Russell casually tossed the crystal glass back onto the table; the base struck the walnut surface with a dull sound.
"Do you think the reason I possess such an outstanding information network and skills yet have not overturned Whitehall is because I lack the courage or connections you speak of? Dominating those pot-bellied Members of Parliament strikes me as truly boring and nauseating."
Russell leaned forward slightly, closing the distance between them. The dangerous atmosphere of the night city instantly drowned out the scent of expensive cologne drifting through the suite.
"Right now I live on Baker Street, eat Mrs Hudson's cookies every day, watch the lover who grows irritated when she cannot solve a case, and while I'm at it spend money on another lover. I also enjoy watching the two of them fight over me. I cannot understand why I should have to give up this comfortable sofa for the sake of your ridiculous underground monarchy. Even if you brought every waitress in the Savoy Hotel, I would not want them."
Milverton narrowed his eyes, as though trying to discern how much of Russell's statement was mere pretence.
"In other words, to that famous phantom thief, romantic entanglements are more important than the power that decides life and death in high society? How thoroughly disappointing."
"Mr Milverton, I am still only twenty."
Russell said.
"Twenty is the age for building a harem and falling in love, not the age for becoming an underground emperor."
"Of course, of course."
Mr Milverton avoided a direct statement. He put the gold-rimmed glasses back on; in the ash-green eyes behind the lenses an expression mixing disappointment and mockery appeared, yet at the same time a dominating force even stronger than before could be felt.
"I understand very well that now is the best age for pursuing romance. If I had not spent such a miserable childhood, by now I might already be married with children, spending a holiday with my family of three on the beaches of Birmingham. Young people are easily led astray by those fantastical hormones and so-called love."
He took the cognac beside him, drank a mouthful, and the rich aroma filled the space in front of the fireplace.
"At twenty he possessed the ability to dominate London's nights with ease, yet all he desired was simply to be with the lovers he loved beside the fireplace on Baker Street. This is truly a moving classical painting. Yet Mr Russell, you are an extremely intelligent man, so you must fully understand that in this empire built on interests and lies, peace has never once been maintained by gentleness or concession."
Milverton set down the glass, leaned forward, rested both arms on his knees, closed the physical distance with Russell, and attempted to break through Russell's defences with unshakable pressure.
"Do you consider everything you currently possess to be safe? Mary Morstan's wealth was built upon profit-seeking directors and a complex maritime transport network. If I so desired, I could drag out any record of the Morstan family's early prosperity, or the peculiar hobbies of relatives, and by tomorrow morning the circuit courts of the British Raj could seize her entire fortune. By that time, would your wealthy wife still be able to continue providing you with a comfortable life?"
He gave Russell no opportunity whatever to interject.
"And there is also that proud Miss Holmes. She is certainly a rare genius, yet geniuses are often the most fragile. The more frequently she mentions cases she ought not to touch, the closer she comes to the true intentions of the heavyweights in the House of Lords. Do you truly believe Mycroft can protect her forever? When her investigations reach the core interests of the royal family or the military, even if you are Moriarty, can you stop the relentless pursuit of the whole of Scotland Yard, or even the agents of MI6?"
Milverton spoke extremely slowly, as though a delicate spider's web were gradually entangling him.
"Listen—your so-called happiness, your comfortable sofa, is like a castle built on a sandy beach. When the tide rises it will collapse in an instant. Certainly you could step into the criminal underworld; with your skills you would surely survive. But is that what you desire? Do you want to hide those two delicate attendants in the sewers of Europe and make them flee with you?"
At that moment he sat deeply in the leather armchair and spread both arms toward Russell like a prophet delivering a sermon.
"Yet I can teach you a method that will resolve the problem cleanly. I do not want you to abandon love; rather, I am teaching you the true way to protect love. If we cooperate, Appled will become your strongest fortress. Anyone who tries to lay a hand on the Morstan fleet, anyone who questions Miss Holmes's cases—whoever they may be—I will hang their underwear from the flagpole in Trafalgar Square. You may continue doing whatever you like, enjoy romance, and keep eating cookies. But the prerequisite is that you must hold this thin rope that is strong enough to strangle anyone."
Silence.
The only sounds that echoed in the suite were the faint hiss of the gramophone record and the crackling of the firewood in the fireplace.
It had to be admitted that Milverton, the media bigwig who had built his fortune by exploiting human weaknesses, had reached the very peak of eloquence and persuasiveness. He had stopped making empty promises about power and had instead precisely pressed the blade against Russell's most precious daily life and weaknesses. He was trying to make Russell understand one principle: without absolute power, absolute daily life does not exist.
Russell listened quietly to this long speech. He neither overturned the table in fury nor showed any sign of wariness or anxiety because the people he loved were involved. He merely tilted his head a little; those deep black eyes reflected an elusive stillness in the dim yellowish light.
"So that's why you can't sleep every night?"
"What?"
Milverton looked slightly taken aback, as though he could not keep up with the leap in the other man's thinking.
"In other words, this is the origin of your life philosophy? Because you feel anxious about everything, you desperately dig up other people's scandals, tie everyone to a bomb, and try to make yourself feel that your castle is safe?"
Russell sighed and casually brushed the hem of his trousers, though in fact there was no dust.
"Mr Milverton, what you have just said certainly sounds extremely persuasive, logical, and sincere, yet you have committed a common-sense error. You are a businessman; you are accustomed to judging everything from the standpoint of profit and cost. Therefore you believe that if the risk is high enough, the so-called final profit can become the object of a transaction. But if I had truly lived according to your way of thinking, I would have emptied Buckingham Palace long before I ever met Mary and Charlotte. And not only Buckingham Palace—with my abilities, if I truly wanted to stop you, the trains from Birmingham to London would never run on time for the rest of your life."
He regarded Milverton with a contemptuous gaze.
"The reason I do not try to control a thin rope is not because I am ignorant of the world, nor because I fail to recognise danger. Rather, it is because I prefer, when the tide actually rises, to kick the fellow who is trying to destroy the dam into the sea, rather than worry about the tide rising."
"..."
"After all that talk, your real objective is not the family business of the Morstans, is it?"
"Yes, but that was merely a side effect."
Milverton regained his composure.
"As I already said, I am not short of money, and profits of that level are of no consequence to me. What interests me most is your information network and skills. If the two of us join forces, even Mycroft—"
"Stop. Halt."
Russell interrupted him.
"I have no interest in what you are talking about."
"Why?"
Milverton remained unmoved by the rejection; rather, he asked the question with keen interest.
"If you truly have no interest, what is the point of doing something like this?"
"I think the newspapers ought to have explained this matter more clearly."
Russell said.
"I am speaking out of pure curiosity."
Milverton answered; disappointment and irritation appeared on that refined face.
"That is truly a waste, my friend."
Milverton shook his head, removed the gold-rimmed glasses once more, took out a fine silk handkerchief, and slowly wiped the lenses.
"That is truly the most regrettable answer I have ever heard, Mr Russell. You possess a splendid talent bestowed by the gods, yet you waste it on attention-seeking pranks like a circus clown."
He put the glasses back on; a condescending coldness once again resided in the ash-green eyes.
"Romantic games may satisfy temporary vanity, yet when the curtain falls, all that remains will be newspaper clippings and a vague notoriety. No matter how much you steal, no matter how much you humiliate Scotland Yard, in this country it is not the ghosts lurking in the shadows who make the rules, but those who wield capital and power."
"How many times did you utter the name Appled tonight? Did you count?"
Russell raised one eyebrow lightly and surveyed the luxurious yet empty suite.
"Do you truly believe that the Appled you speak of is an impregnable fortress? A shabby system that hires hundreds of ignorant gangsters and shady lawyers across the whole of Britain and packs letters and photographs into various basements like finely chopped sausages? Since you have investigated my background so thoroughly, you should understand that neither the vaults of Buckingham Palace nor the evidence lockers of Scotland Yard are particularly difficult for me to access compared with my own private storeroom. As long as there is a physical door in this world, a key that can open it will always exist."
Russell leaned forward slightly and asked in a probing yet authoritative tone.
"Why do you think your Appled can withstand my hands?"
"Please, Mr Phantom Thief—try it."
Even under Russell's interrogation Milverton showed no sign of agitation. On the contrary, he relaxed, took up the cognac glass, and drank a mouthful.
"Do you think MI6 and Scotland Yard have done nothing for the past ten years?"
Contempt coloured Milverton's voice.
"They tracked every letter I sent, monitored every transaction in my accounts, and planted informants in every hotel where I stayed. Yet what was the result? As a result I am still sitting here like this, extending an olive branch of reconciliation to you."
Milverton leaned forward slightly and stared at Russell with snake-like eyes.
"Mr Watson, you cannot steal it. As long as Appled exists, I am effectively immortal in this city."
Russell silently regarded the man before him. Under the dim yellow gaslight there was not a single cloud on Milverton's expression. It was the calm obtained by completely releasing one's own life and trump card and ignoring every physical threat. There were neither armed bodyguards nor a heavily guarded secret room. He sat before London's most dangerous thief, unarmed, wearing only thin nightclothes, and spoke eloquently.
"Immortal…" Russell suddenly chuckled.
And without warning.
Russell suddenly uncrossed his legs; his tall figure crossed the small walnut round table between them like a black cheetah racing through the night.
Smack!
A hand with clearly defined joints, like an iron clamp, seized Milverton's throat tightly.
The glass slipped from Milverton's hand and fell onto the carpet with a dull sound. The amber liquid instantly spread, forming a dark-coloured stain ring.
Russell looked down at Milverton, who was pressed against the back of the sofa. If he tightened his fingers even a fraction more, the fragile cervical vertebrae would shatter like a broken twig.
Yet Milverton did not struggle. Despite the sudden threat of death his pupils did not contract violently. On the face that was gradually turning pale from lack of oxygen, that nauseating smile still floated.
"Uh… surely you wouldn't do such a thing, Mr Phantom Thief…"
Milverton desperately tried to squeeze out broken syllables from his throat. Both hands hung limply at his sides, yet the sensation of suffocation surged like a tide.
"Strangle me… Mary Morstan's scandals will be delivered to Scotland Yard's desk tomorrow morning. And your proud detective will completely lose face… So many beautiful things being buried together with me… cough… I do not feel deceived at all; on the contrary, I feel extremely honoured."
This was the King of Blackmail. He was certain that Russell—the chivalrous thief who possessed weaknesses—would never drag the entire City of London down with him.
Russell stared coldly at Milverton for several seconds. Then, as though he had touched dirty rubbish, he released his hand with open disgust.
"Hah… hah…"
Fresh air flowed into his lungs; Milverton coughed violently several times and reached for the red marks left by the strangulation. Far from growing angry, he straightened the collar of his bathrobe and wore an even more arrogant, triumphant smile.
He had won. Despite the overwhelming difference in military force, it was the arrogant phantom thief who had ultimately submitted on the negotiation table of the "Pig Game."
"It seems we have reached a certain degree of agreement regarding the final conclusion."
Milverton took up the cognac glass prepared for Russell on the table and elegantly drank a mouthful to moisten his throat.
"That you do not wish to become my partner is a great loss for the British Empire. But it is all right; I am a generous businessman, and there is always business to be done."
Russell straightened his back once more and casually picked something up from the sofa as though he had touched something filthy.
"Tell me the final objective regarding the time limit."
Russell's voice returned to its usual calm tone.
"Let us talk about that next, Mr Phantom Thief."
Milverton raised his wrist and glanced at that precious watch.
"Fourteen more days. From today until the dinner on Christmas Eve."
He said.
"I want the complete documents concerning the transfer of shares in the Morstan Group that Mary Morstan holds. Once I obtain those documents, I will personally destroy all evidence relating to the fire and her past, so that she may live forever in safety as a bird in a cage. You need not tell her. By the time that invitation reaches your hands, the other letter will probably already have arrived in Kensington."
Mr Milverton stated.
"What I want is simple. The Morstan fortune, and you—Moriarty—your information network, and your hands."
"That is truly an unreasonable demand."
Russell snorted.
"But since there is no one else here, you may as well speak more clearly, don't you think?"
"Hm?"
Milverton raised one eyebrow. "I thought I had explained sufficiently."
He took up the glass, gently swirled it, and gazed at Russell through the swirling liquid.
"Don't you understand unless I say that I intend to make you my dog?"
"You want my information network and skills, yet that is merely a superficial objective."
Russell said, "After obtaining all of this, what do you plan to steal next, Mr Milverton?"
Russell stared at Milverton with eyes that seemed to see through his heart.
"Appled is already overflowing with numerous shocking scandals involving aristocrats and politicians. Even if you obtained only one-tenth of these things, it would be enough for you to squander for several generations. Since you lack neither money nor political influence, you are not seriously plotting to make me your dog so that I can steal the Mona Lisa from the Louvre and display it on your own bed for you to admire, are you?"
Even upon hearing Russell's question, Milverton showed no anger; rather, an expression of joy appeared in his ash-green eyes.
"Truly… an outstanding talent, and an irreplaceable jewel."
He could not help saying so.
"Mr Moriarty, you always surprise me."
Milverton leaned slightly against the soft, comfortable sofa and swirled the wine glass in his hand.
"You are right. Ordinary scandals would at best turn one into a wealthy vampire. I can force Members of Parliament to vote against the bills I desire, or make a count sell his estate for almost nothing, yet that alone is far from enough. It is by no means sufficient."
He leaned forward a little; the gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses grew ever greedier, as though it were gazing at the entire map of the British Empire.
"In this country true power has never once passed into the hands of fools who leave evidence in brothels or gambling dens. True power is sealed deep underground in Whitehall in the most secret document repositories, in the hidden places of the Prime Minister's office at 10 Downing Street, and… even in His Majesty the King's private vault at Buckingham Palace."
Milverton's voice grew lower and lower, yet a blood-chilling ambition resided within it.
"My subordinates cannot enter places like those. The operatives of the British government are never to be underestimated. Mycroft, Holmes's brother, has perfectly guarded such important secrets. But you are different, Mr Phantom Thief. The security of Buckingham Palace is, to you, like an unguarded backyard. If you so desire, next year's warship budget of the Ministry of Defence, the deployment maps of the Navy's ocean-going fleets, and even… these are the top-secret diplomatic agreements the royal family keeps hidden, yet every single one of them can be lined up on my desk."
This was the true ambition of the man who was both media king and King of Blackmail. He did not wish to become a mere lower-class person who only collected the misdeeds of aristocrats. He wanted to stretch his hand toward the throat of the British Empire.
"You will be responsible for peeling away the hardest outer shell of this empire and extracting its heart. And I, Appled, possess the most perfect concealment and distribution system in the world. I will digest and store these terrifying secrets and turn them into the Sword of Damocles hanging over the entire British Cabinet."
Milverton spread both arms as though embracing the whole of London, and by extension the entire British Empire.
"By that time even Charlotte Holmes will have to politely ask my opinion before making any decision. We will become the true, uncrowned kings of this country, hidden beneath the throne. Mr Russell, I want you to steal this."
Inside the suite the gramophone record had just reached its end; a faint white-noise "shh" could be heard. The light of the fireplace illuminated Russell's young, handsome face. His expression was calm and blank.
Even when confronted with this treasonous declaration that deserved to be taken to the Tower of London by MI6 and shot for ten minutes, Russell's reaction remained surprisingly calm.
"In other words, the enemy you had imagined was actually Mycroft."
He even yawned, looking somewhat bored.
"Why didn't you say so earlier? You spoke in such a roundabout way that I thought you wanted to start the Second World War."
"Mr Moriarty, you seem to regard this as a trivial matter?"
Milverton raised one eyebrow slightly and showed strong curiosity at Russell's nonchalant attitude.
"What you were desperately trying to obtain was not merely the top-secret files in Whitehall or that little something on Mycroft's desk?"
Russell sat deeply on the sofa and quietly regarded him.
"It's simple. If you truly want it, give me one hour. I will place it on this walnut table in front of you in exactly the same condition as it is now."
"Oh?"
A flicker of interest appeared for an instant in Milverton's ash-green eyes.
"You don't believe me?"
"No—one hour? I think you are the only person in London who could do that."
Milverton suppressed the smile that rose to his face and sat up a little.
"But what happens after that?"
He looked at Russell.
"Why did you do such a thing?"
"You are a businessman. What is business? Does it not all come down to equal exchange?"
Russell received the sharp gaze and answered in a completely flat tone.
"I will give you the empire's secrets that you desire. In exchange, burn every document concerning Mary, Charlotte, and me that is in your vault until it becomes ash. I think that is a good deal."
"A good deal… do you truly think it is a good deal?"
Milverton could not help laughing. The laughter that echoed through the luxurious suite revealed unconcealable mockery and pity.
"You do not seem as interested as the newspaper articles indicated."
He said mockingly.
"In the end, even though you possess a splendid mind capable of overturning the rules, you still yield to a young man's pitiful chivalry. What you call equal exchange is merely a vulgar impulse born of rising hormones and blind emotion."
Milverton removed his glasses and casually tossed them aside, as though the prey that had once surprised him had finally lost its last mystery.
"Using top-secret information that concerns the fate of the nation to secure the safety of two women."
He shook his head in a tone filled with disappointment and regret.
"Moriarty, I am greatly disappointed in you. No—that is not right. The moment you bowed your head to me in order to conceal your own weakness, you were no longer the arrogant, dignified Moriarty. You are merely a despicable thief."
Russell did not refute this extremely sarcastic analysis. He merely sat there quietly, watching the media bigwigs revel in their victory. Deep in those black eyes a cold smile floated.
"Say whatever you like."
Russell stood up and smoothed the wrinkles at the hem of his coat.
"Yet that is precisely what makes Mr Russell so attractive."
Milverton laughed.
"An unmatched genius who harbours weaknesses and fragility always gives a greater sense of security than a madman who has nothing to worry about. If you regard this alliance that could decide the fate of the empire as a transient transaction compromised for the sake of one woman, then as a businessman I naturally have no reason to refuse."
"In other words, you agree?"
Russell remained in the same languid posture, idly tapping the armrest of the sofa with his fingertips.
"If the safety of the fake heiress of the Morstan family is guaranteed in exchange for top-secret documents that could directly destroy the Cabinet, of course I will gladly accept that deal."
Milverton smiled and leaned forward a little.
"But do not blame me for not warning you. I do not want such meaningless diplomatic phrasing. What I need is the kind of top-secret information that Mycroft Holmes would risk his life to conceal—information that even his sister has no right to access."
"No problem. As long as it exists on this earth, it will appear on your desktop before Christmas."
Russell answered curtly, as though he had merely agreed to steal a single baguette from a street-corner bakery.
"Yet before that, Mr Milverton, since this is an equal transaction, there are a few points I wish to confirm."
"What do you wish to confirm?"
"I have confirmed that you are a trustworthy businessman."
Russell sat up a little and stared fixedly at Milverton.
"You said that Appled is a system of the Dead Hand type, assembled by gathering countless physical nodes. What you blackmailers most love to do is use a copying machine to extract the marrow from the victims again and again."
Russell paused for a moment.
"If I were to pull out Mycroft's heart and hand it to you, and you then turned around and said you had destroyed only one backup while the rest continued to run automatically inside the system… wouldn't that mean I had not only lost everything but become a fool of a national fugitive expelled from Whitehall?"
"So what?"
Milverton regarded him with extreme interest, as though listening to an intriguing request.
"Therefore I want to watch you erase every file concerning me, Mary, and Charlotte from your so-called Appled."
Russell spoke slowly and carefully; an unshakable resoluteness could be felt in his tone.
"I need to meet Appled. After I hand you the chip, I need to confirm whether the time-bomb that could explode at any moment has truly been defused. At the very least I need to know the location of Appled, so that if you change your mind in the future I will know how to deal with it."
Inside the room the gramophone needle had already slid to the inner ring of the record; a faint hissing sound could be heard. The light of the fireplace flickered across Milverton's face; in the play of light and shadow the expression of the media bigwig paused faintly for the briefest instant.
"An entirely reasonable demand, Mr Watson."
Milverton smiled and nodded, set the empty glass on the walnut table, and clasped his slender fingers in front of his knees.
"Since this is a transaction, it must be premised on both parties feeling sufficiently secure. You have taken an enormous risk for my sake in retrieving something from Whitehall; therefore I should naturally show an equal degree of sincerity."
He looked at Russell. The eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses held just the right amount of sincerity.
"Let us cancel the Christmas dinner. At eight o'clock in the evening, come to the VIP parking area of the Savoy Hotel with whatever is necessary. I will personally guide you. It is the place where the core archives of Appled are located. There you yourself can throw every piece of information concerning Mary Morstan's family history, and every unresolved problem you have left in London, into the incinerator. Then, holding a champagne glass, shall we watch it turn to ash?"
Russell did not answer at once. He narrowed his eyes a little, as though carefully weighing the weight of the promise on both sides of a scale.
"Just the two of us?"
Russell regarded him suspiciously, pinning him with a gaze full of certainty.
"Just the two of us."
Milverton spread both hands.
"Facing a famous phantom thief while accompanied by a large number of bodyguards would be nothing more than a joke. Besides, at this critical juncture of the transfer of imperial power, I do not want my closest future partner's enjoyable time to be ruined by those foolish guards."
After a brief silence Russell finally yielded.
"That does indeed sound like an offer difficult to refuse."
He rose from the single armchair.
"Then it's decided. On Christmas Eve I want to see the most expensive fireworks in the city."
"I promise. I promise it will be an unforgettable, intense experience."
Milverton remained seated on the sofa, raised the empty glass in a toast to Russell, and smiled as he watched Russell walk toward the door with the expression of a victor.
The moment he grasped the brass doorknob he suddenly stopped and tilted his head slightly.
"By the way, Mr Milverton."
Russell's tone was casual, as though he were merely making idle conversation.
"You deliberately postponed the Dead Hand system that could explode at any moment solely for the sake of this transaction, didn't you? After all, if those newspaper companies received the tip-off letters on Christmas morning, the transaction that night would become rather awkward."
"That is only natural."
Milverton's smile remained unchanged.
"In order to guarantee reliability, the deterrence mechanism of Appled will maintain complete silence until the situation has settled."
"That is good."
Milverton smiled as he watched him leave.
"Pleasant dreams tonight, Mr Phantom Thief."
Click.
The door lock snapped shut; Russell's figure disappeared beyond the door.
Complete silence returned to the suite. Milverton stared at the closed oak door while slowly draining the cognac in his glass. Then uncontrollable laughter echoed through the room for a long time.
Russell left the hotel without a word. His thoughts were directed toward the panel before him—visible only to him—gazing at the densely arrayed stars upon it.
Milverton had not been lying. This was the conclusion Russell had reached after observing Milverton's wording, attitude, micro-expressions, and other aspects. Since then Russell had pressed him about various aspects of Appled and corroborated his own conjectures through Milverton's reactions. As a result, Milverton had cooperated excessively, as though he truly believed his so-called vault was perfect and impregnable. He was certain Russell could not even reach it, still less steal anything from it.
Did such a place exist?
Of course it existed—twenty thousand leagues under the sea, or up to the ninth heaven. Yet if Milverton truly believed he could hide things there, why would he need to come looking for him? In other words, apart from those two places, the only remaining possibility was overseas, yet the map provided by the system denied that. Sheffield, Birmingham, Manchester—only these three.
Reality ran counter to his confidence, yet Milverton had certainly not been lying. In this situation only one explanation remained.
The so-called Appled truly exists, yet it does not exist in the material world.
If a magic box capable of storing sufficient information and still easily obtainable does not exist in the material world, then where on earth is it?
The answer is extremely obvious.
Now only the final step remains.
Russell took a deep breath and quickened his pace.