've been waiting to talk to me for some time, so the least I can do is offer you a coffee somewhere warm," I also offered him a reassuring smile as he seemed taken aback. "There's an acceptable place in Queen's Lane," I added, gesturing towards the appropriate exit from the Quad. "Shall we?"

The early evening rush had not yet begun so it was relatively easy to find a table for two at some distance from the other people in the café.

"My name is Alan Hastings and I work for the Home Office," he began almost as soon as the coffee had been deposited on our table. "I can see that the things I've heard about you aren't exaggeration, Mr Holmes."

I was intrigued. Not by the fact that he'd heard 'things' but that someone had felt it worthwhile to compile a dossier on an unknown Oxford postgraduate. I was clever, I knew that, very clever in fact. But I had no money or connections and my family were hardly the kind of people to attract serious attention from anyone. My paternal grandfather had served in both World Wars as a submariner and some distant uncle on my mother's side was a CMG but other than that, there was only Sherlock and myself. My younger brother was just beginning to discover some of life's less pleasant realities, but had done nothing, I would have thought, to merit attention from the Home Office. Besides, the man was lying. I quite believed his name was genuine, but if he worked for the Home Office, then I was seriously off track. And I knew I wasn't.

"Shall we get to the point of this conversation?" I asked, a little irritated at being lied to. Apart from being a fundamental waste of time, the implication was that I was too dim to notice deceitfulness when it was less than two feet away. "I have quite a lot of work to do."

Hastings pursed his mouth and looked across the table with narrowed eyes. I could see he was re-evaluating his approach and I sighed. Perhaps this whole thing wasn't going to be as interesting as I had imagined. Tilting my head to one side as he continued to work out his next remarks, I started to rise from my seat. I had another tutorial first thing in the morning and as I fully intended to demolish the antiquated arguments of my Tutor's most favoured theorist, I felt a further read of his works would not be wasted.

"The department I work for is looking for a new analyst," Hastings leaned forward. "We think you might be suitable for the position. It's a very complicated job, it has to be done in total secrecy and it will demand you face challenges you cannot imagine," he added, watching my face. The fact that I hadn't already walked off must have given him some idea of my piqued interest.

"So not a spy then?" I asked, slowly retaking my seat. "I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or not."

His eyes widened at my comment. Or perhaps it was the matter-of-factness of my tone. He hadn't managed to surprise me and that was what shocked him more than anything.

"Not a spy," Hastings shook his head, his gaze still on my face. "Though you'd be working with spies at times; spies and agents and field operatives," he shrugged and sipped his coffee. "But the work you'd be doing is to analyse data, checking raw information as it comes in and providing a review and interpretation to senior department staff."

"In the Home Office?" I asked, my tone just sufficiently dubious to make him smile and look down at the tabletop.

"There are a good many agencies and departments within the Home Office's walls," he said, mildly amused. "Not all of them are made public and a few of them are unknown to many even within the Ministry itself."

If the man had done his homework properly, he would have realised that anyone studying contemporary politics at Oxford would be possessed of a relatively clear idea of who was running what in the British Government. Alan Hastings was either lazy, incompetent or stupid and as such, I wanted nothing more to do with him. I got to my feet again.

"If you are the best recruiter your department has, then please leave me alone," I said, picking up my books. "Enjoy the coffee." Walking out of the door I was not in the least surprised to find myself alone and unfollowed. Good. I had no time to waste playing anyone's spy-games.

###

The second time I was approached was altogether different.

It was a few days before the start of Christmas vac and I'd arranged to spend a long week interning with a UN translation service to see for myself how such operations worked behind the scenes. Then I was going home to spend Christmas with the parents before returning early to college to finish writing my dissertation. I had started postgraduate study young and had absorbed everything available to me in the year I'd been at Merton. There was little reason to linger, though I confess I quite enjoyed the peaceful college life and was even toying with the idea of reading for a DPhil. It would have been an indulgence more than a true vocation but I was a bit stuck on what to do after I left Oxford.

Mummy expressed a clear preference for me to stay on at the university and teach, but the notion of having to deal with herds of the dim-witted ranked very low on my list of desirable options. My father had suggested government service, but even though I found big-picture politics fascinating, actual politicians themselves bored me to tears. Some form of senior administrative position might suit; I had a knack for policy design and was usually able to penetrate the most byzantine of complex diplomatic scenarios rapidly and without fuss, so both the Civil and Diplomatic Services were a possibility. I knew that I would pretty much have my pick of any available opportunities; I was young, extraordinarily intelligent and fielded an impressive academic history. My appearance, while nothing to write home about, was inoffensive and I was tall enough to look reasonably presentable in evening wear. But I didn't really want to be a Civil Servant or diplomat either, which was why I had listened to the man Hastings, though he turned out to be as mediocre as everyone else.

This new approach was at a different level entirely. Kershaw had called me to attend a brief meeting in his rooms, ostensible to do with an additional reading list over the vac, though he was not alone when I arrived.

The other man was close to my tutor's age, late fifties. Of medium height, he dressed very well indeed, almost dandified in a conservative sort of way. Three-piece suit of an immaculate charcoal wool worsted; top quality linen, rich blue silk tie, discreet sapphire cufflinks and tie-pin, glossy black shoes. His nails were manicured and his greying hair cut close to his head no more than three days previously. His expression remained impassive when I entered the room but his eyes did to me exactly what I had just done to him. I managed not to smile.

"Mycroft, meet Sir David Bonneville from the Home Office. Sir David and I used to room together here at Merton thirty years ago," Kershaw waved me into his room. "He was the cleverest student I knew then, just as you are the cleverest student I know now," he smiled. "Quite a coincidence that you are both here at the same time and I felt it was fitting for you to meet."

My ears pricked up at the words 'Home office' and 'coincidence' and I waited to see what would happen next.

Bonneville was not a man to stand on ceremony and offered me his hand. "Lewis has been telling me all manner of interesting things about you, Mr Holmes," his voice was cultured and educated. "You are quite the paragon."

"Professor Kershaw is overly generous, Sir David," I smiled self-deprecatingly as is required by any polite conversation in which one's praises are sung. "He is an excellent tutor."

"In certain things," Bonneville agreed, his eyes not leaving mine for a moment.

"Might I offer you some tea, young Holmes?" Kershaw was already on his feet, fiddling with the teaware. "We might need some more hot water."

"Tea would be lovely," I said, feeling a tension grow in my chest at Sir David's close scrutiny. Either a most interesting conversation was about to ensue or the man was a homosexual. My tutor toddled away with the teapot leaving me alone with a potential pederast. Though Bonneville was shorter than I, he was probably more physically powerful but if needed, I could almost certainly run faster.

"No, Mycroft," Sir David shook his head, amused at what could only be the expression on my face. "I am far more interested in your mind than any other part of you," he smiled, reaching into a breast pocket to retrieve a slim silver case. "Care for a cigarette? Best Virginian leaf." I didn't smoke, but then all of a sudden, this wasn't really about smoking so of course I accepted.

"The Home Office?" I asked after I had lit up. "I seem to be hearing a great deal about the Home Office of recent," I smiled again after lobbing the ball gently back to his side of the conversational net.

"Oh?" Sir David lifted an eyebrow and linked his fingers. "From anyone I might know?"

"I can't quite remember the name," I frowned as though I was actually trying to remember. "It may come to me later."

"Of course," Sir David maintained an impassive face but I could swear the corner of his mouth twitched. "There are all sorts of people at the Home Office these days," he added airily. "So hard to keep up with changes to people and ... things."

If this man had forgotten a single detail of importance in his entire life, I would be astonished. We were playing so obvious and so obviously silly a game that I found myself relaxing a little. The worst that might happen here was that nothing happened. I puffed on my cigarette and waited for the next volley.

"Fresh tea," Kershaw returned and became mother. I stopped smoking and sipped the hot liquid instead, wondering which one of them was going to broach the real purpose of my being here.

"Lewis tells me you're uncertain as to your future career," Bonneville stubbed out his cigarette and contemplated me over his cup of tea. "Perhaps you need to widen your horizons?"

"At this point, Sir David, I am willing to consider anything that might ward off boredom, routine and idiots," I said honestly though perhaps a trifle smugly. Expecting Bonneville to raise his eyebrows at my conceit, I was moderately surprised when he simply nodded.

"How do you feel about Machiavelli?" he asked.

"Immoral behaviour, corruption and the murder of innocents?" I tilted my head, not even attempting to hide my interest this time. "He has his weaknesses too."

Sir David barked a laugh.

"There is a position in my department that might interest you," he said offering me his card. It was plain white with only his name and a London phone number. "Call if you'd like to discuss the possibilities."

I held the card upright between my fingers. "What does the job entail?"

"Call me," Bonneville smiled fleetingly, rising fluidly to his feet. "Thank you for the tea, Lewis," he said, shaking Kershaw's hand. "Lovely to catch up with you but must dash." Raising his eyebrows at me as he walked past, he nodded. "Mycroft," and was gone.

In that instant, the ball was well and truly back with me. The question now, was what was I going to do with it? I could leave it bounce away, untouched, though if I did that, I'd never discover if there actually was something of real interest waiting for me. I could see if Lewis Kershaw was up for a game of doubles, making him my go-between; it wouldn't be difficult to do. Or I could return the volley with both hands.

I sat in my tutor's room drinking tea and considering the murder of innocents.

###

I said nothing of the meeting with Bonneville to my parents, though Sherlock almost gave the game away.

"Something's different about you," he said, watching as I packed my post-Christmas trunk for the return to Oxford. "You're more focused than you usually are at this time of year. Why? What's changed? Have you met someone interesting?"

Of course, for Sherlock at only just seventeen, 'someone interesting' meant a viscera-coated axe-wielding murderer, or a pharmacist with a noteworthy line in exotic poisons.

My brother had completed his A-Levels two years early and was about to head off to Cambridge where he'd been accepted for the Lent term. Naturally, he wasn't going to come to Oxford; my presence there was sufficient to ensure that. He planned to study Organic Chemistry, though whether he'd ever have the application and self-discipline to complete his studies to the point of usefulness, was anybody's guess. In the meantime, he filled his waking hours with evil-smelling experiments that polluted the whole house and played merry hell with Mummy's good kitchenware. He was also corresponding with a number of police officers at Scotland Yard. Apparently he'd been able to advise them of some details they'd missed in several small cases, his assistance twice resulting in an arrest. He'd even taken to calling himself a 'Consulting Detective'.

However, when he asked his question, my thoughts flew back to that morning in Kershaw's rooms and Sir David Bonneville. I had indeed met someone interesting.

"You have, haven't you?" Sherlock's perceptiveness was almost the match of my own and I clamped down a sigh of irritation. My brother would dig and dig now until I had satisfied his elephant child's curiosity.

"Have you met a woman and fallen madly in love?" he sniggered scornfully. "A man? Are you finally in someone's sexual thrall? Oh, do tell, brother mine. I want to hear all the disgustingly lurid details."

I continued packing my clothes and considered ignoring him though I realised it would be a futile exercise. I stopped folding shirts and turned to face him.

"I have not fallen in love with anyone, madly or otherwise," I said. "However, it may be that I'm going to be offered a job of some interest."

"Is such a thing possible?" Sherlock threw himself on my bed, wriggling around and making himself completely at home on my nice uncreased pillows. "What kind of job and with whom?"

"I'm not sure about the job nor do I have any clear idea who I might be working for," I found myself smiling. "In part, that's what has me considering it."

"A job you know nothing about in a company you don't know the name of?" Sherlock scoffed loudly. "Wait until Mummy hears about it; I'm sure she'll put a spanner in the works."

"I'd prefer you say nothing to anyone until I've undertaken further research," I made a mental note of everything that was in my trunk. Something was missing. "Once I've discovered the specifics, I might not want to take the position in any case. Even if I do, there might be a limit on the kind of details I'm permitted to tell people."

"Oh," Sherlock sat upright, cross-legged. "Really? MI5 or MI6 do you think? Or is it Interpol? The CIA? Mossad?" Clearly the idea of having a brother in one of the intelligence service appealed.

"I don't know," I raised my eyebrows, exasperated. "If I knew, I'd be able to say, but I don't, which is why I need to investigate further." I held out my hand. "Give it."

"Give what?"

"Don't be smart, Sherlock," I said, wriggling my fingers. "My razor if you please."

Scowling, my brother dug around beneath my pillows, producing the elegant leather case my parents had given me for Christmas, dropping it into my outstretched hand.

"You could always get yourself another one with the pay from your new job," he complained. "I don't have anything half as nice."

"Nor do you have half my beard growth," I stepped closer, running the back of my hand quickly over his jaw. It still had the softness of youth. He smacked me away angrily.

"Don't be in such a hurry to get older," I returned to my packing, ignoring his sulk.

"Want any help finding out about this mysterious job?" he asked with an echo of his earlier enthusiasm.

"It's best if I handle this alone," I said thoughtfully. "If it ends up being something I want to do, then I don't want to risk making a mess of things. And if it's something I'd rather avoid, having you involved would be foolish," I nibbled my lip. "Probably best to leave this with me, Sherlock."

"Fine," he stood abruptly. "Go and be boring like everyone else," he stalked out of my bedroom, down the passage and into his own room. His door slammed, though not as hard as it might have done. Poor Sherlock. Dying to exploit the power of his brain but with nowhere yet to unleash it. I privately hoped Scotland Yard would be able to maintain some interaction with my brother for as long as possible or Cambridge would be aflame before Easter.

Merton was deserted when I arrived back a full week before everyone else. There were several porters ghosting about the place; clearing the paths of snow, generally looking cold and wishing for somewhere warm to sit and smoke. I saw a brace of scouts carrying armfuls of clean sheets into the lower halls. Everything about the place whispered of a fresh beginnings for the New Year.

But all I could think about was the small white card tucked inside my wallet.

Reaching my room, I turned the radiator on and walked about in my coat until I could feel the air change from frigid chill to merely cold. My trunk had been left at the porters' lodge to be brought up, so I had nothing to do for the moment.

Reaching into my pocket, I took out the new mobile telephone I purchased in a Christmas sale on sheer impulse. I had read the user manual on the train coming up and while there was a still-patchy network coverage for something still so innovative, I had a soft spot for new technology and couldn't resist trying it. There was a general student phone out in the hallway, but if this novel toy of mine actually worked ...

I found myself pressing the tiny buttons on my Nokia 101 for the first time and holding the thing to my ear. Its lightness and lack of mass felt odd in my hand. I didn't even know if I could get through to London from Oxford on one of these; it seemed so undersized.

"Director's office, may I ask who's calling, please?"

"Mycroft Holmes calling for Sir David Bonneville," I sounded calm though my heartrate had just doubled. I waited for well over a minute.

"Mycroft, how good to hear from you. I trust you had a pleasant Christmas with your family?"

"Very pleasant. Sir David, thank you. I've returned early to college and wondered if you were still interested in meeting?"

"Delighted, dear boy," Bonneville's tone sounded genuine, but then, if anyone could fake sincerity, it would likely be him. "How about dinner this evening?"

"Tonight?"

"Unless you have a previous engagement?" Bonneville sounded as though he was smiling. "Is Old Bookbinders still there?"

"Yes sir," the old pub was still there. "But it's recently changed into a French restaurant."

"Better still," Sir David seemed satisfied. "I'll have my driver hold the car for you at seven tonight by the Lodge?"

"Perfect, thank you. I'll see you at seven."

And the call ended. All of which told me several things.

First, my new little phone worked beautifully, at least between Oxford and London; I would need to experiment with other locations. Second, Sir David Bonneville was a Director of something in the Home Office, running a department he preferred not to openly discuss. He had the authority to recruit his own staff, valued intelligence and had a penchant for Machiavelli. Judging by his dress and manner and the fact he had a car and a driver, he was either privately moneyed or his work paid well and offered considerable perks. Thirdly, the man was very keen to talk to me. It was now just gone four-thirty. The drive up from London in snow was at least two hours. For him to have a car here for me by seven o'clock meant he'd have to leave town within the next twenty minutes in peak commuter traffic and he'd have to fly, simply fly up the M40. Keen indeed.

###

The salmon was superb. I had no objection to Bonneville choosing the wines and liquors, after all, it was he who invited me to dine. Not that I couldn't have afforded it. The number of wealthy idiots at Oxford was legend and I had been providing study notes to a wide variety of the richest of them for the best part of a year. Such freelancing enabled me to afford the niceties of life, such as my new phone. Dinner would have been no problem, even one as upmarket as this was turning out to be. I munched happily through the delectable fish and several topics of social conversation, wondering when Sir David would open serious negotiations.

He was a patient man and it wasn't until we reached the coffee and cognac that he sat back in his comfortable chair and eyed me speculatively.

"Tell me Mycroft," he said, finally. "What do you see as being your greatest strength and what do you intend to do with it?"

At last.

"My ability to think is my greatest attribute," I said without hesitation. "I'm still finding out what my brain is capable of doing," I smiled and swirled the fine brandy. "As for what I'd like to do with it ..." I paused and thought. I could use such an ability to make millions for myself and my family. I could become a merchant prince if I so desired. I could raise an army and lead it, or start a rebellion and bring a country to its knees. All it took was good planning and the right words in the right ears at the right time. I knew I could do these things, knew it without a second's thought. But were these the things I really wanted to do?

"I don't know what I want to do," I said, eventually. "All the things which I'm capable of doing would interest me initially but I know I'd eventually tire of them," I stared at the golden honey glint of the spirit in my glass. "And while wealth and commercial power has its attractions, somehow I feel these are not things that would attract me for long." I looked Bonneville in the eye. "I rather suspect I want to move mountains."

"Well done," Sir David nodded approvingly. "It's not at all easy to reflect honestly upon one's own insecurities and foibles," he said. "But self-honesty is utterly critical in the job for which you've applied."

"I've not applied for any specific position," I frowned.

"You've just had the interview, son," Sir David laughed. "And you're exactly what I'm looking for. Welcome to the department." Raising his glass, he saluted me.

"If I've successfully applied for a job, it might be helpful to know what it is," I threw back the remains of the cognac and waited as the liquor's heat burned its way down to my belly. My heart was beating fast again but it was nothing to do with the alcohol.

"I'm looking for a successor, Mycroft," Bonneville offered me another of his Virginia specials but this time I refused. I had no need of additional stimulants.

"My job is a complex one," he continued. "Requiring the incumbent to perform tasks that are both deeply analytical and absolutely confidential. Sometimes I have to employ unfriendly compulsion and various forms of influence to achieve an objective. I often need co-operation and help to do so, and yet those are usually the precise moments when I cannot let anyone know help is needed. I hold no formal authority and yet in many things I am the ultimate authority." Inhaling deeply of his cigarette's fragrant smoke, Bonneville nodded almost to himself. "I have a few more years left in me but I can already feel my brain is neither as elastic or as robust as once it was," his mouth turned down. "Using the same self-honesty that you have shown tonight, I am compelled to acknowledge that I have reached my peak and am now descending once again to the foothills." He smiled faintly. "One of the perils of the self-aware."

"Can you tell me what it is you actually do?" I asked, my gaze flicking left and right, to ensure our conversation would remain private. Sir David sat back in his chair and regarded me with a clinical eye.

"You might consider my function analogous to that of a clearing-house," he said, finally. "I stand at the confluence of many streams of information and use this constant flow of data to appraise developing situations and offer recommendations of action to relevant persons. Though I hold no high executive power, I am able to require the wielding of such power and often do. I am simply known as the Director. I am the British Government's tame omniscient and do the bidding of that august body." He stared at me, waiting for a response. Clearly, there was a great deal more to be said but I appreciated Sir David's concision. And yet ...

"But if you are, as you say, the government's omniscient and you are able to deploy the executive power of government ..." I paused, considering my next sentence. Bonneville looked at me expectantly. "Then doesn't that mean you effectively are the British Government?"

Sir David's expression didn't even flicker. Not so much as a blink gave his thoughts away. It was this stillness as much as anything that was my answer. Christ. I was being offered an apprenticeship in nothing less than running the country.

Instantly, my mind blazed with possibilities; international treaties and safeguards; the best placement of security forces; the machinations of hostile transnational corporations; issues of economic globalisation, huge networks ... images and ideas coalesced and exploded in my brain like vast pyrotechnics. I think I went into a stupor for a few seconds as the sheer magnitude of the role crashed over me. It was terrifying and stupendous. There was no way one person could ever possibly be able to do this. I would fail. I would implode from the impossibility of the task. It was a preposterous and nonsensical job.

I had to have it.

"I'd like to finish my dissertation first if I may," I coughed to mask a dust-dry throat.

"And how long would you need for that, do you estimate?" Bonneville lit a second cigarette, his eyes narrowing. He probably knew more about the state of my studies than I did.

My MPhil was mapped out. I had completed my primary research and essays, and needed only additional secondary materials. I had also completed a basic first draft but it needed to be thoroughly checked and then written out in a more final version. Fortunately, I had a small personal computer in my room which meant time was my own to allocate and sleep was just one more variable. Still, it was forty-thousand words of acuity, argument and polish. Any sensible estimate would be at least a month or six weeks.

"Two weeks," I nodded. "Give me two weeks to put my academic life to bed."

"I would have given you a month you know," Bonneville smiled cheerily, puffing smoke into the air. "But two weeks will do just as well." He leaned forward, extending his hand. "Do we have an agreement?"

Without hesitation, I accepted Sir David's offer.