Chapter 2

Ginny sipped at her drink as Henry Van Dyke began herding everyone into the embassy. If Van Dyke was not in charge of the embassy himself, John thought, then he certainly held an extremely high position.

"How do you know that name?" John hissed, trying not to attract Van Dyke's, or anyone else's, attention.

"Oh, please," Ginny scoffed, licking a drop of champagne from her lip. "You and your flatmate here are too well known in the Western world. Did you really think that you'd be unknown in this place? I knew you for who you really were the minute I saw you."

"The powers of observation," John said drily. Van Dyke came back over to them, and they headed inside.

John stared at the number of people in the embassy for this black-tie affair. He hadn't thought that there were this many Brits in Trelew and the surrounding area, but apparently there were. Good. He could lose Van Dyke and talk to Ginny in private—or at least, as privately as the gathering would allow.

The opportunity came almost immediately. The orchestra struck up a new tune, one John remembered as being an oddly lively funeral march from a Patrick McGoohan show, and motioned to Ginny to follow him. He quickly lost sight of both Van Dyke and Mycroft, and then realized with a start that Sherlock hadn't followed him. Then, as the crowd thinned slightly to his left, he could see Sherlock and Mycroft in quiet conversation and studying the crowd intently. John steered Ginny toward a crowded area of the room. It was risky, but better than being seen alone with her, especially if what she said was true and everyone else in the room knew his true name.

"Tell me what you know about your brother," he said when he felt it was safe.

"Ross's mother was from Argentina," Ginny said as quietly as she could and still be heard over the music. "She was originally from one of the villages near that field hospital unit you're going to tomorrow. When she died, Ross came here and was intent on finding the rest of his mother's family when Van Dyke recruited him for the embassy work. That was in January. We weren't particularly close growing up, and I lost contact with him when he was permanently sent to the field hospital for as long as his visa allowed. I suppose it was Van Dyke's way of telling him to look for his family."

She paused, and surveyed the room thoughtfully. "Then, three weeks ago, a revolt started in the area to the north of the field hospital. A week later, Ross disappeared, along with several villagers that the workers at the field hospital had known. Some of them, I found out, were directly employed by the field hospital."

John pursed his lips. "What do you think happened, Ginny?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think he was captured because of the revolt," she said after a long pause. "I can't explain it, but…I don't trust Van Dyke. It seems like he's in this deeper than what he really is. I think he may have sent Ross to the hospital unit because he knew this would happen. Either knew it, or wanted to use the hospital unit as an excuse to get rid of him."

"Why? Did he have a vendetta against Ross?"

Ginny shrugged, and sipped her drink. "I don't know," she admitted. "And I don't know why Van Dyke is sending you and your flatmate after him."

"He's not. Mycroft is."

"Yes, but who is Mycroft working with in orchestrating all of this?" Ginny demanded, arching a brow. "Van Dyke. The answer is clear, at least in that regard. I don't know what role Van Dyke had to play in my brother's disappearance, or why he agreed to help you find him, but be careful. And find Ross."

Ginny excused herself after the tune was finished, saying she needed to use the ladies' room. John smiled at her and found himself watching her leave, wondering how he'd managed to get so caught up in something that seemed all smoke and mirrors. He thought back to the odd feeling he got around Van Dyke, oily and smooth and trusting and hatred all at once, and tried to shake off what was little more than premonition. At the same time, though, John couldn't help but remember that nearly every time he'd gotten in trouble in the Middle East, he'd had that same feeling of foreboding.

As John steered Ginny to a crowded area of the dance floor, Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn't have to turn to know it was Mycroft. Had he heard Ginny speak that name? If he had heard it, then had others?

"What do you want?" he asked, turning to look his brother in the eye.

"To talk. Van Dyke isn't to be trusted." Mycroft motioned for him to follow. They found a spot on the edge of the dance floor. As the crowd thinned slightly, they could see John and Ginny standing, talking. No doubt John was pressing Ginny for more information. Sherlock saw John search the crowd, and meet his eyes, before the crowd thickened again.

"What about her?" Sherlock demanded, watching Ginny sip her drink. The woman was hardly pretty, but she'd clearly been trained in etiquette. The way she held her drink, the expensive manicure and lacquer on her fingernails, the way she moved in that dress, the lace in her hair were clues enough about that. "She knows who we really are. If she tells the wrong people here, there could be trouble."

"Van Dyke might know more than he's letting on. I have security footage from his office the night Ross Asher disappeared. It was delayed in coming to me."

"And?"

"A van appears in a few frames of the footage. Van Dyke got in the van, and you can clearly see that Ross Asher is also in the van."

"I was told he was taken from the hospital camp. From what I understand, the locals raid it periodically?"

"That is indeed the case. The footage must have been from after Ross was taken from the camp. The administrator of that camp reported the raid to the British embassy at 1:30 am. The footage is from 5 am."

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. "Then Van Dyke had a hand in his disappearance, despite his claims."

Sherlock, musing over what Mycroft had told him, saw that Ginny had left John, and brushed off his brother to meet the woman before he lost her for good that night

"Mr. Holmes," Ginny said. She was too much like Irene Adler. Elegant, refined. The only thing missing was the beauty.

Sherlock said, "I'm called Eric Sigerson."

"Called that, yes," Ginny said. The orchestra struck up a new tune, something by Mozart that Sherlock vaguely remembered learning to sing in primary school music lessons. "Isn't it interesting how, if the situation requires it, a person can tell the complete truth about himself and yet lie through his teeth the entire time?"

"Sometimes, falsehoods are necessary."

"To this extent?" She meandered over to the refreshment table, and Sherlock followed her, watching as she set her empty glass down on a tray. "If you deny that you are lying, then you are no better than Van Dyke."

"What do you mean?"

"Van Dyke knows what happened to my brother. I can't prove it, though, and I didn't want to cause problems for John by showing him this. I need your help."

She reached into the handbag on her wrist, pulled out a crumpled Polaroid photograph, and thrust it at him. A man wearing ripped and tattered clothing was the subject of the photograph. His face was mottled with bruises and his hands were bound above him to a metal ring.

"I was given this by the hotel clerk this morning. The clerk said that Van Dyke, or at least someone looking like him, delivered it. My brother lives, but Heaven only knows for how much longer."

Sherlock threw a crumpled-up sheet of paper at the garbage can and missed, again. This Ross Asher was a puzzle, even for him. Asher had been working on something big—that much Sherlock knew because the anthropologist had written his journals in a code. What that code was, though, Sherlock couldn't figure out. Asher had clearly had some sort of linguistic training, due to his copious use of the Anglo-Saxon runes, the Iberic language (which was astonishingly similar to the runes), and Irish Ogham of the fourth to tenth century AD. Asher had learned Welsh and Scottish Gaelic at some point, and words from those languages were scattered liberally through the journal. There were even words Sherlock was certain were Swahili. Sherlock chewed at his lip, scanning the mesh of odd symbols. What had him so scared he felt the need to devise this kind of code and to change the code so frequently?

He stared at the bit he'd managed to decode, but he had a nagging feeling that even if he did manage to decode Asher's journals, the journals wouldn't be useful at all. We went out to the medical camp yesterday for the first time, Sherlock read. Henry Van Dyke seems to think I might be of use with my ethnobotany background. I think he's right, but why me? Why would someone with my lowly education be recruited by an embassy in Patagonia, of all places?

Sherlock arched a brow. Linguist, uncertain of his place in society, timid. Conclusion: Introvert.

He tackled the next bit. Sherlock tapped the pencil against the desk, stuck in the middle of a word that didn't make sense because its letters were in three different languages, then realization hit. The Tallis Canon. That was the code! And if he wasn't mistaken, there was some Satie, too—yes, The Parade Ballet. Ah, yes. The letters associated with the Tallis Canon were in Ogham; the Satie ballet notations were in Iberic. And….was that an old English ballad Asher had used as his reference point for the Anglo-Saxon runes? There was another element, though, that Sherlock was missing. But now that he had three parts to Asher's code, then he might, just might, be able to figure out the rest of it.

Sherlock paced Van Dyke's outer office. He never was one for waiting, even as a child when he'd been summoned to Father's den for some wrongdoing or other. Van Dyke's secretary, yet another Brit (Northern England, same accent as Ginny. Probably Northeast England, near the border but on the coast) who wasn't nearly as effective nor productive as Mycroft's Athnea. Sherlock took in the secretary's clothing, all purchased second-hand before coming to Argentina. She gave him a nervous smile too much like the ones Molly Hooper gave him, and turned her attention back to her computer screen.

Sherlock turned his own attention to the antique grandfather clock by the door, but just as he was determining the country of origin of the clock, Van Dyke opened the door to his inner office.

"Come in, Eric," he said.

Sherlock winced at the false name, but stood and gathered Ross Asher's journals under his arm.

"I've done it," he announced once he was inside the inner office with the door safely closed. He allowed himself enough time to look around the office. The Oriental rug was antique, and in excellent condition; it must have cost at least a small fortune when it was bought during the Second World War. A smaller grandfather clock that otherwise was a twin to the one in the outer office graced the wall by the door. Both the clocks had been made in Germany. A large tatted lace doily (made by Van Dyke's mother or grandmother, no doubt) lay on a small circular table (oak, old stain, likely linseed oil, which meant an age no greater than that of seventy-five years judging by how much the oil had oxidized on the wood) under the window, and a carafe of ice water with two tumblers next to the carafe rested on the doily.

"I've translated Asher's journals," Sherlock finished.

Van Dyke's eyebrows rose into his hairline. "And?" he asked.

"They're fake."

"I'm not—"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Van Dyke. "Don't play games with me, Van Dyke. The journals are fake. Oh, the apartment may have been Ross Asher's at one point, but now it has your mark all over it. Don't try to deny it. I know that you know what really happened to Ross Asher."

Henry Van Dyke sighed. "You're clever. Too clever."

"What does that mean?"

"You were right about the journals. But not all of them are fake." Van Dyke raised a hand, cutting Sherlock off. "Hear me out, Sherlock. I don't know who I can trust here. I'm sorry for the deception. I needed some outsiders I could trust."

"So you turned to Mycroft, and he sent you John and me. That does not answer everything."

"Regina Asher was concerned for her brother when she lost contact with him. I acted as I saw fit. What did she tell you at the gathering last night?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Everything she knows about Ross's disappearance." He finally sat in the chair next to Van Dyke's desk, and remembered the photograph of Ross Asher. His stomach churned. He was no stranger to hostage situations—he still shuddered to think of what might have happened at the pool if things had been different. But this man….this man was innocent. John, at least, had had an excuse because he'd been a way for Moriarty to get to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes narrowed again at Van Dyke, and he was finally unable to contain himself. "A man's life is at stake, and you've sent my friend into a region where he could potentially be killed! Why are you willing to risk so much?"

Van Dyke didn't answer.

"Van Dyke, this morning my brother showed me the security footage from this building. It was taken the very night Ross Asher disappeared. You got into a van that very clearly shows Ross Asher inside, bound and gagged. You say that you do not know who can be trusted here, and yet there is evidence against you in this case." Sherlock got up and walked to the door, paused and turned back to Van Dyke. "Are you really such an apostle of mercy as to complain if others warred in the same spirit?"

He slammed the door behind him for good measure on his way out, and knew that the crash of glass he heard from behind it was almost certainly Henry Van Dyke throwing one of those tumblers at the door.

Sherlock stormed out of Van Dyke's office and the embassy. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he idly noted that it was coming from the direction Mycroft had said the hospital camp was in. He groaned. He'd always had John by his side on cases, and now he was stuck dealing with a traitor on his own. Oh, Moriarty had been a handful in his own right. Did Van Dyke have ties to him? Or was it just plain dumb luck that Van Dyke was hiding what he knew?

"Oi, Eric!"

Sherlock prided himself on rarely showing emotions, but when he did he had a short temper (it admittedly had been worse when he'd gone off the nicotine). Ginny was the last person he wanted to talk to, especially after finding out that his current employer very likely had had a hand in kidnapping her brother.

Ginny caught up with him half a block away from the embassy, a brown messenger-style bag dangling from her shoulder. She was wearing leather boots and jeans. A black leather jacket partially hid a deep blue blouse with more of that handmade lace on the collar. Had she made that doily in Van Dyke's office? It was the same kind of lace, and if he was not mistaken, the same hand that had made that doily had made the lace on her blouse. And if she had made the lace on her collar, then surely she had made the lace that graced her dress and hair at the embassy the night before John left. So. Where did that leave him with her? Attention to detail, willing to delve to the bottom for what she needed? Perhaps she, or someone in her family, was an old friend of Van Dyke's, given the style of lace and how Ross Asher had risen to prominence at the embassy so quickly. Yes, that fit.

"I saw you come out," she said, and took in his appearance. "You're not pleased with how the meeting went."

"Great Scot, it can think!" Sherlock snapped, and brushed past her. He didn't particularly care that Ginny wouldn't understand that reference. "I just walked out of a criminal's office. How do you think it went?"

"So it's true, then. He was involved in Ross's disappearance!"

Sherlock stopped storming down the sidewalk, and looked at Ginny thoughtfully. "He never admitted anything, and I can't prove a bloody thing! He told me that he didn't know who he could trust here."

Ginny's outburst at this was as he had expected. "What? Why does he want to gain our trust? Oh, and that reminds me," she added, opening her bag. "I, er, made a visit to his apartment this morning and found this." She pulled a Polaroid camera out of her bag, then quickly stuffed it back in—but not before Sherlock noted it was the same make and model that had taken the photograph of Ross Asher. She knew as well as he did that they were still in the range of the embassy security cameras. "There are only four photographs that have been taken with it. I couldn't find the other three. I still have mine."

"I'm sure," Sherlock said carefully, "that Van Dyke is not the only person in Trelew nostalgic enough for a Polaroid camera."

Ginny looked at him in disbelief. "You really think that, in this day and age when everybody (yourself included, I might add) relies on mobile phones and digital cameras for documenting events, they'd not bother with a Polaroid camera? No. The photograph I have of Ross was taken by somebody who doesn't want their location traced. If you send a photograph via phone or computer you can trace it. The Polaroid solves that problem quite neatly."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She had a point that he hadn't thought of. Finally, he said, "I don't know who I can trust here. John is off at that hospital camp involved in God only knows what. I need help here. And I think we'd be better off to get to that camp as soon as possible."

Ross Asher's head snapped back as the fist connected to his jaw. Closing his eyes, he slowly moved his head to its normal position and worked his jaw, something easier to do had he not been wearing a gag. All he'd been doing was trying to find the locals' version of a treatment for trench foot! Was that so hard for these people to understand? He hadn't been involved in that little revolution started by the locals just a few weeks ago.

"This one won't talk," the man said, indicating Ross. He cracked his knuckles as he sat down, finished with Ross for the time being.

Beside Ross, Anna Rodriguez and Maria de la Villa were huddled together in the corner, both bound as he was. They'd been showing him the plants they used for the problems he'd been having. Had they, perhaps, trespassed into territory better left undisturbed? Ross grimaced behind the gag; hopefully, Henry Van Dyke would have noticed by now that he was missing.

"He's one of them," the man's companion said scornfully, nodding toward Anna and Maria. He coughed, a rough hawking sound, and spat a glob of spit at Ross's feet. "What makes you think you can beat the answer out of him?"

Ross couldn't help but be stunned. He'd only been in Argentina for a few weeks! Why would they have mistaken him already for a villager? Oh, that was it. His mother was from Argentina. Ross sighed, realizing that it had just become that much harder for him to escape.