Chapter Two
Playing the Game – Thames House – An Interrogation – Conversation With a Russian - Safe As the Crown Jewels.
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For a second, Cate felt the room spin, as her breathing caught and a wave of giddiness swept over her. "Mycroft?" she whispered, staring at her husband's composed expression. "What's happening? Why are they saying these things?"
"Breathe, my love," he looked serious but not worried. "Call Sherlock and …" he hesitated, momentarily. "Perhaps you might want to call Peter, as well."
The only mutual Peter they knew was Peter Menshikov. The Russian Ambassador.
Mycroft arrested for treason and he suggests I call the Russian Ambassador?
"That'll do now, Mr Holmes," the leading overcoated man pulled a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, the intent clear.
"I assure you, those will not be necessary," Mycroft stepped close, wrapped an arm around Cate's shoulders and kissed her briefly. "But if you are adamant," he turned, both wrists held out for the steel.
"If you say they won't be necessary, Mr Holmes …"
"I feel though," Mycroft sounded incredibly reasonable, "that for the sake of your professional reputations, I must accept all custody protocols." He offered up his wrists again.
"But …" the man in the coat was clearly uncomfortable now.
"I insist," Mycroft's voice was silky.
With obvious reluctance, the handcuffs were secured.
"Shall I call our solicitors?" Cate couldn't believe this was happening. "Do you want me to find a Barrister? Is there anyone ..?" pressing a hand across her mouth, she deliberately stilled the ragged heave of her lungs.
"I will be away a little while until this situation is resolved," Mycroft took her free hand and looked directly into her anxious eyes. "There is nothing serious for you to worry about but everything must be seen to be done according to the rules, my darling. Do you understand?"
"Not really," Cate shook her head. "How can you expect me to understand something like this?"
Mycroft smiled strangely, almost sadly. "My dearest wife, you have a brilliant mind and will work it out, but it appears we must be accommodating until others," he turned and looked less-than-favourably upon the two MI5 operatives. "Are able to work it out as well. Kiss the children for me and tell them I'll be home soon."
"Will you be home soon?" Cate intended her voice to be strong and confident, but it refused to co-operate, emerging as a semi-whisper. To her knowledge, people weren't arrested for treason every day of the week.
"Sooner than some might expect," he smiled again. "I'll see you very shortly."
"Where are you taking him?" Cate turned to the man who had dared handcuff her husband, suddenly fierce with anger. "Tell me or I shall call the police."
"It will do no good, Cate," Mycroft's voice was soft. "I shall be fine," he scanned her worried face, memorising her features. "Don't let the children be upset."
Lifting his eyebrows in sympathy, the man in the dark coat gestured to the front-door. "Time to go, Mr Holmes."
Cate followed behind, watching as they all got into a large dark-coloured four-wheel-drive. Out of fear – this was the second time she'd watched her husband been taken away - the registration of LA13 HJT was etched in her mind. She would call Greg Lestrade as well as Sherlock.
The vehicle had not even reached the corner at the end of the road before she had dialled her brother-in-law's number. It rang several times and Cate felt a wave of dread at the thought she might have to leave a message.
"Yes?"
Thank Christ.
"MI5 have just arrested Mycroft," in her anxiety, Cate almost stuttered down the phone. "He told me to call you."
"When?" Sherlock had no use for pleasantries.
"They left thirty seconds ago."
"Did they say why they were arresting him?" the younger Holmes needed data.
Cate felt her chest tighten.
"They said it was for treason,' she husked, her throat tightening to the point of pain. The arrest had to be a mistake.
"Ha!" Sherlock's exclamation of laughter shocked her back to a sense of normality. "Shows they have absolutely no idea what's going on," he said. "Mycroft might well be arrested for any number of things, but treason against the State would not be one of them," he added. "They've made a dreadful error of judgement."
"Dreadful?" Cate felt her heart beat a little harder at that. It sounded terrifying.
"Dreadful for the authorities once they realise the enormity of their blunder and have to deal with my brother's displeasure," he snorted with laughter, then stopped when he realised Cate had fallen silent.
"You are alarmed," he said, realising. "I'm sorry. Don't be."
"How can I not be alarmed?" Cate's voice rose. "Mycroft's just been arrested for treason by two very grim-looking men from MI5! How the bloody hell am I supposed not to be alarmed!"
"Hold on," Sherlock sounded perfectly calm. "John and I can be there in fifteen minutes. Less, perhaps."
"Yes, come over and please explain to me why I should not be incredibly upset," Cate was glad the children were asleep. She was anxious enough herself without having to cope with crying babies.
"Make tea," Sherlock ended the call.
The traffic must have been forgiving that evening as the two of them appeared at the door in significantly less than the designated fifteen minutes.
"Thank God," Cate ushered them both in.
"Tea?" Sherlock followed her pointed finger and headed directly for the kitchen, as John rested a hand on her shoulder and inspected her face.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly.
She squeezed his arm, smiling wanly but shook her head. "Not really." Half of her wanted to weep and wring her hands. The other half wanted to go out and visit an inordinate amount of righteous violence upon whomever it was saying these terrible things about her husband.
Instead, she'd made tea and a snack, as she had a feeling she wasn't going to be eating anything for a while. She'd also called Mrs Compton to come over if she could, and, at the last minute, had called Greg Lestrade.
Nora Compton was entirely agreeable to stay over with the children for a few days and would be there within the half-hour. Lestrade had been enroute to the pub, but agreed to come around; cabs at this time of the evening would take twenty-minutes. Cate had given him the licence-plate of the car Mycroft and the men from MI5 had driven away in.
"Tea and toasted fruit loaf and cheese, biscuits and pickles," Cate nodded to the waiting mugs and plates. "I had to do something while I waited for you,' she muttered, sinking into a chair by the table, she felt her stomach roil with tension. John smiled gratefully and dived in. Sherlock poured himself a mug of tea.
"What do I do?" she asked, looking between the two of them. "Do I call our solicitors? Do I chase MI5? What?"
Grabbing the mug and a piece of cheese, Sherlock sat in the seat opposite and nibbled.
"I know you have a good memory," he nodded, waving the cheese at her. "But how well is it working tonight?"
"Reasonably well, I think," she sighed wearily. "Although I admit to feeling a bit frayed around the edges. Ask me what you need to know."
"Can you tell me exactly what was said both by the MI5 agents and by my brother?"
Taking a slow, deep breath and pushing her thoughts back twenty-minutes; Cate re-envisaged the scene as it unfolded in the hallway and the kitchen. She faithfully repeated every word and tone and nuance that she remembered.
"And Mycroft said exactly that?" Sherlock was insistent. "Everything must be seen to be done according to the rules."
"Yes," she nodded slowly. "Exactly that."
"Then Mycroft knows he's being watched and is playing with them," Sherlock sat back and looked thoughtful. "The question is, what is the game and who are the other players?"
The front door opened, and Cate heard Nora Compton's quiet call as she came in with a small overnight bag in her hand.
"Thank you for dropping everything and coming over, Nora, you are a wonder," Cate hugged the older woman. "There's a problem with Mycroft and I may have to be out of the house a fair bit. I need someone to be with the children."
"It's no trouble at all," Nora patted Cate's arm. "Is there anything I can do to help Mr Mycroft?" she asked, hesitatingly. "If there's ever anything, then you only need but ask, you know that, don't you?"
"You're part of the family and Mycroft and I both know that, Nora, but there's nothing except looking after the twins when I'm out."
"Right then," the housekeeper nodded. "I'll just pop myself up into one of the spare rooms, shall I?"
Almost immediately after Nora had gone upstairs, the doorbell rang, and Cate ran back to let Greg in.
"You okay?" he asked immediately, searching her face. Lestrade had become almost resigned that his life was inextricably bound up the Holmes line and treated their family emergencies almost as his own, these days.
Exhaling slowly, Cate smiled with a little more conviction. "I'm so glad you were able to come, Greg," Cate held the tall Londoner's arm and guided him along to the kitchen where he nodded an unsurprised greeting at Sherlock and John.
"So what the bloody hell's going on?" Lestrade accepted a mug of tea. "I checked that registration number you gave me on the way over and it simply says that it's a Crown vehicle and nothing more; not where it's registered or when, nothing. So that's not a lot of help, I'm afraid."
"It confirms that the British Security services are involved, though," Sherlock nodded. "None of the security service cars are registered beyond the fact that they're government, all the others usually have a departmental designation as well."
"I have no doubt that both the men and their car are exactly what they were made out to be," Cate rested her head in her hands. "I still don't understand why they might think Mycroft has committed treason. He's probably more loyal to the Monarchy and the State than Prince Philip, for God's sake."
Sherlock stood and touched a finger to her shoulder. "You know Mycroft is involved in all sorts of international negotiations and treaties," he said. "That someone wants him out of the way is pretty much par for the course in his job: he upsets a lot of people by doing the precise opposite of what they want him to do," Sherlock smiled slightly, looking down at his sister-in-law's tense face. "I'm somewhat surprised this doesn't happen on a more regular basis."
"That may be," Cate started to pace across the kitchen floor. "But it doesn't help me much right now," she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "I need to find out more information. Is there anyone obviously connected to MI5 that I can contact, or do I have to go about this in a less open manner?"
"What do you mean?" Greg folded his arms. "Less open?"
"Do they have a public number I can ring, or someone I can go and see? An office or something? Or do I have to use a private contact to find out what's happening inside British security?" Cate started to feel angry again. "Because I will," she stood up suddenly, a furious heat in her face. "In a heartbeat, if it lets me help Mycroft, and I don't much care who gets pissed-off in the process."
"I doubt you'll even be able to find him unless they want you to," Sherlock leaned back against the granite bench top. "Far less help him. MI5 aren't noted for their forthcoming manner."
"Then I need a way to make them tell me," Cate stood up to her full height. "And I think I know how to do just that."
"Going on Twitter to proclaim Mycroft's innocence might not be the most productive method," John attempted levity.
"All I need to do it make one call," Cate gave John a look. "But if Mycroft's being investigated for treason, it's odds-on all our phones are being monitored, and this is probably not a call he'd want to have logged, which is why," she strode over to a series of kitchen drawers, unearthing a small black box. "He made sure he always had some of these," she added, tipping half-a-dozen disposable mobile phones onto the granite counter. Picking up the first one, Cate rummaged in her bag, finding her own phone. Flicking to the contacts list, she keyed a number into the cheap plastic phone and hit 'call'.
Frowning, Sherlock looked at his sister-in-law, but she ignored him, waiting for her call to be connected. Oh please, answer the phone. Please.
A familiar booming voice offered a brief greeting, and Cate sighed in relief for the second time that night. Immediately launching into rapid and flowing Russian, she advised her subject of the reason for her call and asked if it were possible to meet that evening. She very much needed his advice.
At the sound of flowing Slavic vowels, John and Greg met each other's eyes with an identical expression, eyebrows raised. Sherlock frowned harder. Though his Russian was not as fluent at Cate's, he was entirely able to understand her conversation. She was speaking to a friend, a Russian, and she was asking for his help.
"Is that wise?" his lifted an eyebrow when she finished the call. "Your husband is arrested for treason and you immediately call the Russian Ambassador?"
"I told you it was Mycroft's suggestion," Cate rejected the implied criticism. "My husband has been falsely – you said so yourself – accused of treason; MI5 employees have taken him away in bloody handcuffs, without so much as a hint where he might be going; nobody, especially me, knows anything about anything, except that said husband believes I'm smart enough to work it all out by myself. Therefore," Cate took a deep breath before grabbing her bag, her phone, a couple of the disposable phones. "I am going to start working it out the only way I know how."
"And how's that?" Lestrade stuck his hands in his pockets.
"Research." Cate took another deep breath.
###
At this time of evening, it took precisely sixteen-minutes and thirty-four seconds for the car to travel from the Culross Street townhouse to the headquarters of MI5 in Thames House, adjacent to Lambeth Bridge. Mycroft felt a brief frisson as the four-by-four drove past that particular landmark.
The entire journey had been conducted in utter silence, Mycroft utilising the time to recall the current whereabouts of those of his adversaries sufficiently intelligent, positioned and powerful enough to put such a play into the field. After dismissing certain governments – too divided – and several political affiliations of dubious derivation – too ineffectual, he could think of only four parties: three men and one woman, who might be able to muster the necessary resources for such a coup. Each of them had much to gain, both in their professional, political lives, as well as in their ability to sleep better at night, if he were no longer – politically – in a state of grace. It would make perfect sense for any or all of them to attempt his downfall, and it was quite feasible that any, or all of them, had conspired in his removal. His eyebrows twitched briefly at the thought of the effort that must have been expended in order to pull off such an operation. Of the planning, the technology, the bribes. It was almost amusing. Whoever it was, must desire his demise with an intensity akin to genuine passion. His eyebrows twitched again. Too much passion rendered the mind immoderate in thought and deed. As the car pulled into a discreet side-entrance, he smiled again. It would be an intriguing exercise merely to choose where to begin his investigation.
However: first things first.
As it was now full-dark, the entirety of Thames House was alight, allowing them to transition without problem from the darkening car-park and one of the less-observed entrances.
"This way, Mr Holmes, if you please," the obviously more senior of his two escorts directed him politely towards an inconspicuous doorway. Entering, there was a dim landing, with painted stone stairways leading both up and down. He raised an eyebrow.
"Down, sir," the man gestured to the dimly-lit stairwell below.
Reaching another landing which evolved into a bare passageway, Mycroft found himself walking along a corridor of what could only be described as cells. If the inside of these closed rooms were anything like the outside, then they would be small, cramped, spartan and bleakly functional. Pausing before an entrance to his left, the senior MI5 agent opened the door and indicated inwards. Mycroft obliged.
Once inside, it was difficult to resist the smile that threatened to crawl across his face.
The room was bare, save for a plain table and three chairs. The table was off to one side slightly, allowing two of the chairs to face one-another without obstruction, with the third available for an observer. It was hardly necessary to look for the cameras or the microphones; he knew exactly where they were. He had designed the layout of these rooms himself. They were going to try and interrogate him. How quaint.
"Take a seat, Mr Holmes," the leading agent directed. "Someone will be along very shortly to have a little chat with you, no doubt."
"No doubt," Mycroft took his designated seat, crossing his legs. He spent the ensuing several minutes comparing the Paris and Dresden versions of Tannhäuser; after all these years, he was still in two minds over the ballet scene.
"Good evening Mr Holmes," a tall, younger man with an easy smile came in and, dropping a suspiciously solid-looking file onto the table with a loud thud, took the seat opposite. "My name is Jon Smith, but you may call me Jon, if you wish."
Mycroft recognised him immediately: the administrative assistant who had accompanied Laura Croft for the examination of the letters. Aha. Something interesting here.
"John Smith?" Mycroft's tone was mild and barely questioning.
The newcomer raised his eyes and crossed his legs. "Without the 'h'," he said. "My parents were free-thinkers and hippies. Yes," he half-smiled.
"I would like to thank you for allowing me to visit these rooms," Mycroft's own smile matched the man's open expression. "I've not been able to see them in actual extancy since I designed them, and that would be more than ten years ago," he looked around. "You've looked after the place very well."
"You designed these interrogation rooms?" Smith sounded dubious.
Nodding easily, Mycroft didn't even bother to make a pretence of looking around.
"Eight by ten; solid door; sound-dampening insulation; pastel wall colour, thick, waterproof carpeting; temperature-controlled; three wireless digilant 3.7 millimetre, nine-volt external powered video-transmitters; two embedded four condenser microphones; one personal thermal alarm; one night-vision camera and transmitter, one bio-sensitive monitor."
Glancing at the steel table off to his right, Mycroft smiled again. "You've even managed to keep the good old bio-therm conduction furniture," he sat back, faintly cheerful. "It's comforting to see my MI5 colleagues still respect the old days," he added, turning, his eyes wide and – almost – innocent, towards his putative interrogator.
"I have to ask you a number of questions, you know that, sir."
"Call me Mycroft, dear boy," the elder Holmes relaxed back into the uncomfortable steel seat and linked his fingers in his lap, the handcuffs chinking softly, meaningfully, together.
Smith took in the view before him. Mycroft Holmes; Head of … who knew what; manacled, taken from his home; brought to a fairly worrisome place in security terms; left alone in an unprepossessing and intentionally disquieting room, and here he was, as gracious and polite as if he were in the Royal enclosure at Ascot. John had heard whispers about the Iceman, but the man in front of him wasn't cold; he simply wasn't here. Oh, his body was here, in the room, sitting in a hard, steel seat right opposite him, but the man's mind, his thoughts …
Smith took a sharp breath. This was not going down the way it was supposed to go.
"You are in very serious trouble, you realise?" he overcompensated with a brusque tone. "You admitted you signed those letters," he said, consulting the file.
"No, no, no," Mycroft leaned forward, shaking his head. "That's not the way you begin questioning anyone at my level with such advantages of information, authority and experience," he said, quietly. "Being pompous is the very last thing you need to be," he added. "Try for a more civil approach. Ask me, for instance, if I'd like some tea."
Holmes was giving him interrogation tips?
"Would you actually like some tea?" Smith looked inquiring. "I can arrange some if you wish."
"That would be pleasant,' Mycroft smiled. "Earl Grey for preference, or a first flush Darjeeling if not."
Both men knew the request had already been recorded and the tea would soon materialise.
"Very well, then, Mr Holmes," Smith opened the file.
"Mycroft, please."
"You know standard procedure forbids the use of personal names."
"Naturally. I participated in the creation of current interrogation protocols, therefore why don't we simply dispense with what you think you want to ask me, thus relieving me from the dreary process of obfuscation and the waste of so much valuable time, and, instead, let us deliberate on the matter actually at hand?"
Knowing he was straying very wide of the path, Smith was nevertheless curious. What matter did Holmes feel worthy of discussion if not the safety of his own skin?
"And what might that be, Mr Holm …Mycroft?"
Resting his linked fingers on his knee, the heavy steel curves clanked together, but Mycroft seemed oblivious, moving his hands as freely as if he were not chained at all.
"Who is attempting to destroy me?"
"You suggest that these letters are an attempt to frame you with acts of treason?" Smith sat back and assessed the face of the man before him. He had been told that Holmes was clever; subtle. Dangerous. He had been told not to let down his guard, not to let the urbane front of the man lure him from his objective, not to follow the will o' the wisp lights into dark and boggy places.
"Yes," Mycroft nodded. "I neither wrote nor signed these documents, and yet every test confirms that I did, that I, in fact, am the only person who could have done so," he sat back, a small moue on his lips. "And yet, as I am certainly not responsible for them, then somebody else is," he leaned forward again. "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth," he sighed quietly. "My brother applies this idiom to his deductions; never realising there is yet an additional level to the maxim."
Smith raised his eyebrows, curious.
"There may be more than one truth," Mycroft supplied, with a smile. "As is manifest in this instance."
"For the sake of argument," Smith paused as two cups of tea arrived. Indicating for the table to be moved closer to the … to Mycroft, "let us assume you are correct; that there is a conspiracy against you."
"Better," Mycroft nodded, sniffing and sipping his tea. "And what are the two primary questions in such an instance?"
"Who and why?"
"Indeed," Mycroft nodded again. "I have already been itemising who, but a precise equation is impossible at present as I am yet lacking an understanding of why: the two facts are somewhat co-dependent. When I have the one, I will also have the other."
"Would you care to enlighten me as to the possibilities?" Smith blew on his tea to cool it.
Mycroft looked at the younger man with care. Why had he accompanied the woman to his office in what was clearly a covert position? To be given the task of his interrogation suggested this man was experienced and senior, yet his role earlier in the day said something entirely different. A cover, then. Why would an unknown need a cover? Ah. Of course.
The woman, Croft, wasn't one of Morgan's protégés, Smith was.
"Why would I waste my time?" Mycroft inhaled his tea's fragrance. Not an altogether intolerable blend at such short notice. "You are already convinced of my guilt."
"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I'm not quite convinced and am – what was it you said? – ah yes; eliminating the impossible." Jon sat back in his own uncomfortable seat. "Let's put aside the technical issues that tell me only you could have written those letters, and think who might have reason for MI5, and, probably others, to think that you wrote them."
"Very well," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "Let's."
###
Although it was pretty dark by the time she reached her destination, it was really only around the other side of Hyde Park, so the taxi-ride itself took less than ten-minutes.
She'd been told to go to a small black door around the corner from the main entrance and knock: someone would let her in.
The door was not easy to find even with all the bright street-lighting, but when she knocked, it opened almost immediately.
A small, dark-haired woman beckoned her in silently. Stepping inside, Cate became aware of the scents and smells of a large public building: this was not a home, but an institution. Massive oils on the walls portrayed the great Heroes of the Revolution; immense scenes of cultural upheaval and peasant revolt. Everything was gilded to within an inch of its life, and the whole atmosphere was stiff with protocol and history.
Up several flights of carpeted marble stairs and into a slightly less grand wing of the building, the art on the walls started to reflect a more personal taste.
"Spasibo," Cate thanked her guide who stopped, smiled and gestured Cate to a large double-door of the Rococo style. It was already half-open, so she knocked softly, peering into the semi-lit room as she did. A large figure rose from a wing-chair.
"Ekaterina," Peter Menshikov walked to her, his arms widening as if to embrace her enthusiastically, but he stopped short, contenting himself with touching his fingers to her shoulders, before leaning forward and kissing her gently on either cheek. "It has been too long since we have spoken, and we never did get to have that talk about the ballet, did we?"
"Excellency …" she began.
"Ah please, there can be no formality between us, my dear Cate," he said, guiding her to the chair opposite the one he'd just vacated.
She'd alternated between anger and panic in the taxi, but now she started to feel tired, and was glad to sit, waiting as he poured her a small glass of a ruby liqueur. She sipped and immediately felt a soft warmth steal its way through her body. It was delicious. She raised her eyes and smiled in question.
"It is called Nalivka in my country," Peter sipped from his own glass. "It begins with a good cognac and ends with the fruits of the autumn harvest, so no two blends are ever exactly the same," he smiled back, glad that the spirit had replaced some of the colour in her face. "You said Mycroft was in trouble?"
"MI5 have arrested him for treason," she said baldly, too tired now to make it sound less stark.
"Ah, so," Menshikov nodded, almost to himself.
"You're not surprised?" Cate was taken aback at the Ambassador's pacific acceptance of the news.
Smiling briefly, Peter shook his head. "It is a situation that your husband and I have discussed on several occasions," he waggled a hand from side-to-side. "We wondered which one of us would be the first to fall."
"But you make it sound like an occupational hazard," Cate was stunned at the complacency of the man. "This is treason we're discussing, not some overdue parking tickets."
Standing to pour her another glass of the red spirit, Menshikov looked at her upraised face in the dim lamplight. He sighed, returning to his chair.
"Tell me, Ekaterina," he said slowly. "How much do you actually know about your husband's work?"
"Mycroft's job?" she paused, thinking. "He works for the Home Office, some sort of Director. His department seem to handle all different sorts of problems, almost like a clearing-house." Cate sipped from her glass wondering where this conversation was going. "At least, that's what I've always believed, why?"
Making a face, as if considering how much he could say, Menshikov exhaled loudly as he made up his mind.
"Dearest Cate, your husband virtually runs the British Government," the Russian sat back, linking his fingers across his stomach. "He doesn't work for the Home Office; most of the senior functionaries there report, indirectly, to him, as do their opposite numbers in other departments, even in the security services, although," Menshikov smiled ruefully, "very few of them would know that they do, or admit such knowledge if they had it."
He poured himself another small glass of cognac.
"Even the Home Secretary consults with him before so much as amending a line of procedure. He's HRM's Master Tactician, the Government's specialised omniscient."
It took a few moments for the information to sink into Cate's brain. "How do you know this?" she was bewildered. "How can you know this when I don't?"
"The more people who know, the more danger there is to him, as well as to the people he brings into his confidence, my dear girl," Peter shook his head a little sadly.
"But I'm his wife!" there had been too much to absorb and Cate was heading towards shock. "How can he not trust me? He said he'd never lied to me."
"Have you ever asked him outright to whom he reports and who reports to him?"
Shaking her head, Cate had to be honest and admit she never had. He'd always had some glib response whenever the conversation had moved in the direction of his work and responsibilities.
'I sort out other peoples' mistakes.'
'Some of my work is national, some international. Mostly tedious.'
'You imagine me a Spymaster? I'm incredibly flattered.'
Her heart thumping, though she was unsure if it were with fear or outrage, Cate sat and digested this revelation.
"He said he's never lied to me," she repeated. "But by treating me like this, by excluding me, that's effectively what he's done."
"Don't be so naïve," the sudden scorn in Menshikov's voice brought her out of her daze.
"Naïve?"
"Do you honestly imagine such a man as Mycroft, a man so utterly and completely enraptured by you, would do anything that might seriously endanger a single hair on your head?" the Ambassador leaned forward in his chair, his expression almost angry.
"Don't you think it far more likely that this kind of a man would do everything in his not-inconsiderable power to protect you and the children and those close to him, from anything and everything that might stray from his work into his private life?"
Menshikov sat back and sighed. "You are not so foolish, Ekaterina, to imagine such things as lies. Why do you think he is so madly in love with you all this time?"
"I'm not sure I know anything now," Cate's head was spinning again. Everything she thought she knew was apparently something else.
"Because you are so determinedly clever and independent not to need all the answers; because you gave him your heart without asking questions and because you had enough faith in him to trust without reservation." Menshikov sighed again. "And I have envied him ever since he told me this."
"Mycroft told you these things?" Cate felt her eyes burn. Why hadn't he told her too?
"It was in a moment of self-doubt," the Ambassador nodded at the expression on her face. "He is not the kind of man to discuss such intimate details of his life, but he was very sad; you had left him."
Ah, God. The situation with al Badour's daughter.
"I did not leave him," Cate whispered. "I would never leave him."
"And yet, he was sad and he talked to me of these things, and despite his sadness, I still envy him," Menshikov smiled.
Cate sat back and took a deep breath. It didn't really matter right now what Mycroft had told her and what he hadn't. She had to find out where he was and then do whatever was needed to get him home.
"Do you know where they will have taken him?" she asked, in a calmer voice.
"Thames House is the usual place, to begin with," Menshikov pursed his lips. "That is MI5's base-camp, although once their interrogation begins, they could take him to any number of places. It depends."
"Depends on what?"
Shrugging elegantly, Menshikov raised his eyebrows. "On whether he tells them what they want to know, or how much of a security risk they think he is. He knows a very great deal, don't forget."
"Who is in charge of MI5?" Cate felt herself move slowly into analysis-mode, where all information was quantitative, where everything was data; cold, without emotion. Objective.
"His name is Davis Morgan and he is a bureaucrat who likes everything in his world to conform, to be neat and uniform. He does not like your husband for these reasons."
"But Mycroft is almost exactly those things," Cate began, confused.
"Are you sure?" the Russian's eyebrows rose again.
No; she wasn't sure. In fact, now that she actually thought about it, Cate realised that Mycroft wasn't at all like that.
Not neat, but precise.
Not uniform, but consistent.
Not conformity but a blaze of individuality in everything he did; in his every thought. An ache throbbed through her at a sudden need for him.
"What do I have to do to help secure his release?" Cate looked up suddenly, her eyes dark and focused. "I'll do it, whatever it is," she said.
"There is nothing you can do, Ekaterina," the Ambassador shook his head. "If you try and force your way through to him, they will shut you out and laugh at you in the process. If you go to the newspapers, they will stop the release; if you attempt to use social media, they will seize your accounts, all of them, including your financial ones. They may even threaten to take your children."
"Then if I cannot approach this matter head-on," Cate muttered, "there is always a back-door: there must be some way I can work to prove his innocence."
"There is only one way to help your husband clear his name," Menshikov sounded philosophical. "But that too, is impossible."
"And what way is that?" Cate decided she would be the one who judged things impossible or not.
"If Mycroft is not guilty of the things MI5 believe he has done, then you need to find out who is. Who is attempting to frame him."
"I will gladly try and do this," she shook her head, helplessly. "But I would have no idea where to start."
"You would do this for him?" the Russian sounded sceptical. "You would risk yourself, put yourself in danger for his sake?"
Frowning at the questions as if they were gibberish, she nodded, slowly. "Of course I would, in a second," she looked up, still confused. As if she had any choice. "He is my life."
Menshikov sighed heavily and smiled. "Such a fortunate man, your husband," he said, getting to his feet. "Then let us try and save him, shall we?"
###
They were still in the small interrogation room, but the handcuffs were things of distant memory, and the steel table had been pulled into the middle of the room to accommodate the extra people around it, of whom there were now two.
In addition to Smith, there was a quiet, efficient-looking woman with a laptop, who pulled information out of the ether whenever they asked for it, and the woman Croft had joined them as well, her initial scepticism fading in the rapid tides of argument and supposition.
All well and good," Smith sat back, folding his arms across his chest. "But who are these four people who you argue might be at the foot of this conspiracy, assuming it is a conspiracy, of course."
"I am unable to divulge their specific details until I am closer to comprehending which of them, or which combination of them are involved," Mycroft looked apologetic. "Each individual inhabits an extremely delicate position within a sphere of influence which is, shall we say, less than welcoming to Britain's official stance in certain areas. If I openly expose the wrong one, not only will their informational value be rendered moot, but their safety will be equally jeopardised. I am unwilling risk lives needlessly without additional rationale."
"Informational value?" Croft raised her eyebrows. "Informants? Spies?"
Mycroft looked pained. "Spy is such an emotive noun."
"But you have your own network?" Smith was almost grinning. "How in Christ's name can you run a private stable of agents without us knowing about it?"
Fixing the younger man with a tolerant look, Mycroft's expression was salutary.
"Who is 'us'?" he asked, quietly.
"Us, MI5, the internal British Security Service, Us," Smith lifted his hands in the air.
"Are you quite sure 'Us' does not know?" Mycroft set about pouring himself a cup from the fresh pot of tea.
About to protest, Smith shut his mouth instead and thought. What if Holmes' situation was known, but the information simply hadn't been made available to him? What if all of this was by way of a test? It had been done before. In which case, the only thing he could do was to go by the book. He looked around the room: the book had already vanished, it seemed.
As Jon was about to raise the possibility that there might be some connection between these mysterious informants and interested parties inside the UK, the door opened abruptly, and the two agents who'd brought Holmes here stepped inside, their faces suggesting a singular unhappiness.
"Just had this sent to us," the first one through the door offered Smith a slim folder.
Flicking it open, Jon scanned the few pages inside with increasing disbelief. Just when he had almost started to believe …
He turned to stare coldly at the well-dressed man in the chair.
"Apparently the rumours were correct, Mr Holmes," he said pointedly. "You'll do anything to achieve your objectives." Smith dropped the folder onto the table beside Mycroft's arm.
Mystified, Mycroft pulled the papers towards him, his eyes already flying across the details.
Lines of monetary transactions; substantial sums of money from his account sent as disbursement across Europe. Names, dates, payments, it was all there, with his name as the spider in the centre of a financial web of deceit.
Inhaling slowly, even Mycroft had to admit it was a very cleverly engineered piece of work. Whoever was responsible had a vast range of skilled people at their disposal.
"And there's this, too," the agent by the door handed Smith two sheets of paper. On one, there was a name and an address, followed by a brief series of dated rent payments. The other sheet was a black-and-white photograph.
"Does the address of 231 Redcliffe Road, Chelsea, sound familiar, Mr Holmes?" Smith's tone was now radically different from their earlier conversations.
"Other than as a London-specific address, it has no particular meaning for me," Mycroft's eyes were narrowed, waiting.
"It seems to be the residence of one Ms Sharon Bithall, a most attractive young lady."
"And you know this because?" Mycroft held his breath. He already knew what was coming. But it was impossible.
Smith held the photograph directly in front of his eyes so that Mycroft could not fail to grasp the entire content in all its black-and-white glory.
A photo of himself and the attractive Ms Bithall in what could only be described as a compromising situation. The near complete lack of clothing in the image leaving little to the imagination in terms of complicity or intent.
"So, Mr Holmes," Smith threw the papers and the photograph onto the table in a mood approaching disgust. "Not only a traitor, but an adulterer and a fraud?"
Lacking anything productive to offer, Mycroft remained silent.
"Thought so," Smith inhaled slowly. "No point keeping you here, then, so we may as well make you comfortable somewhere a bit more long-term."
Standing as the handcuffs were once again clasped around his wrists, Mycroft was curious as to where they might be taking him now.
At his question, Smith laughed unsympathetically.
"Somewhere you'll be nice and safe, as safe as the Crown jewels, in fact," he scowled and left the room.
Mycroft sighed in frustrated dismay.
They were taking him to the Tower.