Chapter 4: Client Relations
[The Clarendon Club, Mayfair — March 16, 2008, 1:55 PM]
The doorman didn't blink.
That was the tell. James walked through the entrance of the Clarendon Club wearing a dead man's jacket and bruised knuckles he'd wrapped in plasters, and the doorman simply stepped aside. No name check. No membership card. Whatever reputation the original Moriarty had built, it opened doors in places like this—Georgian townhouse, brass fixtures, carpet thick enough to bury your ankles in. The kind of establishment where quiet men discussed loud sums of money over Scotch that cost more per glass than Kevin's weekly shop.
Kevin waited in the Audi around the corner. James had told him to stay. This meeting required a version of himself he hadn't fully constructed yet, and having a nervous Irishman fidgeting behind him would undermine the performance.
The foyer smelled of polished wood and old cigars. A concierge in a waistcoat directed him to the second floor—"Mr. Harwell is expecting you in the Pemberton Room, sir"—and James climbed the stairs with the documents pressed against his ribs inside the jacket.
Fifty-five, silver hair, whiskey sours. Investment type. Referred to you as "Jim." Treats you like hired help.
Kevin's description. Filed and indexed.
The Pemberton Room was small. Private. Two leather chairs facing each other across a low table. Oil paintings of men who'd been dead long enough that nobody remembered their crimes. A drinks cabinet against the wall, cut crystal catching the window light.
David Harwell stood when James entered. Tall—six-two, maybe six-three. Silver hair swept back from a tanned forehead, the kind of tan that came from winter holidays rather than genetics. His suit was Savile Row, charcoal, single-breasted. His handshake was firm and brief and designed to communicate exactly how little he needed the person attached to the other hand.
"Jim. Sit down." Not a question. Not an invitation. An instruction.
James sat. Crossed one leg over the other. Let silence fill the room.
Harwell poured himself a whiskey from the cabinet—didn't offer one—and settled into the opposite chair. His eyes tracked to James's jacket. "You have them?"
James produced the manila folder. Set it on the table between them. Didn't slide it forward.
Harwell reached for it. Opened it. His eyes moved down the first page—bank statements, internal memos, transfer records. A smile crept across his face, slow and satisfied, the expression of a man watching his enemy's coffin being nailed shut.
"Beautiful." He flipped through more pages. "This is everything. The Cayman transfers, the internal authorisations... Hastings is finished. Absolutely finished."
He closed the folder. Reached into his own jacket and produced a white envelope—thick, heavy with paper currency. He placed it on the table.
"Fifteen thousand, as agreed."
James didn't touch it.
Harwell's smile thinned by a fraction. "Problem?"
"These documents prove embezzlement totalling—what? Three million? Four?"
"Three point six."
"And with this evidence, Hastings Holdings collapses. Their clients flee to your firm. Their market share becomes your market share. Conservatively, that's worth two hundred thousand in the first quarter alone."
Harwell's jaw tightened. His fingers wrapped around his whiskey glass a degree harder.
"So," James continued. His voice stayed level. Conversational. The Irish lilt smoothing the edges of what was, fundamentally, a threat dressed in arithmetic. "I think we can agree that fifteen thousand is insulting."
"We had an arrangement."
"We had an arrangement made by a version of me who didn't understand the value of what he was selling. That version is no longer running things." He let the sentence land. Watched Harwell's eyes recalculate. "Fifty thousand. Non-negotiable."
Harwell set his glass down. The crystal rang against the table. "That's more than triple—"
"It's a quarter of what these documents are worth to you in the first month. After that, the returns compound. You're getting a bargain, David."
First names. Deliberate. Not the deference the original Moriarty had shown—the familiarity of an equal.
Harwell stared at him. Ten seconds. Fifteen. James held the gaze without effort. Three years of management consulting had taught him one durable truth: the person who speaks first in a negotiation silence loses.
"You've changed," Harwell said.
"I've improved."
Another silence. Shorter this time. Harwell drained his whiskey, rose, and walked to the drinks cabinet. Poured two glasses. Brought one back and set it in front of James.
"Fifty thousand," Harwell said. Not happy about it. But the anger had curdled into something closer to respect—the grudging kind, the kind that came from recognising competence rather than liking it. "I'll have it transferred by end of day."
"Cash. Same envelope method. By tomorrow morning."
"Cash." Harwell's mouth compressed. "Fine."
James lifted the whiskey. Single malt. Peat and smoke and something floral underneath. The best thing he'd tasted since arriving in this body, this world, this impossible second life. He let it sit on his tongue for a moment before swallowing.
"There's something else," James said. "I'm restructuring my services. Better planning, better execution, better security. If you need anything in the future—documents, intelligence, problems made to disappear—the pricing will reflect the quality."
"And if I find someone cheaper?"
"You will. They won't be as good. And when their work falls apart, you'll come back to me, except the price will have gone up."
Harwell almost smiled. Almost. "You sound like a bloody management consultant."
The irony landed like a dart in James's chest. He kept his expression still. "I'll take that as a compliment."
They drank in silence for a minute. Two men in leather chairs, engaged in the ancient ritual of pretending to be civilised while discussing crime. The whiskey was warm and the room was quiet and for thirty seconds James could pretend this was just business. Just consulting. Just numbers and leverage and client management, the same skills in a different arena.
His knuckles ached under the plasters. Reminder. This wasn't McKinsey.
He stood. Buttoned his jacket. "Tomorrow morning, Kevin will collect. I'll be in touch."
Harwell nodded. He was already reaching for the documents, already planning his competitor's destruction. James was a tool—an expensive one, now, but still a tool. That was fine. Tools that proved indispensable became permanent fixtures.
---
Kevin was leaning against the Audi, smoking. He straightened when James emerged from the club's side entrance.
"How'd it go?"
James held up the original envelope—fifteen thousand, untouched—and then described the conversation. Kevin's cigarette hung from his lip, forgotten, ash growing.
"Fifty thousand?" The words came out strangled.
"Fifty thousand."
"Christ." Kevin dropped the cigarette. Ground it under his heel. "He just... agreed?"
"He agreed because the alternative was losing three point six million in leverage." James opened the passenger door. "First rule of consulting: know your worth. Second rule: make the client understand it."
Kevin stared at him across the roof of the car. That look again—the dog whose owner had learned a new trick.
"Jim, I've been working for you for three years. You never—this isn't—" He stopped. Regrouped. "Who are you?"
James held his gaze. The question was closer to the truth than Kevin could possibly know.
"Same person," he said. "Better priorities. Now take me to meet the others."
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