This had to be some sort of a joke, surely? But John Watson barely knew her, certainly not well enough to make this a joke situation. And Lucien Fesch had just introduced him as Robeson Muir, her expected photographer when the only resemblance between the two men was one of blondness. So not a joke and certainly not an accident, which meant the man was here deliberately and for a non-joke reason. One did not play silly buggers with things when there was a quarter-of-a-million pounds in the wind. But where was the real Muir? And what was John Watson doing here pretending to be her photographer? How had he even got here? What the hell was going on? At just that second, the baby kicked hard enough to bring a small gasp to her lips and she brought both hands across her front. The movement gave her a moment to think. Until she knew more, everyone needed to believe things were exactly as they should be. On the off-chance it was something serious, it might be wise to play along for the moment.
Dropping the hands from her front and blinking, realising she needed to say something, Sarah pasted a wide smile on her face, opening her arms for a hug she waited until the shorter man lifted his arms to gently grasp her shoulders, though she still wasn't sure what to say..
At her side, Lillian stopped short, an air of puzzlement in her voice and took the initiative away from anyone else. "John?"
Shit.
"Hello, John!" Sarah exclaimed without hesitation or pause. "It seems like ages since we last had a gig together; I'm so pleased to be working with you again," she smiled, hugging the shorter man carefully before turning back to face Lillian who was standing, bewildered.
"Oh, Lillian," Sarah positioned herself so that the men seated on the gilded couches behind her could not possibly see their faces. "I forgot. You've not seen Johnny since he had his hair cut so short, have you?" she said, catching Lillian's eye with a rather obvious wink. "It took me back for a second too."
The older woman frowned for a moment until her gaze caught John's own wink. Her eyes widened considerably.
"John, you remember Lillian Stuart, my Executive Assistant, don't you?" Sarah smiled engagingly. "Though I know it's been at least a year since we've all been in the same room back in London," she added, stepping slightly to one side and pulling Lillian around with her so that the men behind them could really still only see John's face.
It was just as well, since Lillian looked as if she were about to make it obvious to everyone in the room that she had seen John Watson a lot more recently than last year and in any case, what on earth was he doing in San Vincenzo? But then, Mycroft and Sherlock had to have got their talent for dissimulating from somewhere.
Pausing as she absorbed the situation, Lillian gave a minute shrug. "My dear John," she stepped forward to rest her hands on his shoulders, her features schooled into a diplomatic greeting. "I almost didn't recognise you; you look as if you've been in the army. Been somewhere hot, have we?" Even though she might not have a clue as to the reason behind John's presence here, Lillian was not so slow on the uptake that she couldn't take a hint.
"Yeah," nodding, John's hand went to the back of his head to run fingers across the short hairs at the nape of his neck. "It is a bit different, hey? Felt it was time for a change and you're right; it was bloody hot up at the Top End," he paused, grinning. "You've made a few changes yourself, I see," his raised his eyebrows at Sarah, letting his gaze rest briefly on her unmistakable bump.
Lucien Fesch moved towards the little group, looking as confused as Lillian had been only moments earlier.
"I thought this was Robeson Muir, the Australian photographer you worked with on both the Argentine project and, more recently, on the Australian beach series?" he frowned, uncertain.
"And it is," Sarah patted John on his upper arm as she turned and walked towards the array of sofas with a small but growing frown between her eyes. "Why are you confused ... oh," she paused and grinned. "That we call him John?" her grin widened carefully. "It's his middle name. John's never liked the name 'Robeson', have you darling?" she turned the grin at the blond man before finding a comfortable corner on the nearest couch, Sarah lowered herself carefully down, just as Lillian took the nearest corner in the adjacent sofa.
"My mother liked it," John shrugged, the faintest Australian drawl in his vowels as he returned to the seat he'd occupied a few minutes earlier. A small aluminium suitcase sat at his feet. "It looks good in writing, but nah," he shook his head, leaning forward to collect his coffee cup. "Bit grand for me. I prefer John and all me mates know it."
"Ah," Fesch nodded in understanding. There was no great mystery in that case. The British and the Australians and their strange thing with names. "Then I am delighted everyone is here so that I may finally introduce you to the principals in this wonderful project," Lucien walked around to stand behind a third gilded sofa in which sat two men, probably mid-thirties at most, both Mediterranean by their complexion and Italian by the expensive Fioravanti and Zegna suits that covered their backs. Both men stood to shake hands, both sets of eyes drawn momentarily to the obvious sign of Sarah's fertility as they retook their seats.
"Signor Ottavio Pisani, who represents one half of the financial backers of La Casa di Sabbia, and Signor Matteo Mancuso, who is a representative for the other half," Fesch smiled brilliantly. "We are all very pleased to have such world-famous professionals working together with us in what will undoubtedly be the greatest tourism development to hit the Mediterranean in the last fifty years."
A little excessive, Sarah thought, but this was Fesch's gig. Let him wallow if he wants. She looked at the two men seated opposite her and smiled. "Thank you for inviting us to your stunning hotel," she gestured around with her fingers. "I almost have enough to work with already," she added. "Everything we've seen so far has been fabulous; I just need to ensure I have the best images to accompany the things I plan to say," she turned to John and raised her eyebrows.
"Indeed, Signor Muir," the man Lucian had introduced as Matteo Mancuso nodded down at the silver case at John's feet. "I am something of a camera enthusiast myself," he spoke clearly but with a distinctive Italian accent. "Might I see the technology you have chosen for this project?"
"Sure," John grinned, leaning down to swing the small metal case up onto the massive coffee table in the middle of the seating area. "Nothing but the best," he murmured, dialling the lock coding into each of the three snap-catches that held the entire thing closed. "Have a look and tell my what you think."
Though Sarah knew she and John Watson were going to have a very detailed chat about what exactly was going on the second they were alone, she wondered just how far the man could manage to go in order to carry off his impersonation of Robby Muir. So far, it had been mostly luck, but the second it got technical ... she bit her lower lip and waited. If Sherlock's associate couldn't maintain the persona he was attempting to create, then they'd all be for the high jump and that would be embarrassing if nothing else.
"Meet the world's first back-illuminated 35mm full-frame CMOS image sensor with 42.4 megapixels," John grinned widely. "She's a real beaut ... the α7R-Two has bloody amazing image resolution, sensitivity and speedy response," he smiled as widely as if he were bragging about his first-born. "The hybrid AF system has a really dense extra-wide focal plane and phase-detection coverage ... keeps a subject in sharp focus entirely throughout the frame you see, while the 5-axis image stabilization reduces blur which can sometimes affect handheld shots," he turned and winked broadly at Sara. "Not that the boss here has ever had any complaints about blurry images."
"I have read about this new Sony, but do not yet have one in my collection," Mancuso leaned over, wanting to touch but understanding it might not be the best thing to do.
John grinned again, levering the small black camera out of its snug foam bed. "Try it; you'll see what I mean," he offered, removing the cap. "The high resolution is even better because of the 4K movie recording featuring full pixel readout without pixel binning," he shrugged. "Expensive, but worth it in this business."
"And for stills?" Mancuso cradled the Sony like a baby.
"A classic of its generation," John gazed down fondly into the case as he carefully unwrapped a silk-bundled lump from its own foam nest. "Hasselblad 500, renowned for its excellent optics, sturdiness and reliability," John unwound the neck strap. "Even after all these years, I still think this is one of the best cameras ever made for interior shots," he paused, tapping the old device. "I've got some very famous houses and some very famous people in here," he nodded archly and looked smug.
Mancuso looked approving and smiled. The great Robeson Muir was everything he had expected. Lifting his eyebrows and turning to his colleague in mute approval, he smiled again. "Signor Muir sounds keen to begin practising his art," he said.
"And are you equally enthusiastic, Signora?" Ottavio Pisani turned his cool eyes in Sarah's direction, focusing once more on her bulging front. "I have heard many good things about you and you can tell by the fee we have offered for this commission, that we are taking the quality of your work very seriously. I am even more impressed that you could be persuaded to leave your home at a time when most women would be reluctant to travel at all."
"As I advised Signor Fesch," Sarah waved at him with the small cup of coffee Lucien had just poured for her, "My reputation is only as good as my work and I assure you that I am determined to give you the very best that I can, while I can," she smiled. "Is there anywhere particularly you'd like us to begin, or are we able to wander around the place and consider anything we think might provide good visuals?"
"Apart from the two penthouse apartments at the southern end of the hotel, you may wander around as you feel inclined," Pisani waved his hand regally and smiled. "A few of the suites are still in the final stages of preparation, but virtually everything else is ready for our early guests who we hope will be attending our inaugural Christmas Ball," he added. "It would be useful to have both images and text, or at least some of them, in time to send out to a rage of selected guests ... would that be possible?"
"Eminently possibly," Sarah nodded thoughtfully. "Given that your overall requirements are relatively minimal, I could probably have a draft to you by the end of next week," she paused, looking to John. "How about you, John?"
"Easy as," the blond man nodded readily, his entire body suggestive of relaxation and assurance. "I can probably give you several first cut sections of the video as well as some choice stills," he made a face. "Shouldn't be too hard."
"Excellent!" Matteo Mancuso grinned and sat back in the ornately upholstered sofa. "My father and my brother and his wife will be joining us for dinner; this area is very close to my family's heart as Papa spent a great deal of time here as a boy," he nodded, pleased. "I am sure he will be able to provide all sorts of details about the area if you wish it."
"That would be fantastic," Sarah smiled, getting to her feet. "But since we're only here for a very short time, I think John and I need to get moving; if you would excuse us, Signors?"
"Of course, of course," Mancuso turned to look at Lucien Fesch. "Is everything prepared?"
Nodding swiftly, Fesch handed Sarah and John each a slim folder. Inside was a map of the hotel and grounds, along with a document listing points of interest; specific views, water depth for the yachts, the average air temperature of San Vincenzo in June. There was also a DVD.
"The disk is burned with a variety of photographs taken during the construction of La Casa di Sabbia," Fesch smiled. "In case you wanted some less conventional information and images. Will Signora Stuart be accompanying you?"
Lifting her eyebrows and turning to look at Lillian, Sarah was about to suggest that they all stay together, but once again, Lillian beat her to it.
"I'll only be in Sarah's way at this stage," Lillian sounded completely at ease and unconcerned. "However, it may be that I am able to offer insights that the younger eye might miss," she smiled knowingly around the small group. "If it is possible, I'd very much like to be given a tour of the facility as if I were a potential guest," she added. "I may even be able to offer some fresh ideas on things your older patrons might appreciate."
"If you're sure, Ms Stuart," even with the slight emphasis on the name, John's smile never wavered, though Sarah thought his tone was a fraction strained. "And we'll be around somewhere if you need either of us," he added.
"Of course, dear," Lillian stood, smoothing down the fine fabric of her skirt. "Perhaps we could meet up for a late lunch?" she turned to meet Sarah's eyes. "Don't forget to eat," she admonished. "I know how busy you get."
Unable to restrain her grin, Sarah nodded in agreement. Mycroft's mother was apparently brilliant at this ... whatever this was ... and she really did need to get John alone somewhere very soon so that she could find out what in hell's name was going on and what had happened to the real Robby Muir.
Almost immediately, the party split up. Mancuso and Pisani disappeared through an ornate and now closed door. Lucien Fesch escorted Lillian to the beach front aspect of the large meeting area, through a set of enormous windows opening towards the nearby sea. He was already calling her 'Lillian' and seemed quite under the spell of her absolute Britishness. One of the servitors took a few moments to advise Sarah and John where a buffet lunch would be set up from twelve-thirty onwards; they could easily find their way from wherever they were simply by using the nifty little location device Sarah had used to locate the Waterfall Room. Seconds later, John had both cameras in his hands and he and Sarah were walking back towards the airstrip side of the hotel.
It was only when they were manifestly alone and there was nobody else within potential hearing distance, that Sara paused, looking out to the beach where she pointed, as if showing John something specific.
"What the bloody hell is going on?" she snapped, moving the pointed arm and gesturing around as if she were asking a question about the view. "Just nod and look as if we're agreeing on something; I don't know if the security cameras are live yet, but the little buggers are everywhere."
"Really?" John smiled genially and nodded, looking around casually as if he were admiring the artistically sand-blown sheets of stone that clad the inner walls of this part of the building. "I hadn't actually noticed."
"Without looking as if you're looking, can you see the polished stone panels scattered about three-quarter's of the way up the walls, the ones with the inlaid gold circles in them? In the middle of some circles is a tiny dark dot," Sarah smiled again, bending down to feel the glorious carpet with her fingers. "They're everywhere. No wonder this place is so massively expensive; the electronic surveillance alone must have cost a fortune."
"Yeah, got one," John smiled for any watchers and nodded. "I've not been here long enough to notice, but now you mention it ..." he paused, turning to face the window and lifting the Sony up to his eye as if focusing on the exterior view. "What made you spot them?
"I've seen enough hotels and enough hotel security systems to check them automatically," Sarah stood and followed John's gaze out through the window. "It's a bit like counting the number of lifeboats on a ship even before you step on board," she laughed for the cameras. "There's surveillance all over the public areas and probably in the private suites too ... so one of the first things I find myself asking is why so much security?" Pausing, Sarah looped her arm through John's and urged his to walk with her towards the nearest lift. "And I shall consider this question in depth while you explain, with incredible and very convincing detail, what you're doing here and where my real photographer is," she smiled down at the shorter blond man, though there was an edge of anger in her eyes. "I don't take kindly to having my livelihood buggered up by anyone without a bloody good reason, so you'd better start talking," she compressed her mouth. "And let's at least look as if we know what we're doing," she said, lifting the hotel's small portable location device as if she were selecting a place to begin work. They headed toward the nearest lift. "And where did you get all that guff about the cameras?" she demanded. "You actually sounded as if you knew what you were talking about. Do you?"
"Anthea," John said, as if that covered all possible concerns which, in a way, it did. Sarah remembered the dark-haired woman's camera-work in Moscow; she definitely knew her photography. "Plus I played around with a few different cameras while I was over in Afghanistan," he paused, remembering. "Sometimes, there wasn't an awful lot to do except sit around and wait," he added, dropping her arm so she could enter the lift as it opened.
The lift carriage seemed to be covered in the ubiquitous gold dots and thus the discussion on the brief trip was carefully professional. John waxed lyrical about the quality of the light at this time of year for the entire thirty seconds.
Stepping out into a corridor on the top floor, Sarah noted the colour-scheme up here was different yet again, the ambient tone more tawny than sand. There was also a deeper quality of yellow-gold to the carefully laid carpet, like glowing lion pelt.
"The Penthouse suites must be up here," she murmured looking around. "We can go anywhere except the southern end, which," Sarah lifted a finger and rotated from one side to the other and back, "is down that way," she pointed at the far end of the passageway. "So let's find a nice wide and exceptionally private balcony up this end, shall we?"
Sweeping her hand across the small light fitting as she'd seen the uniformed woman do earlier, the nearest door opened to her touch and they both entered a room that was more African savanna than Tuscany beach. The dramatic and eye-catching decor was lush, gorgeous and quite, quite over the top.
"Jesus wept," John breathed as he walked deeper into the room. "This looks like some kind of Edwardian hunting palace," his gaze took in the masterly African wall art, the vibrant rugs of thickly woven gold silk, the striking ebony wood carvings. "I bet there's a big four-poster bed in one of the rooms with a great big white mosquito net on it," he turned to stare out of the huge window as Sarah brushed her hand over a small metal panel.
Almost instantly, the wall of glass started to slide back into itself, allowing them to walk out to the front of the simply enormous balcony, already equipped with several sprawling day beds, each one covered by a hand-woven grass awning. Huge stone pots of fishtail palms hugged the corners, their wide green leaves sheltered and glossy in the warm suntrap. A small water feature trickled down the rough sandy wall into a giant earthenware jar, recirculating forever. Perfect.
"Let's sit as close as we can to the front to enjoy the scenery, shall we?" Sarah smiled tightly, before sinking down onto the side of the bed nearest the edge of the balcony itself. There was nothing but a frameless glass barrier along the edge of the terrace between them and the sandy ground three stories below.
Joining her on the other side of the day-bed, John raised his Sony once more for the sake of appearances. As soon as they were both more or less shielded by the grass awning, Sarah closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "This had better be an amazingly good story," she glared at the man beside her. "Or I am going to be more upset about this than you could possibly imagine. This is my job and my reputation you're messing about with here."
John wasted no time. "The Mancuso family are organised crime," he whispered. "It was one of their muscle boys who came at me and Sherlock in the Ferrari not far from the Holmes' farmhouse in Kent. The Mancuso mob already know Sherlock's name and who he is," the words were almost hissed. "If they find out who Lillian is ..." he paused, oddly unwilling to tempt fate by being more specific.
Lillian might be in danger?
"What?" Sarah nearly yelled, remembering the potential surveillance just in time as she swivelled to meet John's tense gaze at point-blank range. "Sherlock let me bring his mother to a place where she might be a target for mobsters?" she looked incredulous. "How could he do that?"
"Don't shoot the messenger," John scowled back, irritated. "It's those sodding mental brothers; Sherlock's here too, in case you were wondering."
"He is? Where?" Sarah wondered if this was some awful joke.
"Along the beach a bit, in San Vincenzo. Mycroft let me have one of these," he added, turning his head and pointing to his left ear inside of which Sarah could only just make out a tiny, clear plastic insert. A hearing aid?
"Radio," John went back to whispering. "Morse code and voice," he said. "Sherlock has one too; he can be here within ten minutes if needed."
Mycroft was involved as well?
"Mycroft knew about this and he still let me bring Lillian here into possible danger?" Sarah closed her eyes and groaned silently. This could not be. What had started out as a straightforward in-and-out dream job was rapidly turning into a nightmare. "Why would he do something so unbelievably dim?"
Saying nothing, John looked down at the back of his fingers before inhaling briefly and returning to meet her eyes. He still said nothing. Her mind spinning, Sarah finally realised what it was he wasn't saying.
"Because of me?" she inhaled hard. "Because I told him to go to hell and he didn't want to force me not to go?"
John remained silent but gave her a look from beneath his eyebrows. He nodded.
"Oh fuck, fuck, fuck," Sarah covered her eyes with both hands. "How could he be so stupid? Why didn't he say something?"
Giving her another look that spoke volumes, John raised his eyebrows, very much put upon. "Because you put him in a no-win situation and because he is doing his damndest not to upset you, and therefore the baby, any more than he already has," John sighed, looking around to check they were still alone. "And because by the time he realised you'd planned to take Lillian with you, you were virtually on the plane. The only way to stop either of you from going at that point would have needed some pretty major blunt-force action involving police cars and flashing lights and possibly a helicopter which would have alerted the people at this end that something very bad was happening and which would have pissed you off even more as well as upsetting his mother," he inhaled slowly. "Though Mycroft Holmes is an inordinate pain in the neck, he doesn't cry wolf unnecessarily," he tilted his head towards her and looked rueful. "Anyway, it's all water under the bridge; we need to get you both out of here as soon as possible," he added. "When's the plane coming back for you?"
"Not until tomorrow afternoon," Sarah bit her bottom lip. "But there's all the rest of today and then the dinner tonight; I'm not sure if Lillian can manage to playact that long."
"Never underestimate a Holmes," John gave a small grin. "Those boys get their love of the dramatic from at least one of their parents and I've always thought that Bill was the sensible one. What's with the Lillian 'Stuart' thing?"
"We've been playing a little game," Sarah tried to calm her racing pulse. "We've been introducing Lillian to everyone using her maiden name of Stuart for a bit of a lark," she added. "So nobody knows she's even related to the Holmes family, at least," Sarah bit her lip again, "not yet. Though knowing her, it's entirely possible she might give the game away at any time. We have to warn her, John."
"Absolutely we do," he nodded. "As long as she keeps playing along, she'll be fine, but we need to make sure she stays a Stuart for as long as she's here."
"I can't run in this state," Sarah laid a hand flat on her heavily rounded belly. "Can you go back with an excuse and ask her for something ..." she paused, digging in her jacket pocket. "This," she said, holding up a silver device, somewhat smaller than a mobile phone. "It's my Philip's voice recorder," she dropped it into his hand where John could easily hide it from view. "Ask to have a look in her bag for it, pull her to one side and then ask her if she'd bring me some food or something; tell her I'm hungry, at least she'll believe that without too much fuss." Sarah was really feeling uncomfortable and the tension in her neck was making her back ache again. A part of her mind wished she was back in Eynsford with Trish the masseuse. She heaved herself upright. "I'll wait for you here."
"Right," John nodded. "You sure you'll be okay by yourself?"
"Just go," she waved him off. "I'll hold the fort here and do my thing just in case any of those cameras are actually live."
John jogged out through the main living area door and the faint ding of the lift a few seconds later suggested he was on his way.
Her stomach becoming a churning mass, Sarah made her way into the suite's bedrooms at the far end of the living area. Sure enough, in what seemed to be the master bedroom, there was a massive bed with a simply enormous white lacy mosquito net draping down from a central point on the ceiling. Curling her lip, Sarah saw the first design error. This net would barely keep a butterfly out, much less a mozzie; she'd had enough experience with nets of her own to know this for certain. It looked really attractive; light and airy, but there was no real practicality to it. Staring around, she could see the richness of the glitz and shimmer in the room, but it was beauty without purpose. Form without function, like an over-thick layer of cream in a cake. Her stomach heaved slightly. Checking her wristwatch, she saw it had only been a few minutes since John went to fetch Lillian. She closed her eyes and wondered if she dare sneak a lie-down on the bed ... but why not? She was here to check the place out, after all.
Feeling a bit like Goldilocks, she pulled the net to one side, sitting on the edge of the bed before laying down and resting her head on the covered pillows. The bed was a sublime experience and immediately her back started to relax. As the ache eased and she unwound, her stomach relented a little. Sarah sighed. She realised there was something she had to do and didn't relish the idea, but needs must and she might as well get it out of the way. Pulling the artistically-draped net down around the bed to provide the vaguest sense of privacy from any potential snooping cameras, she fished in her jacket pocket for her phone. Finding the number she needed, she activated a call and held the phone to her ear.
"Holmes," the one quietly-spoken word made her sigh again.
There was a brief pause. "Sarah?" Mycroft's tone was questioning, his voice so clear they might have been in the same room. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Mycroft," Sarah closed her eyes and kept her voice very quiet. "I'm having a lie down because I've just found out you let me bring your mother into a potentially dangerous situation because you didn't want to upset me and because I let myself get too angry and insulted to ask you why you didn't want me to come here and because you didn't think to tell me," she sucked in a breath.
"True, but are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Sarah was surprised that he sounded so ... concerned. "And your mother is fine too. John's here and he's just told me off for being stupid not to listen to you when you tell me things, though in all fairness, you didn't actually tell me anything. I don't think forbidding something counts as telling."
"Then why are you lying down?" Mycroft's voice changed pitch slightly as if he'd just stood up.
"Because John's news worried me and because I feel as guilty as all get out about bringing your mother here now, because if anything happened to her I would never forgive myself and now my back hurts and my tummy is a little queasy, is why," she almost whispered down the phone.
"Nothing is likely to happen to either of you," there was a quiet confidence in his words. "John's there, Sherlock's there and I have a few other resources in the area that may be brought in if necessary. The chance that either of you might be connected to my brother is minimal between now and tomorrow, as long as the rest of the Mancuso clan stay in Pisa."
Sarah felt her heart start to thud again and she closed her eyes. "Matteo Mancuso said his father and one of his brothers were travelling down to the hotel tonight to attend the dinner we're all supposed to be having at the hotel," she paused, thinking. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"Did Mancuso say which of his brothers would be attending the dinner?" Mycroft's tone sharpened.
"No, just that his father would be coming and one of his brothers who would also be bringing his wife."
"Matteo Mancuso has three older brothers," there was a slowly indrawn breath at the other end of the conversation. "Cesare, Lucio and Soren. Soren Mancuso is the one I'd really prefer neither you or my mother had anything to do with," Mycroft paused. "He's an unpleasant man."
Sarah laid a hand over her eyes. "Do you think we should simply get out of here? I could think of a way ... maybe fake going into early labour or something."
"They'd only have you whisked off to the nearest hospital," Sarah could almost see Mycroft shaking his head. "No; any plan would need to be either above suspicion or beyond anyone's ability to uncover."
Sarah sighed out a long breath. "I don't know why you're telling me this now," she said softly. "But thank you. I wish you'd said these things the last time we spoke," she said. "I'm sorry I didn't take the time to let you," she hesitated. "Instead of going off the deep end, I should have done the sensible thing and asked you why you didn't want me to come to Italy. I know you're worried about the baby but you have to realise that I'd never do anything if I thought it had the smallest chance of risk ..."
"It's not ... just the child," if anything, Mycroft's voice was even quieter. "I didn't like the idea that you were going to put yourself in harm's way," he paused. "I'm telling you these things now because I realise my personal concerns for you and the baby overrode my usual objectivity. I don't make subjective errors of judgement as a rule, but clearly the situation has pushed my thinking beyond normal parameters and it seems that even I have certain vulnerabilities."
There was a careful pause.
"Is this your way of saying you were worried about me?" Sarah barely heard her own voice, so light and fragile were the words.
There was another pause.
"When this is over and you're back at the farmhouse, I think you and I need to discuss a few things like the adults we're expected to be," Mycroft exhaled slowly. "After all, a child's parents are supposed to be grown up about at least one or two things."
"Though we've not exactly gone about parenthood in the usual way, have we?" Sarah half-smiled up at the inside of the mosquito net.
"I'm sorry I attempted to bully you into doing what I wanted you to do," his words were edging towards inaudibility now. "I've never been a father before. I'm not used ... I'm ... I confess to being somewhat anxious."
For some reason, the awkward, halting confession filled Sarah with a strange sensation. For someone like Mycroft, someone so much in control of everything in his life, so far beyond the minor problems of the madding crowd, for him to profess to 'certain vulnerabilities' had taken a bit of doing.
"I'm not anxious," She smiled up at the lacy white net above her. "I have you on my side now, don't I?"
There was yet a third pause.
"It would appear that you do." There was little hiding the new ease in Mycroft's words.
"Then I better get on with my job here so that I can bring your mother home quickly, without anyone getting into trouble or there being the slightest danger to anyone, hadn't I?"
"That would be nice," he was almost smiling now; she could hear it.
"And then we can have that conversation you mentioned," Sarah found her eyes focusing on the apex of the mosquito net, at the point where it was attached to the ceiling. There was a small gold circle up there.
"Like adults," he agreed. "We can be quite grown up if the mood takes us."
There was a tiny black dot in the centre of the circle.
"I'll hold you to that," Sarah breathed, as a thought clicked into place. "I must go."
"I'll talk to you soon, in that case." There was a soundless disconnect and Sarah was alone in the gorgeous glittering bedroom adorned with who knew how many spying cameras. She had never seen so many in an hotel in her entire career and certainly never any in a bedroom, let alone over the top of a bed. There was something very funny going on here.
Just what was the Casa di Sabbia?