Chapter 1
A cold autumn rain tapped monotonously against the window, relieved only when a sudden gust of wind pasted parchment-brown leaves against the leaded panes, then tore them away again into the grey twilight. Mycroft Holmes alternated between looking out the window into the wild October evening, and glaring at the series of text messages that had just arrived on his mobile.
Dear lord, this was not something he wanted to deal with. Not now, not ever.
A man prone to losing his temper would have been cursing the air blue right now; Mycroft merely recited a heartfelt litany of "Shit. Damn. Oh, bugger it!" before carefully placing his mobile on the end table and taking up the tumbler of excellent Scotch whisky he had been enjoying before the damned texts arrived.
He rarely allowed himself the luxury of dismay; even the best of plans went awry far too often to permit fixation upon a singular, preferred sequence of events. What mattered was the outcome, always. Still, this was extremely unfortunate. Annoying, even, although he could hardly lay blame: Flesh was mortal, bones were not indestructible. . . Mycroft grimaced. Anthea would be difficult to replace, even temporarily. She was quite nearly satisfactory, both as a field operative and as a PA.
And she was currently in hospital with a fractured tibia. And –– damn the Turkish crisis! –– all his other top-tier operatives were on deployment, with insufficient time to be recalled before the mission tomorrow night: a mission that was in flagrant violation of diplomatic protocol, and so had to be executed with impeccable care. Mentally combing through the active personnel rosters, he concluded again what he already knew, that the only available operative he could fully trust with this was . . . Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow at his dim reflection in the stormy window, a silent salute. He was clearly going to have to re-activate himself for this –– even processing his own paperwork! –– and then pull one or two strings to wrangle an official invitation to the event in question. It had to be official: Security would be very tight at this affair, and for a change, none of it would be his. Once in attendance, the mission required identifying the target and getting close enough to apply the tracking micro-dot to their skin without detection. An absurdly simple task, really, although it would require considerable finesse, and it was absolutely imperative that the target remain unawares. It might even have been an interesting diversion, a little challenge, if the circumstances weren't so odious.
He crossed his arms, one hand fingering the solid tweed of his suit jacket, the other still gripping the cool tumbler, and noticed his rising resentment which was, of course, fuelled by anxiety. Mycroft was all too aware of the quirks and glitches in his own personality, but awareness did not necessarily keep them from painfully manifesting from time to time. In an effort to calm himself, he focussed his gaze into the window, a perceptual discipline of seeing his reflection, the view out the window, and the glass itself at the same time: holding both the immediate and the far distance in the same moment. God, how he loathed parties. It took intense concentration and no small degree of skill to interact successfully with even a few people. Large groups were taxing to the point of being painful. And a festive gathering, with drunken fools and gibbering idiots drooling their self-importance ––
He closed his eyes and shuddered. No doubt about it, this was going to be an unpleasant mission. Even worse was the fact that this was no ordinary gala dinner. No, the American embassy needs must inflict their cultural dystopia on all and sundry, debuting their new ambassador with a Halloween party. Mycroft's mouth quirked disdainfully as he raised his glass to savour the smooth smokiness of his Islay single-malt.
American Halloween: A solemn Celtic Pagan festival of death and endings, shipped across the Atlantic to fester and mutate for a century or two, and then shipped back again to infect British culture with kitschy smiling pumpkins and green-faced hags. Dancing skeletons. Fright nights and haunted mansions. And, fancy dress parties.
Mycroft picked up his mobile to scowl once more at the final text from Anthea:
Also, fancy dress is not optional, you will have to wear a costume. I'm sorry, sir, but it's to be a Harry Potter gala.
What the devil, Mycroft wondered, was a Harry Potter?
Chapter 2
The bulk of Mycroft's time the next morning was spent, as it often was, evaluating the latest batch of critical intelligence reports from the Middle East. The situation in Turkey was still extremely delicate, but his best people were on the job and there was really no cause for worry –– yet he still worried. His personal attention to each minute detail was probably excessive, but it made him feel better.
A few hours into it, he took a quick, relaxing break and attended to his reactivation paperwork over a cup of tea. It was beyond him why Anthea always moaned about any sort of paperwork. Boring, she said, although Mycroft personally found great pleasure in filling out complicated forms just so, everything in its place.
It was late morning before any time could be spared for a visit to the fancy dress shop. Mycroft could have simply ordered up a hire online, but he refused to go slopping around in something that hadn't been properly fitted to him, even if it was just a costume. As his driver wove through the infernal London traffic, Mycroft made use of the time to study the dossier of this evening's target. Flipping through the slim file creased his forehead in a frown, just as it had the first time he had read it –– but now he was evaluating the information as an operative, not an administrator. He held up a photograph from the file, thoughtfully.
The target was one Amelia Duffy, an elderly American woman . . . not exactly a sporting challenge. Her profile placed her at 83 years old, although in the photograph she appeared slightly younger than that, the sort of spry dowager that a flatterer might call "still quite handsome."
Really, this wasn't much of a mission, was it? Any buffoon could tag such an old lady, it didn't require an operative of his skill or experience. It was only the delicate nature of the mission that prevented him from delegating it last-minute to any adequate minion –– even one of the Diogenes' ancient butlers could probably handle it quite nicely, and if Anthea had troubled to be just a bit more careful. . .
Once more, Mycroft reined in his resentment, and concentrated instead on building a useful psychological profile from the bare bones of the dossier. Duffy was a retired academic who had spent the bulk of her career at a very minor American university, lecturing in comparative literature with a specialty in theatre. She was published, of course, but nothing of any significance. Never married, no indication of a partner or long-term companion. She travelled a great deal, frequently attending scholarly conferences, with extended stays in various world capitols. No children, no siblings, few relatives; her online social network seemed comprised solely of academic colleagues.
Mycroft considered. A lonely intellectual such as this should be easily distracted with some attention and charm, especially if he cast an eye over some of her published work and complimented her on it. Obscure scholars were always eager for recognition, and elderly women were often desperate for attention. He frowned more deeply and tossed the dossier onto the seat beside him, drumming his fingers on the furled fabric of the umbrella that lay across his knees.
There remained several troubling, unanswered questions about this Professor Duffy, questions that warranted tracking her movements: What was an insignificant elderly academic doing as a diplomatic attachée? Were MI6 correct in identifying her as the source of the latest spate of leaked U.S. intelligence documents? And, if this were indeed the case, why weren't the Americans doing anything about it? The leaks could be intentional, of course, but, then –– why send this frail-looking woman out into the field?
The latest intel suggested that she was scheduled to fly to Istanbul directly after attending the embassy gala tonight; intel also suggested that some of the most militant insurgents in Turkey were eagerly anticipating her visit. Mycroft could hardly believe that the American intelligence community were ignorant of these facts, but he couldn't exactly sit down with his counterparts over a brandy and randomly speculate. That wasn't how these things were done; there had to be hard evidence to confront them with, and then their reactions and explanations could be evaluated.
Mycroft set his ruminations aside when his driver pulled up at the kerb. Umbrella in hand, he was out of the car as soon as it stopped, advancing briskly through the front door of the costume shop. He wanted to be done with this as quickly and with as little nonsense as possible.
Halting just inside, he pulled up with a sniff of distaste; the shop was awash with mannequins modelling fancy dress of every description, and long clothing racks filled with more of the same vulgar stuff. One entire wall was given over to dummy-heads bearing various wigs, masquerade dominoes, and fright masks. At least there was very little in the way of Halloween kitsch; the only concession to the aesthetic of the season was a maze of imitation cobweb stretched across the ceiling, with a huge, furry spider grinning toothily from the middle of it.
The proprietor hurried over immediately. He was a short, unctuous man wearing an elaborate Italian Renaissance costume, replete with an anachronistic épée de cour at his waist that nearly dragged the floor, and a plumed cushion hat which he removed with a flourish, bowing awkwardly. Mycroft fixed the little man with his best steely-eyed glare, and brusquely outlined his needs for the coming evening; the proprietor took the hint and wasted no time in leading Mycroft over to a section of the store that seemed largely given over to a theme of "Victorian rubbish meets 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks.'"
"And what might your favourite character be, sir? Dumbledore? Lucious Malfoy? Lord Voldemort? We have them all!" The costumer waved a hand toward a small army of mannequins bedecked in a motley of pseudo-Victorian gowns, mediaeval robes, and pointed hats, with a few grotesque rubber masks thrown about for good measure. "We have an extensive selection left in stock, although we might be a little short on Harry Potters in your size."
Mycroft still had no idea what a Harry Potter was, and, what's more, he was completely disinterested in finding out. If the ambience and costumes in this section were any indication, it most certainly was not his glass of tea –– but that didn't really matter, did it? Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his forearm for reassurance and swept his gaze around resolutely; there had to be something here that he could wear without cringing.
He was reluctantly contemplating a very oddly-cut but recognisable three-piece pinstripe suit –– accompanied by an unfortunate lime-green bowler hat –– when his eye fell upon something better; one of the mannequins sported a severe, plain black frock coat, topped with a silken black robe billowing dramatically behind. There was no silly hat, just an unkempt and longish black wig –– there was something about the combination of severity and drama that was . . . compelling.
"That one," Mycroft gestured toward the mannequin in black. "I'll have that one."
The costumer burbled on about the Potions Master being a popular favourite, and so dignified, an excellent choice for a gentleman; Mycroft agreed with a simple, smooth, "Yes, of course, quite," and directed the conversation to having the costume fitted and altered in time for the event that evening.
Mycroft had arranged for the costume to be picked up by a minor aide and delivered to his below-ground office at the Diogenes; he was pleased when it arrived in a timely manner, just after he finished conferring with the technology advisor about the tracking devices. Dr. Kubara had brought down everything she had on hand in the way of trackers and arrayed them across Mycroft's desk, like a peddler proudly displaying her wares.
After some deliberation, he chose three that were essentially all variations on the theme of a tiny, sticky dot barely bigger than the head of a pin. He looked wistfully at the internal capsule tracker, as that was the most efficient and foolproof, but it would also be the hardest to administer. He vaguely remembered that, many years ago, their housekeeper had concealed medication for his brother's ailing dog in lumps of cheese; however, that didn't strike him as a workable approach for this mission.
The tech advisor gathered the remainder of her wares and wished him good luck, and Mycroft locked the door behind her to turn his full attention to his costume. The shop's tailor had done a reasonable job of letting out the jacket sleeves and the trouser legs; it wasn't the best work, but acceptable given the short notice. Shrugging his shoulders around in the jacket as he buttoned it up, trying in vain to get it to settle on properly, Mycroft realised that it had been too long since he had worn anything but bespoke; nothing less was ever going to feel like a proper fit. It didn't help that the fabric was an abominably cheap and coarse synthetic blend.
Really, the cape-like black silken robe was what redeemed the whole ensemble. He flapped it around a bit, looking at his reflection in the mirrored panel beside his desk, then impulsively tried a full spin to see it swirl. Mycroft knew he was not a graceful man––not like Sherlock, with his enviable proprioception and fine balance––but the effect of the robe as it billowed like a black sail behind him was still very pleasing. He tried different poses and movements, admiring how it looked, then stopped and rolled his eyes at himself in disgust. He was going to become as vain as his little brother if he wasn't careful.
There was more to the costume; two smaller boxes had been delivered as well, and Mycroft opened the larger to find a black wig. Ah. Grimacing with displeasure, he fitted it on his head and tried to arrange the long strands to not fall into his face –– although they did so anyway, as that seemed to be what the wig was designed to do.
The other box was long and narrow, and contained a . . . plastic stick. Cast in a hard, black polymer with decorative carving on the thicker end, Mycroft estimated it to be nearly 32 centimetres long, with a weight of approximately 750 grams. Obviously a prop, it was too short and light to be an effective weapon, too long and heavy to be an orchestra conductor's baton. . . quite well-balanced, though, with nice heft. . . . Oh, a magic wand; of course. Apparently Potions Masters also used magic wands. Lovely.
Mycroft slid the wand into the attached black fabric belt at his waist, and faced the mirror to evaluate the full effect of the costume. It was . . . absolutely ridiculous. He hadn't felt this ridiculous since –– well, since that business with the Christmas jumper. He always had a hard time saying no to Mummy, especially when she had her heart set on something.
Unlike the Christmas jumper incident, however, there ought not to be any witnesses tonight that he was personally acquainted with; indeed, he had inspected the guest list just a few hours ago, and there were only three dignitaries out of the 227 persons invited that he could say were likely to recognise him, and he could easily avoid all of them. His low profile within the government was, generally, a distinct advantage.
Mycroft tugged at the high cleric-type collar on the jacket, trying to seat it comfortably, until he realised that it wasn't so much uncomfortable as unfamiliar; then he deliberately smoothed it against his neck, dismissing the choking sensation, and turned to his desk to organise the tracking devices. He arranged the tiny containers carefully in his trouser pocket so he would know, quickly and by feel, which was which. Each variant would be useful in a different scenario, and it was impossible to predict which opportunity would present itself. He pocketed his identification and his mobile phone as well, although that spoiled the line of the trousers –– why were there no pockets in the jacket? Nuisance –– and looked longingly at his umbrella, casually hanging from his filing cabinet. He gladly would have exchanged the silly magic wand at his waist for his familiar and useful umbrella, but it simply was not part of the costume.
With a sigh, a final look in the mirror, and one last swish of the robe, Mycroft was out the door and stalking down the corridor toward the car and driver that awaited –– discreetly –– at the back entrance of the Diogenes. During the brief ride to the American embassy, Mycroft occupied himself by running mental simulations for several possible mission scenarios, and did his best to avoid any thought of the noisy and irritating throng of humanity that was going to be annoying him shortly. . . .
Security at the embassy was tight, as of course it should be these days. His identification was inspected no less than three times, and he had to submit to being security-wanded and given a quick pat-down before being allowed to enter the main ballroom; Mycroft paused for a moment just inside the doors to gather himself, eyebrows raised at the view. The grand ballroom had been decorated to resemble a fanciful mediaeval castle, with the addition of dozens of what appeared to be blazing, grinning jack-o'-lanterns suspended in mid-air overhead.
A stout man in satin brocade robes, velvet pillbox hat, and a long, white false beard stopped beside him to comment, in a thick American accent, "Well, they've certainly done it justice, haven't they? Gone the extra mile, just like you have, Mr Holmes." His shrewd, dark eyes raked over Mycroft's figure. "Nice outfit."
Mycroft concealed his ire at being noticed –– so quickly! –– by appropriating a glass of champagne from a passing tray and making a show of sampling it. This was a mistake, of course, since the instant the champagne hit his tongue he knew it was that horrid yellow-labelled, non-vintage monstrosity, as ubiquitous as it was atrocious. Swallowing with difficulty, Mycroft choked back an expletive and waved the champagne flute nonchalantly at the decor. "It certainly is a most unusual theme for a gala to welcome your new ambassador, Mr. Thicke."
Inwardly, Mycroft fumed: What the devil was William Thicke doing here? As the American embassy's chief intelligence officer, he certainly had every right to attend, but, like himself, Thicke generally was notable for his absence from such affairs. Mycroft found his presence unsettling, to say the least.
The American looked around the ballroom at the guests milling in their finery. "Yes. Unusual," he agreed noncommittally. "Will you be staying for the formal speeches?"
"Of course." Mycroft matched the other man's careless tone, and upped the ante with an eloquent shrug.
"Then I'll introduce you around afterwards," Thicke answered absently, distracted by something near the chamber orchestra who were tuning up in the far corner and fussing with their plumed masks. He shifted around slightly to indicate that he wanted to move on, and added, holding out his hand, "It's a rare pleasure to see you, Mr. Holmes."
"Likewise," Mycroft murmured, complying with the proffered handshake, then watched the American move away purposefully through the crowd. There was definitely something afoot here tonight, and he fervently hoped it had nothing to do with Professor Duffy.
Well, he would do what he could to make this appearance as brief as possible and spare himself the annoyance of being 'introduced around.' Mycroft slipped into the crowd, focussing single-mindedly on his target. He didn't know which costume she might be wearing tonight, but he doubted it would be one that obscured her face. Full masks were uncomfortable, and seniors generally valued their comfort.
Intent as he was on the hunt, Mycroft still sensed the touch on his elbow before it actually happened; he whirled around, glaring. Who ––?
The young woman under the big, bushy wig shrank from his outrage, actually taking a half-step backward, and clutching a large soft toy in the shape of a ginger cat in front of her like a shield. "Oh, oh, Mr. Holmes!" she stammered out. "I just thought . . . I wasn't sure . . . I didn't know you were here, too!"
As he took in who it was, cold dread knotted up in the pit of Mycroft's stomach, sour as the champagne that still sullied his palate. "Dr. Hooper," he intoned, then closed his eyes as he asked, in agony because he already knew the answer. "Why are you here?"
"The same reason you are, right? I'm here to help Sherlock, of course."
And just like that, thought Mycroft, the evening turns from difficult, to hellish.
Chapter 3
"No, Dr. Hooper, I am not here to help Sherlock!" Mycroft allowed a fraction of his vast annoyance to show. "However, would you be so kind as to describe his costume?"
"Oh! So you can go find him, of course . . ."
"No, so I can more easily avoid him."
"Oh!' Dr. Hooper repeated, her slender fingers burrowing nervously into the fur of her ginger cat. "Well, he's come as Harry Potter, who else, right?" She smiled uncertainly.
Mycroft sighed. "Describe it, if you please?" Why was it so difficult for people to answer the question they were actually being asked?
"I guess you're not a fan, are you? Although even, you know, not-fans are kind of excited, what with 'Deathly Hallows' coming out next month, at least the first part of it. . . " She paused for him to voice agreement, but Mycroft answered only with the flat smile he reserved for dealing with stupidity, and waited.
Dr. Hooper cleared her throat. "He's dressed like me," she said, fluttering the wide sleeve of the black robe she wore over some sort of school uniform. "Only a boy, of course!" A quick smile twitched across her face. "He's wearing big, round black spectacles, and I painted the scar on his forehead with my pink lipstick . . . he didn't need a wig, his hair is near enough when it's tousled a bit . . . he might be over there, it's hard to tell with so many Harrys here tonight . . . ."
As Dr. Hooper described Sherlock, Mycroft noted that the muscles of her face responsible for smiling were strongly activated –– although inhibited –– her respiration increasingly elevated, and her cheeks progressively flushed. Conclusion: she was infatuated with his brother. Interesting.
The girl started to prattle some more while she craned her neck around to locate Sherlock in the crowd, but Mycroft had no further interest in his sibling's antics at the moment. "Thank you, I'm sure you've been quite helpful," he interrupted with a polite smile, and strode away into the chattering throng, handing his unwanted glass of champagne to a passing server without comment.
Not for the first time, Mycroft contemplated the fact that London was not nearly large enough. He liked to keep a weather eye on Sherlock, of course, and having him here in the city facilitated that, but it also meant that he was all too frequently underfoot.
Mycroft was especially keen to avoid contact with Sherlock and his minions tonight, further fuelling his determination to complete his mission and get out of here as quickly as possible. Stalking through the room like an impatient storm cloud, Mycroft blotted out as much of the roar of information from the surrounding humanity as possible, concentrating on the singular face that he was looking for.
There. The target stood alone by the podium, her wizened face shadowed under the wide brim of a cartoonish black witch hat whose tall point was crumpled and crooked. She wore an emerald-green velvet robe over a simple long, black dress, with an ornate silver brooch at the throat of her high-necked collar. She held a champagne flute in one gnarled hand, and the other rested on the burnished silver handle of a well-worn wooden cane. Mycroft stopped at the buffet table nearby and appeared to consider the offerings spread out on it as he studied the target from the corner of his eye, watching her pensively regard the array of national flags behind the podium.
He quickly evaluated and discarded half a dozen possible approaches. Since she was not surrounded by a crowd, he could not mingle in and manage to brush against her unobtrusively, nor could he feign a clumsy pratfall. He watched as the target flicked her sleeve up, checking the time on a silver dress watch adorning her bony wrist. She was not here at her leisure, then; either she was waiting to meet someone, or she was counting the minutes until she could reasonably leave this gathering without giving offence. In either case, it meant that he had to move quickly, and decisively.
It was his least preferred option, but the circumstances dictated a social approach, engaging the target directly in conversation and creating a bond of trust that would allow him close enough to do something gentlemanly; perhaps offering her his arm or somesuch. The best location for the tracker dot was the nape of the neck, and the woman fortunately had her silver hair swept up tidily under that ludicrous hat. The only difficulty he saw was in getting close enough to apply the tracker without raising her suspicions.
On the other hand, Mycroft reminded himself that she was an American, and thus congenitally over-friendly. It ought to take very little to ingratiate himself with her.
It took just a few seconds for him to decide upon a course of action and compose a script for himself; he was smoothly closing the distance between the buffet table and the podium when a huge, hairy creature abruptly thrust itself in his way, whispering, "Great costume, but what the dickens are you doing here? Sherlock never said you were coming along to help!"
Mycroft stared, grinding his teeth. If he had been armed with his umbrella –– instead of the silly plastic stick in his belt –– he would have been tempted to employ it vigorously. As a cudgel. The shaggy mound confronting him was occupied by another of his brother's accomplices, Detective Inspector Lestrade, his dark eyes peering out through a grizzled thicket of false beard and wig. "You know, I almost came as Snape myself, but Molly thought Hagrid suited me better. What position has Sherlock assigned you? I thought we had all the exits covered already. . . ."
Mycroft hissed softly, "I'm. Not. Here. To. Help. Sherlock!" And, with a deft and disdainful swish of his robe, he dodged around Lestrade to continue toward the podium.
But the target was no longer there. Mycroft paused, quickly scanning the vicinity, and spotted the tall, crooked hat and green robe gliding away. He followed, but circling wide so as to intercept her as she helpfully went through the more crowded parts of the room, creating the opportunity for him to mime a clumsy bump into her from behind and apply the tracker as he steadied her and made his profound apologies . . . .
Except that when he circled around to where he had calculated his quarry would pass, she wasn't there. Mycroft paused, vexed, then realised that she had cut across the dance floor and was on the other side of the room. He studied her movements from his peripheral vision. Why had she gone over there? And how did she move so fast? According to her dossier, she had an arthritic knee which often gave her pain, yet the woman glided along like there were wheels under that long black skirt.
Mycroft studied the old woman's body language for a moment, just to make certain that she wasn't aware of his intent and leading him a grand chase; however the only thing he could discern from her was boredom and restlessness. She wanted to be here even less than he did. She was not alert or nervous or even the slightest bit tense, which meant that she was totally unawares. Good.
Readying himself for the third and final attempt, Mycroft threaded his way across the dance floor in the general direction of –– but oblique to –– his target, who stood alone, leaning both hands on her cane and watching the couples on the dance floor sway in their motley.
As he meandered slowly nearer, careful to never look directly at her, Mycroft slipped a hand into his pocket to be certain of the specific tracker that was wanted for the job. It was ready, he was ready, contact in 25 seconds . . .
"Mycroft. Interfering again?" Sherlock's accusing tone was far louder than it needed to be, and Mycroft whirled around, black cloak billowing behind him.
"Interfering?!" He had had enough, simply enough. "What could you possibly be doing that would be important enough for me to interfere with?" It was really no surprise that Sherlock had found him and decided to make a scene; his brother was so ridiculously dramatic.
"You hate parties, Mycroft. You especially hate fancy dress parties. You loathe Halloween. So why else would you be here?"
Always, always it was about him, wasn't it? Mycroft sighed conspicuously. "It's a diplomatic function, Sherlock. You might recall that I do hold a position within Her Majesty's government."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes behind the enormous round spectacles of his costume. "As a minor civil servant, as you like to say. Not a member of the diplomatic corps."
Mycroft crossed his arms and glowered, still keeping one eye on his quarry; the woman remained enthralled by the waltzing witches and wizards, she hadn't moved an inch. "I owe you no explanations, Sherlock. I'm here in an official capacity. You, on the other hand . . . "
". . . . are also here in an official capacity."
"Oh, really?" The way Sherlock carefully, subtly oriented himself away from the ever-present American security guards belied that; he clearly was here under false pretence, which meant that Mycroft could rather easily have him removed –– although the pleasure of that had to be taken in balance with the inconvenience of getting the charges dropped and the whole affair redacted later.
"Really, Mycroft. So, I would take it as a personal favour if you could stay out of my way. In fact, leaving right now would be an excellent idea, if you could bear to tear yourself away."
"I think not."
Sherlock shrugged and adjusted the ill-fitting spectacles on his nose. "Then stay. Although you may wish that you hadn't." Doubtless in order to ensure that he had the last word, Sherlock abruptly turned on his heel and moved deeper into the throng.
Mycroft considered, then dismissed the veiled threat; clearly Sherlock was still in a pique over their little fracas last month. Mycroft remained a bit cross about it himself –– showing up at Buckingham Palace in nothing but a sheet! Like an insolent, arrogant, disrespectful child . . . .
Well, whatever deviltry Sherlock and his accomplices had in mind, it wasn't Mycroft's problem at present. He glanced casually over at the slight figure robed in green, not ten meters away, and watched with an inward groan as she glided away once more, this time toward a service door that lead toward the kitchen. Why was she headed toward the kitchen? Mycroft followed at a careful distance, alert and increasingly curious.
He saw the tall black hat with the crooked point nod graciously to a man in a schoolboy uniform and ginger wig who stood by the door, unconsciously at parade rest; it was Sherlock's Dr. Watson, Mycroft noted with distaste. Did Watson know this woman? It was hard to tell from a distance if the exchange of nods was familiarity or courtesy. In either case, Mycroft was pleased to see her stand by the service door to have a chat with Watson. If they were acquainted, then that would make Mycroft's mission blissfully easy. If not, then at least the doctor could serve as a distraction for the three seconds it would take for Mycroft to secure the tracker.
He was almost near enough to overhear their conversation when the service door swung wide, and a young man bearing a large platter of cheeses came striding out –– and ran his face straight into the stiff point of the old woman's broad black hat. Blinded and off-balance, the youth tripped over the old woman's trailing emerald robe and spun, staggering, under his platter until the plates, cheeses, and youth all came loudly crashing down.
Mycroft felt something soft strike against his knees, and looked down in dismay to see clumps of white veined with brilliant blue spattered across his trouser legs. The mingled smells of many well-ripened cheeses permeated the air as Watson sprinted over to help the young man back on his feet. Mycroft shook the Stilton from his clothing . . . and looked up in dismay. The target had disappeared again.
Several more staff came out to deal with the mess, and Mycroft quietly pulled Dr. Watson aside. "Are you acquainted with that woman in the green robe? The one you were speaking with just now?"
Watson shook his head, "No, I ––" then he did a double-take. "Mycroft? I didn't know you were coming to help Sher––"
Barely managing to restrain himself from actual rudeness, Mycroft grated out, "NO. No, I am not here to help Sherlock. I am here on official business, Dr. Watson, the sort that actually matters. Now, can you tell me where that old woman went?"
Watson looked thoughtful. "I'm not absolutely certain, but I thought I saw her going through that door toward the kitchen; I assumed it was to go and get some more staff to clean things up. Why are you chasing her?"
"I'm not," Mycroft replied brusquely. "I merely need to have a word."
Leaving Watson to his guard duty, Mycroft stepped carefully over the eye-stinging mess on the floor and pushed open the service door. The wide, brightly lit utility corridor beyond was unoccupied, although he could see and hear the bustle of the kitchen staff through the windowed steel doors at the end of it. Just before the steel doors was a smaller corridor going off to the right, bearing a small plastic sign proclaiming, "Staff Locker Room" with an arrow.
Other eyes would have missed it, but Mycroft was able to discern a regular pattern of faint, creamy white-and-blue smears on the immaculate tiled floor; a trail of small footprints, laid in cheese and curving to the right toward the locker room. The prints were closer together than he would estimate her normal stride, which meant she had hurried down that hall very quickly indeed. Embarrassment? Looking for a place to tidy up? Or was she fearful of discovery?
Mycroft cautiously followed the pale, almost imperceptible footprints past a locked supply cupboard and into a small changing room where a dozen lockers were lined up above wooden benches. The room appeared to be empty, and the prints finally gave out in the middle of it. Looking from various angles, Mycroft tried to pick up where the trail led further, but the damnable wig had begun flopping long black strands of hair into his eyes whenever he looked down, so he tore it off his head and stuffed it into his belt alongside the plastic stick.
The locker room proved basically to be an oubliette; there were no windows, no doors, no conveniently large ductwork. Only one way in and out, with the footprints stopping in the middle of the floor. No other clues.
Frustrated, Mycroft retraced his path toward the main corridor and the kitchen, and it was only after he was a full step and 1.5 seconds past the supply cupboard that he realised, with a jolt, that the door was now ever-so-slightly ajar.
Knowing it was too late, he swung around anyway and was not at all surprised to find himself staring into the business end of a very small, but very real, firearm.
Professor Duffy had removed her hat; her hair glowed like a bright pearl under the harsh fluorescent lights, and the same light glinted on the burnished silver pistol in her hand as she gestured toward the open door of the supply cupboard.
"Please be so kind as to step into my office, Mr. Holmes. I do believe you and I need to have a word."
Chapter 4
Mycroft had never been overly fond of fieldwork; it was nearly always a dangerous, messy, and inconvenient business, best left to those who enjoyed that sort of thing. Still, one could not lead where one had not first followed, so he had done his time in the field, and naturally done it very well. There had been some . . . interesting times.
But he had never, ever been held at gunpoint before; no adversary had ever caught him that unawares, least of all some elderly academic who was playing at espionage. He wasn't at all frightened, but he was extremely annoyed. He shifted onto the balls of his feet, calculating how to disarm her most efficiently and with the least amount of risk, evaluating her face for micro-expressions that would betray her nervousness and fear. . . .
. . . and saw with a shock that there was neither. This woman was no amateur, no soft fool; she was a trained, experienced killer, her clear grey eyes hard and utterly ruthless, her face still as weathered stone. Drawing a quick breath, Mycroft called up half a dozen verbal ploys to distract her and take command of the situation ––
"Shut up," she broke in before he could get out a single word. "One word and I'll pop you, just like that. Into the broom closet. Now. Hands on your head." There was no mistaking the menace in her gravel voice. The small pistol in her hand was only a .22 calibre, but in the hands of an expert, at this range, it would be almost certainly lethal. Entering the cupboard presented an unknown survival variable; refusing to comply presented nearly 100% probability of mortality. He placed his hands on his head and walked slowly into the supply cupboard.
The cupboard was small but not cramped; tall shelving on the left held folded stacks of table linens, chef's aprons, and towels; to the right were unopened crates of dry goods, with the back of the cupboard dedicated to cleaning supplies. Mycroft quickly noted and calculated the damage potential of seven serviceable weapons, although all of them were some variation of mop, broom, or dustpan. He wondered if Dr. Watson could be counted upon to notice that he had not returned. Very low probability there.
"Stop." He heard Duffy come in behind him, closing the door, then he felt the cold pressure of the gun barrel against the back of his head. "Now, what were you digging around in your pockets for out there, hmm? A nice poison dart, maybe, with a lovely little delayed-action payload? Something to simulate a heart attack, I bet. Stand still!" she ordered, deftly reaching around from behind to pat him down, delving his mobile and the tracking devices from his pockets.
"Well, you little shit. You were trying to do a brush pass and tag me, then?" She sounded nonplussed.
Little shit? Well, he was in no position to object. Mycroft commented wryly, "Terribly sorry to disappoint you, madam. Were you hoping for something more deadly?"
"There have been three attempts to kill me in the past two months. I'm a little jumpy."
"Extenuating circumstances, indeed," he agreed, with only a trace of snark.
Still pointing the pistol at his head, she moved to the side and gestured at one of the wooden crates. "Sit down, please."
Mycroft started to demur, since the matter of who was to sit and who to stand was not one to take lightly in a situation such as this, but she barked out, "Sit down, or I'll shoot you in the leg and make you sit down!"
Hands still on his head, he sat down slowly and somewhat awkwardly, hampered by the robe billowing around his legs, then ventured, "Madam, I ––"
Again she cut in. "I believe that the person holding the gun traditionally gets to do the talking, young man," she noted dryly, "And please don't call me madam; I've never run a bordello. I prefer to be called Professor." She sighed then, a long drawn-out sound. "This really complicates things. Damn. I wish I'd known . . . . "
Mycroft sensed an opening. "Please be assured that tracking you was my only objective, Professor."
She glanced down at the tiny containers cupped in her palm before slipping them into the side-seam pocket of her green velvet robe. "What were you planning to do with the information?"
"Pass it along to your government. What they chose to do with it then would be their own affair. For myself, I was rather hoping to discover if your . . . indiscreet dissemination of intelligence was deliberate or not."
She puckered a grim smile. "'Indiscreet dissemination.' Nicely phrased. And, yes, it's very deliberate. I am acting under the highest authority, although I don't expect you to believe that, and I have no way to prove it." She shrugged as if dismissing the matter. "However, I am very, very curious to know why you came out tonight to tag me yourself, Mr. Holmes. You aren't exactly a wild card, behaviourally speaking, and an event like this is not your usual habitat. You would only attend if you had an overriding reason, and I don't think it was to discuss my theories about Swedish literature."
Mycroft held his face and voice rock-steady. "You seem to think you know a great deal about me."
Her lips wrinkled upwards. "There might be a file. I might have seen it."
This was very disconcerting; a good deal of Mycroft's effectiveness –– and personal safety –– depended upon his relative anonymity. However, it was also entirely possible that she was lying.
"Although I didn't realise it was you until your brother called out your name," she admitted. "Be that as it may, you still haven't answered my question. Why are you here?"
Sherlock and his bloody theatricality! "If you overheard my brother and I, then surely you heard me answer that already. I hold a minor government position, and ––"
"Oh, for god's sake, Holmes, I'm an old woman and I don't have time for any bullshit! I know who you are and I know you're with the Diogenes, and I know about its role within the SIS, so don't, just . . . .don't."
Inwardly, he fumed. There had obviously been a security leak, and if he survived this, there was going to be a massive internal house-keeping; over one hundred and forty years of official non-existence was not something to let go of without a fight. Mycroft regarded his administration of the Diogenes as something of a sacred trust.
Outwardly, however, he kept to a polite skepticism. "The Diogenes is just a gentleman's club, Professor. My gentleman's club, to be precise, full of men who, like myself, are minor cogs in the machinery of the British Government." He made an indulgent laugh. "It does sound terribly exciting, the way you put it, but I am afraid I must disappoint you."
Professor Duffy shook her head, glancing at her watch with a frown. "This is pointless, really pointless. Very likely you are here because every other Diogenes operative is either in Turkey or Syria at the moment, along with most of our people as well. You know, sometimes I think the spies outnumber the civilians over there! It's getting ridiculous."
They regarded one another in silence for a moment. "Well, what now, Professor?" Mycroft prompted softly.
"What now, indeed," she mused. "It would really be a waste to kill you, young man, but I won't let you scratch my mission. We've worked for years setting up my reputation as a traitor, I'm not going to throw in the towel because you decided to be nosy."
That was a bit offensive. "It's not 'nosy' to protect the interests of an ally," he protested, nettled. "And who is this 'we' that you refer to?"
"Well, the Diogenes is hardly the only 'gentlemen's club' in the world with an interest in global affairs. Let's just say that I am a member in good standing of your American counterpart."
Mycroft called up his considerable mental list of US intelligence organisations, including all the black ops that did not officially exist. "And that would be . . . ?"
"In the old days we used to say, 'If you have to ask, you have no business knowing.'"
"Quite right," he agreed, almost smiling. It was something of a pleasure dealing with an old-school spy; he rather hoped he wouldn't have to kill her.
As if she had read his mind, the pistol in her hand shifted just slightly away from dead-centre aim on his forehead, and she sighed. "Mr. Holmes, I would very much like for both of us to walk out of here unharmed and able to go about our business; we are, after all, allies, and both of us have important work to be doing: You have a non-existent organisation to run, I have a group of angry and violent young men to lie to. Perhaps we could come to some agreement?"
Mycroft had revised his probability of survival upwards considerably when the Professor expressed reluctance to kill him; now he revised it again to virtually 100%. It was time to take control of the situation.
He rose confidently and held out an expectant hand. "You are quite correct, I do have important business to be attending to. If you would be so kind as to hand me your weapon, I'm sure I will be able to release you to go on your way."
The Professor took a step back, staying out of reach, and whipped the small pistol back to dead centre on Mycroft's forehead. "And if you would be so kind as to sit down and shut up, I'll consider not putting a bullet into your brain! Down! Now!" she growled; Mycroft slowly complied, frowning fiercely.
"Your arrogance is legendary, Mr. Holmes, but I had no idea, really I didn't! You need to do something about your attitude, young man, or someday someone is going to pop you simply because they've had enough!" she scolded. "Just because I hate waste doesn't mean I won't kill you, you know. And I don't even care about the consequences; there won't be any for me personally, because this trip to Istanbul is likely my terminal mission. It's time, I'm ready for it, and this mission is vital, far too important to take a chance on your theoretical goodwill and cooperation."
She paused and reined herself in with a dark scowl. "But damn it, I do hate waste. Put your hands behind your back, and your head down so your forehead is against your knees, please."
Mycroft was appalled. "You can't be serious," he protested, glancing at the rack of folded table linen and chef's aprons.
"Would you rather be tied up, or shot? We could go either way here, although just so you know, my preference is starting to shift a teensy bit toward shooting."
Grimacing with distaste, Mycroft did as he was told. He heard the rustling of starched fabrics being taken from the shelves, then felt an unpleasant pressure as she leaned a knee against the back of his neck, pinning him so she could momentarily put the gun down. The pocket in her robe would be the logical place, but how quickly could she retrieve it? Hand-to-hand combat had never been his forte, but he didn't doubt that he could hold his own against this frail, elderly . . . he paused. It was this line of reasoning that had landed him here to begin with; it had been over-confidence and, he had to confess, arrogance that had led him to take this mission on without backup of any sort. And now, well, although the probability of his survival currently stood at one hundred percent, unfortunately so did the probability of his humiliation.
He gritted his teeth and kept still as she cinched his hands together at the small of his back with expert knots, pulling the apron strings hard and tight. He would be able to free himself, but it would take a while, and it would be a race to escape before he was discovered. He immediately, subtly started to work at the bonds around his wrists the moment she moved down to tie his ankles together.
The Professor moved with unexpected grace, kneeling on the floor in her long skirts and robe. She tugged the knots around his ankles hard, then rose to her feet. "There. Sit up please."
When he sat fully up, Mycroft saw her take up a length of fine cheesecloth in her hands; he made a small, despairing noise that might have been something like a whine. He absolutely hated being gagged. "I don't suppose you could be convinced that that isn't necessary?" he asked.
Professor Duffy shook her head. "Sorry, no. I can't have you released too soon; it'll take you about an hour to get out of this rig, I think, and by then I'll be long gone."
Mycroft estimated forty-seven minutes, but he was not going to argue the point with her. As she twisted the cheesecloth into a narrow band, the Professor glanced down at his bound wrists with surprise. "You little shit! You've been working away at those already, haven't you? Goddammit."
Mycroft gave her a "Who, me?" look as she snatched up another apron from the shelf and set to reinforcing the wrist ties. "I'm sure I'm not to blame for your sloppy techniques, Professor," he baited. The more annoyed she was, the less attention she would pay to the knots.
"Sloppy? I'll have you know, you arrogant puppy, I've been trussing up ––"
When the door flew open it took them both by surprise. Mycroft and the Professor both started with a gasp, and looked up wide-eyed at the two figures framed in the doorway; Sherlock and his ginger-wigged John stood looking in, equally wide-eyed in their school-boy costumes.
"Mycroft?" Sherlock spoke first, his tone and expression conveying layers of query: Are you all right? What the actual fuck is going on? Do you need help? What. . .?! In the same moment, Mycroft felt the Professor lay one hand casually on his shoulder as she slipped the other into the pocket of her green velvet robe; she would not even need to withdraw it to fire with deadly effect.
The hand on his shoulder suggested the only option with an acceptable probability of Sherlock surviving: Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother with a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Can't you see that I'm busy, Sherlock?" he asked with every ounce of disdain at his disposal. "Whatever your little problem is, I'm sure it can wait."
The Professor tilted her head to look down at Mycroft, her face a pleasant blank. Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes, taking in the full scene and still coming up with question marks. John looked to Sherlock for interpretation, then back at Mycroft, sitting bound, and Professor Duffy, standing with a companionable hand on his shoulder.
"Mycroft is, ah, tied up, Sherlock. Should he be?" John had an unenviable talent for stating the obvious; Mycroft couldn't fathom how Sherlock tolerated it, but there was no accounting for taste.
Sherlock's eyes did not leave Mycroft's face. "Apparently so," he murmured to John, lips barely moving. His eyes flicked over to the Professor, then back to Mycroft, admonishing, incredulous: "Really, brother mine?"
"Go. Away." Mycroft rolled every bit of brotherly hatred he could into those syllables; just like old times. Very old times.
With a snigger, Sherlock swung the door closed as swiftly as he had opened it, and Mycroft could hear the two of them giggling and snorting like real schoolboys as they ran off.
Mycroft looked up at the Professor and remarked apologetically, "You were going to shoot him."
She nodded. "Yes, I was," and regarded him intently for a moment, then knelt and began to unpick the knots at his ankles. "You're never going to hear the end of this, you know. Not from the way those two were giggling as they ran away."
"Yes, I know," Mycroft sighed in resignation. "It doesn't really matter. Noblesse oblige and all that."
"Noblesse indeed. I had an older sister once, long ago. I don't think she would've done that for me." Her hands were more careful now, less hurried. "Does Sherlock know how lucky he is?"
"No. And it's better that way, believe me."
She looked up at him in surprise. "What, better for him to not know that you care?"
"Caring is not an advantage."
"Neither is isolation." She finished untying Mycroft's ankles, then sat beside him on the crate to untie his wrists.
There was no need to reply to such nonsense, so he didn't, although he felt curiosity stir on another matter. "It's obviously none of my business, but are you really going to Istanbul to die?" Mycroft asked.
"Very likely, yes," she answered quietly, delicately picking away at the tight knots with her fingernails.
"Why?"
"Why not? I've already far exceeded the average life span for an intelligence agent, and retirement isn't really an option for those of us who have known too much for too long. Is it, Mr. Holmes?" The Professor pulled the last of the ties away from Mycroft's wrists and stood up, taking the small silver pistol out of her pocket.
Mycroft stood up and rubbed the feeling back into his wrists, watching carefully as Duffy took up a stout wooden shaft from amongst the brooms –– the bottom of her cane, of course –– and fitted and locked her tiny firearm into it, barrel and chambers disappearing into the wooden sheathe, the grip becoming a burnished silver handle. She nodded at his admiring look. "My constant companion for the past twenty years, this cane," she thumped the silver ferrule on the floor. "A shielded core hides the barrel, workings, and spare ammunition from security scans."
"Very ingenious," he observed, "Although I've never been one for gadgets –– Well, except for surveillance devices. Information is my weapon of choice."
Smiling and digging in her pocket again, Professor Duffy laid Mycroft's mobile and his tracking devices on the linens shelf, and took down the broad-brimmed black witch's hat with the crooked tip that completed her costume. She paused, holding the hat in both hands. "Have you ever scratched a mission?"
"Never." It was, in fact, a point of great pride with him that he had never failed to accomplish an objective. The accomplishment hadn't always lived up to expectations, but he had never failed per se. "Until this one," he admitted.
"Well, we can't have that, can we?" The Professor smoothed the wisps of white hair at the nape of her neck upwards and looked at Mycroft expectantly.
Did everyone become overwhelmed with sentiment when they were ready to die? His great-aunt had, but he had thought it just another symptom of her dementia. No matter, he would take advantage of it anyway; Mycroft carefully placed the most sophisticated of his tracking dots on the skin of her neck just below the hairline . . . then, since it seemed the right thing to do, made a deep, courtly bow. "Good luck, Professor."
Professor Duffy curtsied in return, donning her hat. "And you, Mr. Holmes." She started toward the door, then paused and looked back. "Two small matters before I leave you: First, the woman your brother is hoping to corner and question tonight is indeed here, but she is a member of the orchestra, who are wearing masks tonight –– at Mr. Thicke's request. His covert security personnel also have strict orders to deflect everyone –– especially detectives and the media –– away from her. A word to the wise surely wouldn't go amiss there.
"Second, the Diogenes intelligence leak is most certainly not your fault, since it dates back to that . . . notoriously difficult situation in 1972. Just thought you should know."
As she reached for the door-handle, Mycroft called out quickly, "And, my file? Any words for the wise concerning that?" He would love to know how, and how much, her organisation knew about him.
"What file?" she smiled, mirth sparking her grey eyes, and quickly swept away with a rustling of skirts.
Epilogue
The next night was Halloween, Samhain, the Festival of the Dead, and Mycroft Holmes held up a tumbler of the well-aged and expensive Scotch whisky that had arrived on his doorstep this evening, with Sherlock's compliments –– accompanied by a note that managed to both thank him for his assistance last night, and childishly allude to his unsavoury enjoyment of very old things. Mycroft hoped that at least the scotch would be tolerably good.
There was no wild wind tonight, no tossing leaves, just the steady and cold drizzle of nearly-November. His mobile buzzed a text alert, and he pulled it from his breast pocket for a glance, although he hardly the needed the confirmation that the brief message offered; he had known since this afternoon that Amelia Duffy was undoubtedly dead, since her tracking signal had stopped moving and was no longer transmitting vitals.
The encounter with her had been . . . meaningful, but he wasn't exactly sure in what way or ways yet. There was quite a lot to consider: He was not as invisible as he had thought. There was an organisation in the US who were aware of the activities and history of the Diogenes, and considered themselves its counterpart. The 1972 unpleasantness had far more repercussions than anyone had imagined. And, was isolation necessarily an advantage? There was indeed much to consider.
Raising up his glass to the darkness beyond the window, Mycroft offered a silent toast to the Professor, and to all those who had known too much, for too long. The scotch was excellent.