Crossfire
Noun: Gunfire from two or more directions crossing the same area; used also to refer to a situation in which two or more groups are fighting with each other, catching non-combatants in the middle.
Author's note: I know I said this would be called "Level Up", but…the story took on a life of its own and the title just had to change.
Chapter One: Ambush
James Alexander, the Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State with responsibilities for counter-terrorism at the Ministry of Defence, sat forward to catch the Prime Minister's Eye. He was young, enthusiastic and rising fast in the coalition parties' opinion, but at the moment, he looked a little nervous.
"Yes, Mr Alexander? You want to raise a point under any other business?" The COBRA meeting in Cabinet Room A was coming to a close, after a tense discussion about the latest situation in North Africa. The Prime Minister was already thinking about his diary commitments for the rest of the day, but he didn't want to be rude to one of his government's most promising young men. So he listened.
"Sorry, sir, to be the bearer of bad news, but I think while we're all here, we do need to discuss what happened during that perimeter incident at Thames House two weeks ago. Having an agent killed and then thrown on the doorstep of the Security Services, well, there's been no follow up discussion, and the cock-up really needs to be considered here."
The PM didn't hide his confusion. "Haven't been briefed on that; is it urgent?" The PM looked down the table at the man in a three piece suit, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The PM then said to that same man, "Could you deal with the Minister's enquiry, please? I'm due at the French Embassy in…" he looked down at his watch, "…twenty five minutes. Won't do to be late; Entente Cordiale and all that, you know." He picked up his papers and made for the door. Two of the other six people in the room followed him out, but the other four stayed seated, curious about what would happen next. There were murmurs of quiet conversation.
Mycroft Holmes stood and impaled James Alexander with a stony stare.
"Minister." Silence fell in the room. "I think you and I need to have a word…in private." The words were impeccably polite, but had just the gentlest trace of menace beneath the surface. The younger man visibly paled, and then nodded. He stood up and reluctantly followed the older man from the room.
oOo
The first attack had happened a few hours earlier, during an early morning discussion in the office of the Cabinet Minister, thankfully vacant, apart from the Permanent Secretary.
"I'm sorry, Holmes, but he's got a real bee in his bonnet about it, and won't let it go. I'm going to have to tell him something. We've been raked over the coals in the House of Commons on the too cosy relationship between Number Ten and the Press. Now this blasted Jason Wright thing. I have to give him a straight answer. Did you or did you not invoke a D Notice to stop the papers from covering the story? "
Mycroft glared. "As if…"
The Permanent Secretary nodded. "Well, that's what I said. You of all people wouldn't need to stoop to such a blunt instrument, after all. But, did you speak to the editor of the Evening Standard about it? By God, if they did get a hold of the story of a London taxi dumping a body on the steps of Thames House, then I have no doubts that the Russian proprietor would love to have it splashed on the front page. After all, he was ex-KGB."
Mycroft just glared at the man again. "You know I hate repeating myself, Brian. Just think it through. Why would I need to speak personally to someone about this?"
The senior civil servant smirked. "I know, it's preposterous. That's what I said. But you know politicians; they just don't understand that you would never be so…unsubtle."
Mycroft put his cup of tea back down on the minister's desk. "So, you will manage your minister better next time, Brian?"
The Permanent Secretary smiled. "Of course; just giving you a heads up."
As Mycroft Holmes left the room, he knew that whatever words had just been exchanged, the truth was that a faint aura of fallibility now followed him down the corridor like a shadow. He was still thinking about that in the car, when his PA told him that John Watson had called, but said he'd deal with whatever it was he wanted to talk to Mycroft about. This provoked a sigh from the elder Holmes. He was having a bad enough day not to have to have his brother stir things up even more. "I'll return his call after the COBRA and liaison meetings, my dear. Unless he calls back, it can wait until then."
oOo
It was the third strike that drew blood. A meeting in the diary for weeks- the security liaison at the US Embassy in London came over routinely from Grosvenor Square for a regular round up over tea at 4pm with his opposite Number at MI6, and Mycroft was always in attendance. Only this time, when Mycroft walked into the usual conference room at Vauxhall Cross, he found the elegant figure of MI6 DG Elizabeth Robertson sitting where he expected an overweight middle-aged Deputy Head of London Station, and across from her was the Assistant to the US President for National Security Affairs, a prickly Texan, with whom Mycroft had crossed swords before. By his side was the Director of the CIA's National Clandestine Service, who had crawled off a red eye flight from Dulles by the look of it.
He nodded his greetings, as if he had been expecting them. "Elizabeth, Mr Donaghue, Stephen, to what do I owe the honour?"
It was Elizabeth Robertson who spoke first. "Mycroft, please have a seat. These gentlemen have a few questions that they feel need answering rather urgently. Something about one of our MOD codes going missing, and how it poses a threat to a joint operation that we've been working together on."
By the time Mycroft emerged from that meeting three hours later, the Americans' concerns had been assuaged, MI6's Director General was feeling a little more reassured, and on the surface, things appeared to have been smoothed over, and the meeting broke up with amicable smiles.
As soon as he was back in his government car, however, Mycroft's smile vanished, and if he held the handle of his umbrella with more ferocity than was needed, it was only his PA who saw it, and knew exactly what it meant. Her boss was rattled. Seriously. Deeply annoyed. Three strikes within a single day; it wasn't co-incidence.
"Is there anything I can do, Sir?" Her concern would be evident but not intrusive, as she kept her eyes on the blackberry screen.
There was silence in the car as it made its way across Vauxhall Bridge and up Horseferry Road. Finally Mycroft spoke. "Sherlock had better get well quickly, my dear. I don't think Moriarty will wait much longer for round two to begin. Has Watson called back again?"
She checked her phone. "No, sir. But surveillance reports that Dr Esther Cohen showed up at Baker Street just before 4pm, and hasn't left yet. Do you want to head there now?"
"Yes."
She leaned forward and gave instructions to the driver.
Mycroft did not speak again for the rest of the journey. That worried her more than almost anything else he could have done.