Acknowledgement:
This is a non-profit indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series Sherlock. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.
#
Author's Note:
This narrative is third in a series. It will likely improve the reading experience if you try the episodes in their chronological order:
(i) The Education of Mycroft Holmes
(ii) Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree
#
#
Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol
Chapter One
Back to School – Setting Events in Motion – Death of a Friend – Level Two, Active – Fraudulent Behaviour – An Unwelcome Bequest – The Union Bar – Lethal Choreography – Maurauder – Summer Thunder.
#
#
It hadn't taken very long to disencumber herself from the trappings of Deanship. Sighing quietly as the last box of papers was sealed up and bundled off towards its new home, Cate looked around her old familiar office in Gower Street and decided she needed some fresh colour and new art. Also, her desktop computer had seen better days; her laptop hadn't been the same since Bilbao, and her books were all getting just that little bit ragged. Looking at the rusty-coloured matting, Cate made a face. The carpet in here could do with a really good clean too. In fact, the entire office could do with a complete facelift. Opening one of the long windows overlooking Tavistock Square, Cate welcomed the cool, fresh breeze that flapped the blinds softly against the window frame. It was time for something new. New challenges, new students, new ideas.
And only one way to get things moving. Lining up a couple of empty boxes on her desk, Cate turned first to her books. Taking down only those she wanted to keep, she quickly filled the two and then added two more cardboard containers. But the rest of the shelves could go: she wanted space for fresh philosophies and unmarked thoughts.
Phoning down to the main student lounge, Cate advised she had a pile of texts going begging if someone would come and get them; otherwise, they would end up at the nearest charity shop. Receiving a promise that someone with a trolley would be up within the hour to collect anything she felt like donating to the student shelves, Cate also added all but one of her pieces of art to the pile. Though the office now looked a real mess, it also looked like a good beginning: nothing better than a little upheaval to make life interesting.
On the phone again, Cate asked the Premises people if she could arrange a particular cleaning for her office over the next day or so, citing all the recent changes. She'd be quite happy to offset any additional cleaning charges that might occur. Apparently, that wouldn't be a problem either: it would be done overnight, and, as long as she could clear out anything she wanted gone before she left for the day, the cleaning staff would cart away whatever else she wanted disposed of. Too easy, she thought, flicking through a somewhat ratty old copy of Barthes' Mythologies. She returned it to the nearest shelf.
A knock at her office door was followed by a head and shoulders curling around the doorframe.
"You called, Professor?"
Smiling as she recognised the voice and face, Cate lifted her eyebrows. Erik Norling looked about as Swedish as anyone could get, yet his broad London accent gave a clear indication of his birthright.
"You still here?" she asked. "Thought you were supposed to have graduated last semester?"
"Just taking an extra couple of courses to fatten up my application to Yale in the Spring,"
"And what's wrong with Cambridge?" Cate folded her arms and looked reproving. She had already advised Erik to try for Clare Hall, her old alma mater, "British not good enough for you, hmm?"
"It's dad," Erik shrugged. "You know he's got this thing about the States being the best place to do the corporate-finance stuff."
A faint image of a fierce, balding man danced on the edge of her memory. Cate vaguely recalled meeting Norling Senior at some student-welcome event. As Cockney as could be, Cate also remembered a surprisingly glamorous blonde wife – no guesses where Erik got his looks.
"Hi," A second head peered around her door. This one much smaller, equally attractive, and as dark as Erik was fair.
"This is Medina," Erik grinned.
"New girlfriend?" Cate perched on the edge of her desk. "Hello, Medina," she waved. "What are you doing hanging out with this wretched specimen?"
Stepping fully into Cate's office, Erik's companion looked shy.
"Hello Professor," she spoke softly as if worried a normal voice might cause offence. "Erik is my friend; he's helping me settle into the dorm."
Realising this was a new student and by the sound of it, not yet one of young Norling's conquests, Cate sent Erik a sharp glance.
"Are you going to be in any of my classes?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in a meaningful way as she gave the young Londoner a very old-fashioned look. In the epitome of innocence, Erik, feeling unfairly accused by Cate's stare, gave a theatrically extravagant shrug, waving his hands silently in the air as if claiming no part in his pretty companion's situation.
"I have enrolled to study a Master's degree with you by thesis," Medina smiled a little uncertainly. "I believe I am to meet with you in three days' time to discuss this."
"I haven't had an opportunity to check my meeting-schedule yet, Medina," Cate smiled at the dainty creature. "You're very likely correct."
"And in the meantime, Prof," Norling rested his hands on his hips. "You have some books you want to get rid of, yes?"
"And there they all are," Cate gestured to everything still on her shelves. "Help yourself to everything on that wall."
"You are giving away all this knowledge?" the girl looked surprised.
"A book is only knowledge if it has a reader," Cate said. "Far better it be in a student's pocket than on my shelf."
"You are very generous, Professor Adin-Holmes," Medina smiled.
"Don't be fooled, Medina," Erik looked sage beyond his years. "The Prof is as tough as old boots and is probably giving all these away to check if we can still read."
"Old boots?"
"Explain that, if you can," still smiling, Cate ushered the young pair off with the old bones of her library. God: it was good to have all this new space to start afresh. Sitting down at her desk, Cate began typing up a shopping-list. After a few minutes of indulging her inner bookworm, a second issue resurfaced in her head – ah yes – something she'd been meaning to chase up. It was the work of moments to type and send the message.
###
The first part of the email had asked her for advice on a new laptop. Apparently, her Boss' wife was following through with the conversation they'd had in Spain, and now Cate was ready to buy. Suggesting something easily off-the-shelf as the Asus Zenbook, Elly Ibarra offered to make a couple of software modifications that Cate would most definitely not be able to source commercially. She had also suggested one or two things Cate could ask the University IT people for if she was getting a new desktop PC in work.
The second part of the email was an altogether different thing. What Cate was asking was … unusual. Not illegal, or even terribly difficult, but definitely unusual. There was no immediate hurry for the second detail, but as a slight smile crossed her face, Elly Ibarra shook her head wondering what on earth Mycroft's wife was thinking of doing.
###
There was an unexpected letter for him in the morning's mail. Opening the slim white packet, John learned that one of his old Afghanistan mates, one Sean Lachlan, latterly a Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was dead. Not having kept up much contact with his old oppos since being discharged, John nevertheless felt saddened. He and Sean had been through more than a few hells together. Smiling at an old memory, John recalled that they'd caused a few upsets in their time, too. The smile turned into a grin at the remembrance of one particular night involving two bottles of highly illicit, knocked-off vodka and a bag of party balloons. Pressing his lips together, John reminded himself that on the sands of Kandahar, everyone learned to hang together lest they be hanged alone. And now his friend was dead. The letter gave very few additional details, except to say there would be a brief service at the church of St Giles in the Field on Friday morning. Making a note of the time, John knew he would attend. Everyone should be farewelled by a friend.
###
Seated behind his desk in Whitehall, Mycroft frowned as he re-read the brief report. One of the heirs-apparent to a branch of the ruling family of a small but immensely wealthy Arabic-speaking nation was enroute to London to inspect several of his property investments and to engage in some high-level purchases on behalf of his country's security forces. For anyone who knew anything, such 'purchases' usually meant an arms deal. Oddly, this particular regime usually favoured German suppliers, not British, thus it was intriguing to postulate why there might be a change in the wind, so to speak. Combining the political situation on the Arabian Peninsula with the profound economic wherewithal held by this specific family, Mycroft felt it advisable to keep a few additional tabs on this particular visit. It would not do for any mishap to overtake either the young prince or his princely expense-account.
"Level Two, Active," Mycroft's finger released the intercom button. It was done. The Royal guest would have a watching brief around him every minute he was on British soil. Protectors with sharp eyes and long ears.
###
Cate tasted the sauce. It was rich and fragrant with spices, but not so much that it overpowered the fish; a gorgeous black bream. Putting the vegetables ready to steam, she knew that Mycroft would be home very shortly. They were to have an early dinner as the concert would begin promptly, and she was not going to risk being late.
The sound of a key in the lock made her smile, perfect.
"Great timing," she called out at the sounds of a husband arriving home. "Dinner in ten."
A pair of arms wrapped around her middle as Mycroft's lips brushed the back of her neck.
"I could get used to this, you realise," he smiled against her skin. "A wife at home."
Turning in his arms, Cate had him taste the sauce. "I feel a large pinch of salt should be taken with that statement," she grinned. "Do not expect me to be the stay-at-home-wife for at least another twenty years, my love."
Wrapping her in a comprehensive hug, Mycroft Holmes inhaled his wife's perfume, once again cognisant of his good fortune. Cate matched him perfectly: everything about her; mentally, emotionally, physically, suited him. She could cook, too, although now was perhaps not the best time to share that particular observation.
"What time's the concert start?" he asked, checking.
"Set for seven-thirty," Cate said, sucking sauce from a thumb. "Why?"
"So I know we have time for this," Mycroft's fingers slid through Cate's hair as he turned her closer to him. "I feel I am being remiss in my husbandly duties." Smiling at her puzzled look. "I haven't kissed you properly since this morning."
Cate's breath caught as his arms drew her gently to his chest and his mouth found hers. For someone so analytical, and so icily controlled, she never failed to be surprised at the romantic streak he had entirely abandoned trying to conceal from her.
"You are such a fraud," she muttered as he ended the kiss. "You play hazardous games with dangerous people, and none of them have the slightest clue your core is pure marshmallow."
Maintaining his smile, Mycroft again touched his lips to hers. If Cate chose to think him better than he was, he would not deliberately spoil the illusion.
"Don't tell anyone," he spoke softly but in a very serious tone. "Or I'll have to have you thrown in the Tower to await my pleasure."
Laughing, Cate raised her eyebrows. "Your pleasure?"
"Oh yes," Mycroft sounded benign. "Definitely my pleasure."
"You'd keep me in the Tower for your own gratification?"
"I dare say you'd not find the ordeal unbearable," he suggested dryly. He smiled again at her mildly scandalised look.
"But it would be for your pleasure?" she turned closer in his arms, her fingertips resting along his jaw.
"I'd make certain of it."
At Mycroft's laughing expression, Cate was contemplative.
"Though charming," she prodded him, reproachfully, "you are a manifestly decadent man, Mycroft Holmes," she touched his cheek with gentle fingers, a soft look on her face.
"I am a British gentleman," he observed quietly, meticulously kissing each of her fingertips. "This means I am, by nature, both charming and decadent."
Struggling to keep her expression straight, Cate couldn't avoid a grin. "Fraud."
Pulling her tight against him once again, Mycroft smiled into her hair. "Remember the Tower."
The concert was Górecki's Symphony of Sorrowful Songs. One of Cate's favourites, the devastatingly plaintive holocaust lament cleansing all thought save that of the underlying meaning of the music and the ability of humanity to both destroy and redeem itself. Brilliantly orchestrated and performed, Mycroft found his wife unusually quiet on the return journey.
"Too sad?" he asked, gathering her hand into his.
"Too lovely," she sighed, leaning against his side. "I am never able to understand how such horror can beget such beauty."
Acknowledging to himself that this was frequently the way of things, Mycroft reflected upon his own role. Sometimes he was fortunate to witness the beauty of his country: the magnificence of an heroic gesture; the profound nature of individual sacrifice. More often though, he was called upon to deal with the meaner elements of the world: the cruelties and unfair realities. And yes: the horrors, too.
Tightening his grasp on Cate's hand, he pulled her closer to him, his arm falling easily around her shoulders. At least he could keep her safe.
###
The cleaners had done a good job, Cate noted, peering around. The place smelled fresher, the shelves were shining; the windows gleamed, even the marks left on the walls by her old art had been removed. The office was as pristine as it was likely to be. But now that she could see the actual walls, Cate realised it wasn't simply the old dust that had bothered her but the colour, too. Knowing any request to Premises for a re-paint would be met, at best, with an offer of the same colour or, more likely, some loud and extended scoffing noises, Cate decided if she wanted anything changed, she'd better do it herself. Realising the University authorities would have a fit if she told them what she really wanted; instead, she found the nearest paint-shop and rang them. Yes, they had those colours. Yes, they could deliver them this morning; roller and brushes as well? Not a problem. Payment by VISA? Fantastic. In less than ten minutes, Cate had organised a repaint of her office – it wouldn't be the first time she'd taken such matters into her own hands. She smiled. This was more like it.
In fact, as she looked at her watch later, the whole task had taken less than two-hours. Wrapping up the roller and disposable brushes in the cheap plastic drop-cloths, she stared around. From being a clean, though utterly boring university office only two hours prior, Cate smiled at her new beachside den. With two walls in a gentle green-grey wash and the other two in a cool, soft ocean-blue, the sandy-coloured Jute carpet blended into the gleaming off-white window and doorframes. It was already nearly dry. All she needed was a couple of new chairs and it would be a perfect place for contemplation and relaxed discussion.
Cate wondered how long it would be before Premises discovered her misdemeanour and took steps to correct it. Last time it had been nearly a year.
###
It always seemed to rain for funerals, John thought, as he stood uncomfortably at the back of the little church. There were only a handful of people in attendance: using Sherlock's methods, he'd worked out that the older woman at the front was not Sean's mother but probably an aunt or older cousin. One of the men near the front looked too young to have served as a contemporary to either he or Sean, but given the severe haircut and stiff stance, was likely a regimental representative. There were a couple of other unknowns present, including an odd-looking heavy across the aisle from himself. This guy looked like trouble: a nose that had been broken more than once, a visible scar above the left eye and what appeared to be a dent in the left cheekbone. Not the sort of man you'd want against you in a pub-fight, perhaps. Perhaps aware of John's scrutiny, the man turned his head in a stare that held no warmth whatsoever. Offering an amiable flicker of a smile, John returned his attention to the Vicar at the front.
In a very short space of time, it was all over. Sean's coffin was whisked away to the crematorium; Sean's aunty was assisted out the door by the young regimental subaltern, and the remaining few mourners headed for the main door at the rear. Letting everyone precede him, John emerged into the grey morning where a hint of sunlight glowed between the dark buildings surrounding the old church.
John sensed another person standing very close behind him. Turning, he saw the dark face of the man who'd stared at him inside. If the face had been unfriendly then, it was distinctly unpleasant now. Feeling his heart pick up speed, John slid his hands out of his jacket pockets. Just in case.
"Your name Watson?" the heavy asked. "John Watson?"
Breathing evenly, John looked calmly into a pair of mildly bloodshot eyes. Incipient liver damage by the looks of it, the doctor in him couldn't help but notice.
"Maybe," he said. "Who wants to know?"
"Friends of the departed," the man spoke softly.
"What kind of friends?"
"The kind of friends what wants their money back, is what," folding his arms, the man assumed a more stand-over position.
"Money?" John frowned.
"Money what is owed by the departed," Heavy nodded. "And what was stood guarantee for by one Dr John Watson."
He'd stood guarantor for a loan for Sean? Racking his brain, John thought back and back … There was something. A vague memory of papers being signed. But it was years ago. He'd almost completely forgotten about it. If Sean had taken out a loan back then, it couldn't have been much as neither of them were earning a lot, and he'd probably have mostly paid it off in any case.
"Yeah, maybe," John nodded. "Captain Lachlan owed you money?"
"Not me, my employer," Heavy pointed out. "And my employer cordially requests that Dr John Watson meets his obligations." Reaching out, Heavy gave John a thin brown envelope as he began to walk away. "No rush," the man said, a semi-smile vanishing as soon as it appeared. "Got until the end of the month."
Watching the man leave, John slid his thumb beneath the flap, opening it to remove the single strip of paper inside. It was his signature, alright. Next to an amount. His heart stopped.
Twenty thousand pounds.
He was guarantor for a loan of twenty grand. And he had until the end of the month to pay it.
###
"No," Medina was quite firm. "It is not possible for me to go to one of those places."
Erik Norling shook his head. He'd hardly consider a Union Bar one of 'those' places.
"But it's where everyone goes to have fun," he said. "It's a meeting-place for students, is all."
"But there is alcohol there," Medina was unflustered. "My religion does not approve of drinking alcohol."
"You don't have to drink alcohol," Erik made a face. "I don't drink hardly ever."
"You abstain from drinking?" Medina looked curious.
"Yeah," Erik shrugged. "It doesn't agree with me, more's the pity." He sounded optimistic. "Will you come?"
"As long as there is fruit juice to drink, and you are not touching alcohol, I will be happy to come with you," with her pretty features alight with adventure, Erik Norling smiled at his new companion. He'd better make sure none of the bad boys took a fancy to this little bird.
###
Moving the two rich tobacco-coloured leather chairs into several different locations, Cate finally settle upon a pleasing layout. She was content: a number of physical changes had been successfully carried off in only a few days; she was well on the way to settling back into her old job; her new students looked like an interesting bunch, and she'd even taken the extraordinary adult step of ordering a new laptop. After removing all her personal files and reformatting the hard drives, Cate had offered the old one to Student Services in case anyone needed parts. They weren't terribly impressed with it, she felt, but still.
Most of her new books had been delivered as well, and the luxurious scent of virgin paper filled her office. She'd replaced a good number of her old texts, and had indulged herself with an excessive splurge into several new authors, as well as diving deeper into the lives and loves of some of her more established favourites. There was a whole group of new theorists she'd wanted to get to grips with as well: mentally she rubbed her hands in delight. That the University was actually paying her to do this was sometimes still hard to believe.
There was one other major thing she wanted to get moving. Always active, Cate had fretted since she'd given up the more … physical part of her dancing, although she acknowledged in hindsight it was a probably a sensible decision. However, she was becoming a little jaded with sensible, and craved something a bit more on the questionable side. She'd already told Mycroft she was getting into Hapkido, and she was: she'd even had bought herself a set of white pants and jacket for the classes she was due to begin this afternoon. But she was also on the lookout for something a little less legitimate. When she'd announced she was fed up with being grabbed by anyone who felt they could, she was speaking the literal truth, but not the entire truth. Knowing how to use the complex Korean art would be a great place to begin her defence: but what she actually wanted to learn was how to fight. The events in Spain had made it very clear that if she wasn't able to look after herself, then nobody was. She didn't expect Mycroft to be around all the time, no matter his old-fashioned, though rather sweet idea that she was apparently to be located in the box marked 'The Gentle Sex'.
In fact, sitting down with all the other newbies in the dojo, Cate wondered if she could maintain interest in these classes long to set up a reasonable alibi for what she planned would be her real activity. Knowing full well that Mycroft would not be best pleased if – or, being realistic, more like when – he found out what she was up to, Cate hoped that, by the time he discovered her small peccadillo, it would be too late for him to complain. And, if she was really careful, it might never even be an issue.
Listless, she looked around. All anyone was doing in this group was learning to fall and roll, and she'd been doing that for twenty years, starting back when, as an undergrad at Clare College, she and several of her mad friends volunteered to make some parachute jumps for a charity gig. The jumps themselves hadn't been anything terribly frightening: one each at five, seven and finally at ten thousand feet. No: that had been relatively simple; the static line doing all the hard work as she flung herself out the gaping side of the turboprop Cessna. What had been the real problem; the thing that had given her bruises for over a week, had been the landings and falls. Damn those RAF trainers: Cate shook her head at the memory. She had jumped from increasingly intimidating heights onto hard mats for two days, over and over again, before they would even allow her to try on a parachute. It had been the most wonderful fun. She smiled a private smile. The Flying Officer in charge of their training had been quite a lot of fun too.
When it was her turn on the dojang floor, Cate dutifully demonstrated the star-leaps, the falls, and then the rolls. A little old Asian man, pretty much the same height as herself, came up to her and indicated she should do them again, so she did, bouncing easily up at the other side. Frowning, he made it clear he wanted her to do the same thing again, but faster, and with a slight shrug, she did. Looking at her carefully, he gently took her hand and led her around in a short circle. Before Cate realised what he had planned, she found herself being pitched smoothly into a forward summersault which would have had her flat on the ground had she not been able to transition easily into a forward roll and propel herself immediately upwards. Turning to look more closely at the old man, Cate gave him a suspicious stare.
"See if you can avoid my hand," he said, coming to stand in front of her.
"Avoid your hand?" Cate looked at both his hands: they were by his sides.
"Dodge," he said, swiftly thrusting out an arm, the points of his fingers stopping millimetres from Cate's shoulder.
"Oh, dodge?" Cate nodded. She rose slightly on her bare toes, her eyes wary for the slightest movement.
Fast as a snake, the old man stabbed out a hand at waist-level. Cate sucked herself in and bent like a reed.
The next strike was at her opposing shoulder. Arching herself backwards diagonally, Cate had to muster a one-handed backwards flip to avoid falling. She regained the vertical slowly, waiting for the next attack.
Smiling slightly, the man took a firmer stance, bracing his legs. To Cate, this spoke of a longer offensive: he was going to go for multiple strikes this time. Breathing slowly, she focused on his hands and relaxed, waiting.
The first hit was aimed at her shoulder, and she twisted easily away. Immediately, a second hand shot out at the other shoulder, and again, she twisted out of reach. The third strike was a kick to her thigh which pushed her off-balance and onto her bottom with a thud.
"You said avoid your hands!" she complained, back on her toes, already waiting for the next strike.
"I lied," the old man grinned. Standing upright, he bowed. "Come with me," he said, beckoning.
Leading Cate over to a smaller group, he told her to sit and watch. This group wore different coloured belts, she noticed, unlike her own which was plain white. They were pairing up and taking turns at grabbing each other's wrist, and stepping up and inside the arm, forcing their opponent into stillness, before rolling the hold smoothly over into a forward throw.
It looked a little complicated.
"Try the first part," the old man suggested, "here." Beckoning another woman across, he demonstrated what he wanted Cate to do. Smiling, the woman nodded easily.
It took her a couple of attempts, but on the third go, Cate realised exactly the right way to curve and twist up under her opponent's defence, while locking down on her wrist. She had absolutely no intention of following-through with the forward throw, when she realised she already had.
"Oh, God," Cate looked down embarrassed, at the woman sitting on the mat. "Sorry. I hadn't meant to do that."
"It happens," she smiled, accepting Cate's hand up. "Especially when you're in the zone."
"This is my first visit here," Cate shrugged and looked around the dojang. "Quite honestly," she muttered, "I have no clue what I'm doing."
"Your first visit and Kwan's already got you into throws?" The woman looked a little surprised. "You've done this before?"
Shaking her head, Cate looked around for the little Asian man. "Who is he?" she asked.
"Master Kwan? Only the guy who runs this place."
"Never met him before today," Cate shook her head.
"He must like you, in that case," the woman added. "I'm Joanne, by the way," she said, offering her hand.
Shaking it, Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Cate," she said.
"Here for self-defence?" Joanne asked.
"Self-defence and maybe more," Cate looked at the various activities around the big room. "It depends."
"More than self-defence?" Joanne grinned. "What," she made her eyes wide. "Combat training?"
Smiling, Cate raised her eyebrows and looked virtuous. Joanne stopped grinning.
"You're not serious?"
"Why not?" Cate watched a man and a woman attempting to rip each other's arms off.
"Only the armed services get that kind of training," Joanne narrowed her eyes. "Anything else is Hollywood."
"Then I wouldn't be able to do it, would I?" Cate smiled and nodded approval as a very large man was thumped to the ground by a boy who looked like a violin bow.
"That kind of fighting is dangerous," Joanne looked concerned, and Cate hastened to reassure her.
"It was a passing idea," she said. "I probably won't be allowed beyond neophyte stage in any case."
"If Kwan's put you in this group, he's trying you out for a red belt." Joanne looked sage.
"Red belt, meaning?" Cate took an interest in the coloured belts around her. There did indeed appear to be a surfeit of red.
"It's second only to black in ranking," Joanne looked peeved. "You sure you haven't done this before?"
"I swear," Cate lifted her hands. "The only thing I've really done a lot of has nothing to do with this."
"And what was it you did a lot of?"
Cate looked slightly embarrassed. "It was a kind of very violent dancing," she said. "Kind of."
"Ah," Joanne nodded as if something has become clear. "Look around and tell me what you see," she said. "It might help if you hum the sabre dance under your breath," she added.
Cate did. And she saw what Joanne knew she would see.
A great deal of violent dancing. Bursts of lethal choreography. Although perhaps Carl Orff's O Fortuna would be more appropriate backing. Or the shower scene music from Psycho.
Turning to her new friend, Cate's smile was sunny.
###
Three luxurious black Daimlers awaited the very private jet as it taxied to a halt at London's City Airport. The group of men debarking the plane shared many similarities: all in their thirties or forties; all dressed in conventional Western business attire, they were exceptionally well turned-out, and were all of Middle-eastern origin. Of the group, one was clearly the leader: a handsome man in an immaculate dark suit, he seemed to be wrapped in an air of authority. He gleamed.
The head of the surveillance team assigned for this particular task ensured that both audio and visual data were being transmitted back to the Ops room in Whitehall. They would miss nothing; not a gesture, not a word. There would already be translators at work on transcripting each and every spoken syllable. Face-recognition software had already identified all but one member of the group: the man located at the leader's right shoulder had not yet been categorised. Mycroft found this vaguely annoying.
"Do we have any idea of the composition of this Emir Talid cohort?" he asked quietly.
"Hassan bin Khalid has been the heir-apparent since 2009, sir," one of his Admins confirmed. "It's possible he's brought his father's military advisor with him for the trip."
A disquieting thought nudged Mycroft's brain. There was a name. It was not a happy name.
"Malik al Badour?"
Turning, the Admin advised they finally had face-recog of the unidentified male. It was indeed Badour.
A bleak expression crossing his features, Mycroft looked sour. Malik al Badour. Politician; General; Warlord. Marauder.
"Level One Active." With this man in London, he would take no chances.
###
Back in the sanctity of her quiet room, Medina hung up her jacket, smiling as she hummed the new song she'd learned tonight. It was a strange British song, with words that spoke of hope and glory. But everyone in the student bar had started to sing it at the top of their lungs, so Medina had tried to join in. It had been silly and fun and she had laughed at Erik's really terrible singing.
Her mobile rang. It was probably Erik checking that she was safe in her room, despite the fact that he'd conscientiously escorted her right to the very front door of the women's dormitory. Erik was sweet. She'd never met anyone quite like him before.
Answering her phone, Medina's expression changed dramatically. Her father's voice echoed around her room like the rumble of dry summer thunder. Assuring him she was fine and about to go to sleep, Medina agreed to meet him in the morning at The Dorchester for breakfast.
Ending the conversation with a thoughtful look, Medina bint Malik al Badour wondered what her father was doing in London.
