The Gala

As the car pulled off hedge-lined country roads onto a winding route through green rolling fields, Jay caught his first glimpse of Medway Castle.

“Oh, fuck me,” he breathed.

“Castle” wasn’t some precious moniker; originally a stately home in Kent, the building had been converted into a private hotel in the 80s but retained its crenellated stone walls and looming towers. There was even a moat surrounding the whole affair, complete with drawbridge and portcullis. Lit up from within in the fading light of the evening, it looked like something out of a film full of singing woodland creatures.

At Jay’s side, Moran had draped himself casually across the back seat of the private car that brought them from London. He was formally dressed in a suit he’d insisted was not black, but charcoal, the tailoring of which showed off his broad shoulders and athletic build in a way that Jay suspected was very deliberate.

Jay’s own suit was custom-made by a tailor Moran had recommended last year, who specialised in transgender clients. He’d been informed by said tailor that the suit was an English cut, meant to flatter his slim frame rather than try to add artificial bulk. Jay, out of his depth throughout the whole process, had simply nodded along; his only specific request was a double-breasted jacket, solely because he liked how retro it looked.

He also very much liked how Moran’s face looked when he saw Jay wearing the suit for the first time.

Moran glanced his way. “All right?”

Jay made an uncertain noise and reminded himself that this had all been his idea.

The car pulled into a short line of other vehicles moving through the car park, each one dropping off its passengers at the walkway to the drawbridge before moving on. Christ, there was even a red carpet out front.

Moran laid a reassuring hand on Jay’s knee and squeezed, giving him a lopsided smile. “You’ll be fine. Just treat everyone the way you’d treat me.”

A sudden, vivid image of how he liked to treat Moran arose in Jay’s mind.

Moran’s smile widened as he realised what Jay was thinking. “Maybe a bit less of that.”

A valet hurried to open the door as their car pulled up to the red carpet. Moran stepped out first, then offered a hand to Jay; the gesture was so absurdly chivalrous that Jay had to suppress a laugh, and there was a corresponding tease in Moran’s eyes. As they handed their invitations over at the door, though, Jay was seized by the sudden conviction that it wouldn’t be enough; the doorman would take one look at him and know, immediately, that no version of Jay Moriarty belonged in a place like this.

But he was with Moran—Eton and Oxford, son of an ambassador, former SAS officer Sebastian Moran, who could go just about anywhere he pleased. Which was exactly why Jay had asked for his help.

Jay resisted the urge to brush a hand over his inside pocket. The extra weight from one side of his jacket was all the reassurance he needed that the external hard drive he’d brought was still there.

A drive just like it was depicted in a photo that had been circulating on various dark web channels for the past few days. While the poster of the photo refused to divulge the exact nature of the drive’s contents, a deal had nevertheless been struck; it would be handed off to a buyer this evening, at the annual fundraising gala for the Barrie Children’s Hospital.

It was, in many ways, the perfect exchange; the gala’s guests were an eclectic enough bunch that nobody would notice a meeting between two otherwise unassociated individuals, and the abundance of witnesses and security would keep both parties honest. But buying something without knowing what it really was carried certain risks.

For example, someone like Jay might take an opportunity like this to steal the drive out from under the buyer and seller’s noses, swapping in an identical device full of corrupted garbage data and leaving both parties none the wiser.

The doorman scanned their invitations, barely glanced at Moran or Jay, and waved them through.

There was a small courtyard between the portcullis and the entrance proper, where a photographer had set up with a tripod and a series of blinding umbrella lights. She briefly contemplated Moran, clearly wondering if he was anyone of note and whether it was worth taking a few shots, just in case; then she dismissed him in favour of the film star coming in behind them, husband in tow.

The hotel’s reception area was surprisingly small, furnished in aged polished hardwood and antique furniture. A security camera was mounted above the desk and aimed at the front entrance. Kent in May was reasonably balmy in the daytime, but would get chilly once the sun set; more than a few of the other guests had brought coats with them, which there was a line to check at the desk.

An assortment of signs directed Jay and Moran down the hall and through a heavy, medieval-looking wooden door into the hotel lounge. Glittering crystal chandeliers hung from the tall ceiling; vases and lamps rested on pedestals and console tables along wood-panelled walls, which were themselves adorned with an assortment of old (and probably valuable) oil paintings. There was more antique furniture in here: stuffed sofas and armchairs, with heavy velvet drapes over the windows. The bar along one wall was obviously a recent addition, and a pair of wide double doors were open to the hotel’s main courtyard, where most of the gala would take place.

It was well into the cocktail hour and the lounge was packed with guests, all of them fetching drinks and making introductions and stopping briefly to greet old friends before moving on to greet other old friends. Jay spotted a few mid-list celebrities, a member of parliament or two, and someone who looked an awful lot like the publisher of a national newspaper. Weaving artfully between them were the staff, dressed uniformly in white shirts and black vests, largely unnoticed as they gathered up abandoned glasses and offered the contents of various trays.

As Jay watched, a narrow section of the wall panelling swung open; another of the catering staff arrived, bringing with her a fresh platter of canapés.

“Servants’ passages.” Moran had leaned down to murmur into Jay’s ear. “Old houses like these tend to have them.”

Like Jay, Moran was scanning the crowd. Neither of them knew the identity of the individual selling the drive. They didn’t know the exact identity of the buyer, either, but there were only so many people in the market for that sort of thing; they’d be an outlier among the guests, and watching any potential buyers would lead them to the seller.

Jay’s focus shattered as a cry of “Sebastian!” cut through the din around them. A wiry older man in a pinstriped suit was waving to them from across the lounge: Freddie Clarke, West End producer and the man who’d secured their invitations to the gala on incredibly short notice.

It helped that Moran had once chased a rampaging tiger off the premises of Clarke’s home.

“God fucking damn it,” Jay grumbled.

“Play along.” Moran’s hand settled against the small of Jay’s back, warm and steady as he guided him through the crowd. His posture shifted slightly, shedding the alert tension he’d been carrying while they surveyed the lounge; now, he was all smiles and easy confidence.

Clarke was standing with another man: distinctly brick-shaped, tall and solidly built, somewhere in his mid-forties and developing a hint of what would eventually become an impressive set of jowls. The man briefly assessed Jay before apparently deciding he wasn’t worth paying attention to, instead turning a calculating eye on Moran.

Unfortunately, Jay wasn’t lucky enough to avoid Clarke’s full attention. “And this is—?”

“This is Jay,” Sebastian said; there was a pleased note in his voice that didn’t sound entirely fake. “Jay, this is Freddie Clarke—an old friend of my mother’s.”

Jay already knew very well who Clarke was, but Clarke didn’t know that—and explaining why Jay knew him would involve confessing to several crimes.

“Lovely to meet you,” Clarke said, giving Jay a warm smile and a crushing handshake before he turned to address the man next to him. “Jake, I don’t know if you’ve met Sebastian?”

The man stepped forward to warmly shake Moran’s hand. “Henry Jacob Cabot, Fifth Baron Cabot.”

“Captain Sebastian Moran.” There was a bit of sarcasm on ‘captain’—obviously in response to Cabot’s lengthy self-introduction. “This is my partner, Jay Moriarty.”

Cabot shrugged off the introduction with a low grunt. Moran’s expression remained cordial, but Jay felt the temperature around them drop several degrees.

Oblivious to this development, Clarke said, “It’s a shame your wife isn’t here tonight, Jake.”

“She had a prior engagement,” Cabot replied stiffly.

“And you didn’t go with her?” Moran said, a little too sharply.

Cabot turned an irritated look on Moran, but it was Clarke—finally picking up on the tension between the two men—who spoke: “Of course Jake had to be here tonight. Medway Castle is his family’s estate, after all.”

“Well, back in the sixteenth century it was the Holts’ family seat.” Moran gave a dismissive shrug. “Although I suppose they couldn’t make much use of it after they all died out in the civil war.” His eyes were on Jay, making a point of including him in the conversation and snubbing Cabot in the process. “The place was derelict for ages, although there were rumours it was a staging post for smugglers bringing contraband into London from the coast. But then some American bought the property off the crown, along with a title.”

Cabot bristled, drawing himself up a little. “My family’s title was a reward for all our charitable work during the First World War.”

“Yes, of course.” Moran had shifted character again; there was something vicious and arrogant about him now, a public school bully sneering at someone he considered beneath him. “Your family’s always been quite free with their money, haven’t they? It’s a shame you had to turn this place into a hotel, but I suppose that was more palatable than selling it off.”

Jay had never actually seen a person turn the colour Cabot was turning. He couldn’t help wondering how the pair of them ranked up; Cabot was a baron, but if his family had only earned their title within the last hundred years or so then that practically made them new money. Whereas Moran wasn’t titled at all; his father had a knighthood, but that wouldn’t pass down the family line. Moran, however, had the lineage Cabot lacked—Jay had once, in a fit of boredom, tried tracing the man’s family history and got as far back as the Tudor era before something else called his attention away. He had no doubt it went even further.

One look at the easy superiority in Moran’s bearing answered the question. “Excuse me,” he said, after a moment of furious silence. “I should fetch my partner a drink.” With a nudge to Jay’s back he steered them both across the lounge to the bar, leaving an awkwardly speechless Clarke and fuming Cabot behind them.

There were a few quick nods and fleeting acknowledgements from the other guests as they went; none of them seemed particularly surprised to see Moran had shown up with a boyfriend in tow. In fact, many of them barely noticed Jay at all. The crowd at the bar was a tangled snarl of shifting bodies, but Moran managed to catch the eye of a hassled bartender. At an event this large, the drinks selection was limited; Sebastian ordered them each a glass of white wine.

“Was all that about the castle true?” Jay asked while they waited. “Or were you just talking out your arse?”

Moran shrugged. “Technically, Medway Castle dates back to the thirteenth century—but all that’s left from back then is the gatehouse and outer wall. The Holt family built it up into a proper residence about three hundred years later.” At Jay’s bemused look, he added, “My degree was in history and politics. I checked some old sources.”

The bartender placed their glasses on the bar top and Moran took them with a grateful nod. As he stepped back, Jay caught sight of a familiar face and quickly ducked into the shelter of Moran’s body.

“Bloke my age, down at the end of the bar,” he muttered.

Moran, professional that he was, didn’t turn to look; instead, his eyes flicked to the mirror mounted behind the bar. “I see him,” he replied quietly.

“His name’s Lucas Knox,” Jay explained. “He’s part of a collective called Fractal Storm. They pulled off ransomware attacks against three different casinos in Las Vegas last year.”

“You think he’s here for the drive?”

“Can’t see why else he’d be at a charity gala.”

Moran had a concerned look. “Would he recognise you?”

“I don’t know,” Jay admitted. “The last time I saw him was before …” he gestured down the length of his own body, which looked quite different after top surgery and four years of testosterone therapy. “Probably shouldn’t get too close, though.”

Moran scanned the room, evaluating sight lines, then said, “We can watch him from out in the courtyard.”

Jay nodded and took the glass offered to him as they stepped away from the bar, Moran once again settling in at his side as they exited into the courtyard. He took a deep breath of fresh, crisp air as they left the close atmosphere of the lounge behind them.

There were large, circular dining tables set up throughout the courtyard, draped with white tablecloths and set for multiple courses. A stage had been erected at one end of the space for what Moran had assured him would be an interminable series of speeches and awards. Across the courtyard another set of wide double doors was open to Medway Castle’s great hall, where the evening’s silent auction was being held.

Moran hadn’t taken so much as a sip of his wine; he preferred not to drink while he was working, and tonight likely qualified. He was, however, holding the glass in his right hand—politely obstructing anyone from trying to shake it. Jay transferred his own glass accordingly.

Knox was still at the bar. He was from a reasonably upper-class background and blended well enough with the crowd, although he kept his thumbs glued to his phone and periodically cast a look around the room—clearly waiting for someone.

A high-pitched squeal of “Sebby!” echoed from across the courtyard. A pleasantly plump woman about Moran’s age hurried across the courtyard toward them, handfuls of her floor-length pink gown bunched in her hands to keep from tripping over it.

Jay caught Moran’s eye and mouthed, “‘Sebby’?”

Moran rolled his eyes. “Hush, you.”

The woman skittered to a halt, the wineglass in Moran’s hand no obstacle as she instead leaned up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.

Moran returned the gesture—although in his case he mostly kissed the air over her skin, careful not to smear her makeup. “Hello, Bernie.”

“I had no idea you were coming tonight,” the woman gushed. She glanced briefly at Jay, then looked back to Moran with an expectant expression—awaiting an introduction.

“It was all a bit last-minute.” Moran put an arm around Jay’s waist. “Bernie, this is my partner Jay Moriarty. Jay, this is Bernadette Hurst—we grew up together.”

Moran had switched characters again, taking on a flighty, airheaded demeanour to match Hurst’s. His accent had shifted, too—several degrees plummier than it had been just a moment before.

Hurst’s head cocked to the side as she regarded Jay. “I don’t think I know any Moriartys.”

“Jay works with computers,” Moran quickly explained.

“Oh!” Hurst blinked, cheerfully baffled. “How on earth did you two meet?”

“Sebastian needed some help with the website for his consulting business,” Jay replied, careful not to make it sound too rehearsed. “He hired me, and we hit it off.”

It was their established cover. The truth—that they’d both become entangled in Bruce-Partington Aerospace’s cover-up of a deadly engineering flaw, brought down the company’s CEO together, and shagged each other senseless in the aftermath—would not fly with this or any other crowd.

Her curiosity satisfied, Hurst said to Moran, “Was that you talking to Jake?”

“Freddie Clarke introduced us.” Moran’s hand returned to the small of Jay’s back. “I don’t think we’re going to be friends.”

Hurst gave a careless shrug, the wine in her glass sloshing perilously toward the lip. “Daddy’s been handling the whole business with the Cabot estate. It’s a mess—all the banks are calling his father’s loans, and it turns out there were quite a lot of those.”

“I suppose that explains his mood,” Jay ventured.

“Oh, no. He’s always like that.” Hurst spotted someone over Moran’s shoulder and waved. “Let’s catch up later, Sebby. I want to hear all about what you’ve been up to.” She gave Jay another once-over before flitting away through the crowd.

Jay looked up at Moran. “You’ve got lipstick on you.”

With a restrained sigh, Moran swiped a napkin off the nearest table and cleaned the smudge of pink off his cheek.

Lucas Knox was still in the lounge—and another of the guests, a man somewhere around the age of fifty, was on the approach. He had an avuncular look, grey-bearded and a little heavy around the middle, and wore exactly the kind of suit a man tended to wear if he only had one formal outfit: simple and black, suitable for receptions, weddings, and funerals.

Knox’s disinterest in conversation evaporated after a few words; he and the newcomer spoke quietly and intensely for a few seconds before the other man nodded and walked away.

Jay glanced to the side; Moran was also watching the man who’d spoken with Knox. “Who’s that?” he asked quietly.

“No idea,” Moran replied, “but we can find out.”

---

They sketched out the plan in quiet tones. Then they parted ways, and Sebastian moved into position.

Jay had been buzzing with energy the night he asked Sebastian to help him get into the gala, pacing a circle around Sebastian’s sitting room as he explained not just the rewards of his plan, but also the risks. It was the first time he’d asked for Sebastian’s help with a professional matter, rather than a personal one. This wasn’t just a favour; it was a job.

It was the easiest thing in the world to say yes.

Sebastian had a few minor concerns about throwing Jay’s legal ID around, but if everything went to plan the drive would be in their hands and the decoy sold on without anyone knowing Jay and Sebastian had involved themselves. And Sebastian had to admit there was a certain satisfaction in introducing Jay to everyone as his partner.

There was also a distinct thrill to seeing Jay in a well-tailored suit. As a concession to practicality he’d come over to Sebastian’s flat to change for the gala; when he emerged from the bedroom, tugging uncertainly at the hem of his jacket, it was only the imminent arrival of their car that had stopped Sebastian from dropping to his knees right there.

And yet everyone’s eyes skipped over Jay on their way to Sebastian—dismissing him, immediately, as not important.

Sebastian drifted back into the lounge. The man who’d spoken to Knox was now off in a corner with Lord Cabot, chatting with idle familiarity. Feigning interest in his phone, Sebastian watched from the corner of his eye as Jay casually approached a waiter, selecting a canapé off the tray she held before shuffling awkwardly through the crowd, passing right behind the stranger.

A dollop of the sauce topping the canapé smeared across the back of the stranger’s jacket.

The next move was Sebastian’s. He tucked his phone away and idly strolled past the stranger from the other direction, making a show of glancing down at the unnoticed mess staining his suit. “Oh, dear.” He tapped the stranger on the shoulder. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got something on your jacket.”

“What?” The man twisted around to look over his shoulder, struggling to get a glimpse of his own back. “Oh, for—”

There was a great deal of shuffling and fumbling as Sebastian helped the man shrug out of his jacket, and in all the commotion nobody noticed as he slipped a wallet from the inside pocket and flipped it open behind his back.

After a moment there was a brief tap on his arm, and Sebastian tucked the wallet back into place as he flagged down a member of the hotel staff to help. Then he slipped away.

Jay was waiting for him back out in the courtyard, phone in hand. He’d snapped a photo of the stranger’s ID, which he discreetly angled toward Sebastian; it was a faculty card from Oxford University, bearing the name “Thomas Stoddard.”

“I know the name,” Sebastian said.

Jay, hazarding a guess, said, “From school?”

Sebastian nodded. “Word was, if you had aspirations of being a spy, Stoddard’s classes were the ones you wanted to be in.”

“So he’s a recruiter.” Jay looked to be putting the pieces together. “For British intelligence.”

“One of his former students might have passed him something,” Sebastian suggested, “to sell on their behalf.”

Jay didn’t look convinced; he worried his lower lip with his teeth. “But why would Fractal Storm be interested? They don’t usually—” he blinked. “Oh. Of course. Most intelligence agencies have hackers of their own, these days. And when they find a vulnerability, they don’t report it—they leave the hole open and document it, so the agency can keep using it themselves.”

“And that’s the information on the drive?”

“Maybe.” Jay shrugged. “It would explain why Stoddard’s posts were so vague about the whole thing—exploits like that are only useful if nobody knows about them.” He looked up at Sebastian with renewed interest. “Did he have the drive on him?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I checked all his pockets. Nothing except his wallet and his phone. He could’ve stashed it somewhere.”

“It’d be safer not to keep it on him,” Jay agreed. “But he’d want it nearby, for Knox to go pick up once the deal’s done.” He peered down at the photo of Stoddard’s wallet, panning the screen over to a slip of paper peeking from one of the pockets. It was marked with a two-digit number. “What’s that?”

“Ticket for the coat check,” Sebastian observed. “Maybe that’s where he left the drive.”

Jay scanned the crowds around them; at the height of cocktail hour, they were now thick enough to make slipping away a problem. “I don’t suppose you can think of a good excuse for us to sneak off.”

One very obvious reason immediately came to mind. Sebastian rested his hand at Jay’s waist and leaned in close, as if to whisper something in his ear; Jay’s breath hitched as he instead pressed a kiss just behind it, running his tongue up the curve of his earlobe.

A few idle glances that had been wandering in their direction quickly darted away, and Sebastian grinned. Then Jay’s fingers were hooking through Sebastian’s belt, tugging him along as they hurried back through the lounge into the reception area.