Chapter Twenty One: Clandestine Operations
The GPS had been static on the riverside location for a good ten minutes. Then it moved- to the east along the river embankment quickly, so Holmes was probably in a taxi. The Professor's smugness starting to irritate Irene.
"He hasn't realised that the other clues are back at the shopping centre. And…he looked at the right place by the river for ..what was it? All of four minutes before walking away? Didn't even take a photo or register the GPS location. So, I think the odds are in my favour, Ms Adler."
She was pacing in his book-strewn office. There was a soft knock at the door.
"Enter!"
A young nerdy looking woman poked her head tentatively around the opening door, looking a little nervous. "Professor, is it alright to come in and start our tutorial?" She looked anxiously at the older woman in the room. Irene was exuding irritation at the interruption.
"Yes, of course. This 'student' is just leaving." When she snapped her head around to glare at the academic, he just giggled. "Well, you didn't really think that problem could be solved in a single afternoon, did you? I took the precaution of booking some tutorials in, knowing that the solution wasn't just going to pop out of thin air. Telephone me tomorrow, and I will update you if any progress that has been made."
She picked up her phone, her handbag and briefcase and strode from the room. Just as she got to the door, she couldn't resist saying, "I think the solution is going to be a lot more…exciting than you think, Professor."
As Irene left the mathematics faculty building, another orgasmic sigh emerged from her phone.
13.49 What's the prize for figuring this out? Incentivise me… SH
13.50 Isn't the thrill of the chase enough?
13.51 You need to be risking something; I am by keeping this from JW as asked. SH
13.52 Dinner?
13.53 Not interested. That invitation has been ignored on numerous occasions. SH
13.54 A chance to keep the phone?
13.55 Possession is nine-tenths of the law. SH
13.57 What would you LIKE?
13.57 For you to tell me why the CIA was after your phone. SH
14.00 Done- but only if you win.
There was no immediate reply, which she took for an agreement. At least the texts meant he had not abandoned the puzzle. Time would tell.
She went back to Chelsea and, after some detours and back tracking, made it to the front door of her bolt hole without picking up an obvious tail. Kate was also out, but Irene gathered her professional clothing and her equipment, packed it all neatly into a case and headed back out. Again, she chose a route away from the flat that would deceive most observers. She was heading for St Pancras hotel, where she had a rendezvous with a client at 6pm. He was coming in from Paris on the Eurostar and he had booked a suite in her name. French style, it has its perks.
She had just checked in when her phone vibrated. She took a look while she was in the lift to the sixth floor.
4.12 Solved it. Will swap proof for your side of the bargain- face-to-face. Where? SH
Irene thought about it. Even if he had succeeded, she didn't want to meet him in the suite. If the conversation went too long, there would be a risk of the client gate-crashing, and that would be embarrassing. Besides, it might just be a trick- to get her alone and then somehow try to steal the phone. It had to be a public place.
4.14 Meet 5.15 at the Gilbert Scott Bar
She phoned the Professor, hoping that he would provide her with evidence of whether Sherlock was lying or telling the truth, but there was no reply. She showered, changed her clothes, applied her make up and put her hair up. Once again, the Woman emerged from behind the student camouflage. Just as she slipped on the Louboutins, her phone vibrated on the dressing table. She checked caller ID, and sighed. Not now…
But she answered it anyway.
"Ireenee." That horrible gangster style voice grated on her nerves.
"What can I do for you? This needs to be quick as I am a little pressed for time here."
"I'd like to impress upon you the need for a little more progress, my dear. I've been watching your little game with our mutual friend. Surprised you, didn't he? Just a little faster than that fat slob who fancies his mathematical skills. The Professor's a buffoon. Probably not in your class; certainly not in mine or the Baker Street Boy's."
She had to agree, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so. "Really, I have to go now. Unless you have something urgent, I suggest we defer this conversation."
"Tut, tut- it really doesn't pay to be sharp with me, Ms Whiplash. I'm just calling to remind you that I intend collecting soon on that Code you owe me, with or without your cooperation. Just so you know. Wouldn't want there to be any misunderstanding, now would we?"
"Goodbye" She ended the call, knowing it would irritate him. The pleasure of that dissipated too quickly. She was getting anxious herself; she needed Sherlock to break that code, and quickly, or she was going to get caught between Moriarty's need to use it to attack Mycroft Holmes, and her plan to have his brother break the code and then use that fact to get the ultimate protection herself from the elder Holmes. She felt like she was in a competitive arms race- who could get the Code first and use it to blackmail the man in the three piece suit? The original arrangement she had made with the Irishman was feeling more tenuous every day.
As she crossed the lobby, she was still fretting over the call, so she stopped for a moment, collected her thoughts, adjusted her walk and then languidly strolled into the Gilbert Scott's long room. Framed by the gothic windows and the red walls, the room was stylish if a little Victorian for her taste. There at the bar sat a lean and hungry looking consulting detective. He looked effortlessly well dressed, but casual, in his close fitting suit, and open necked sapphire blue shirt. A glass of what appeared to be sparkling water was in front of him.
"Oh dear. I thought you'd be celebrating with a glass of champagne. Or was it all talk and no proof- just spinning a line for the opportunity to meet up?" She slid onto the bar stool beside him.
He didn't look at her, but instead gestured to the bartender who delivered a freshly poured flute of Moet & Chandon Rosé champagne, obviously pre-ordered.
He raised his glass and looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, while she looked straight at him. "Cheers. Here's to the six Nude Murder Victims."
She smiled. "Was it so terribly easy then? What tipped you off?"
He smirked, as he put the glass of water down. "What, other than the fact that it was an obvious combination of your 'obsession' and mine? What other six unsolved serial murders – my Work- involved yours - sex and nudity?"
Then his smile faded. "They were what I believe is called in the business 'working girls'. Hannah Tailford, Helen Barthelemy, Margaret McGowan, Bridie O'Hara. And Mary Foster, on whom the spray paint spatter was found. And then there was the second victim- your namesake- Irene Lockwood. Not surprising that the murders would attract your attention, even if they were committed in '64 and '65."
She smiled. "It annoys you, doesn't it? That no suspect was ever arrested?"
"Of course. Mind you, it was before DNA and forensics had evolved to their current levels. Doubtful now that someone would get away with it."
"No, after all, the Yard now has you as their secret weapon." It wasn't delivered in a snide tone; it sounded sincere, if a little flirtatious.
That made him actually look at her for the first time, with full eye contact. This time, he could read the fact that she was under stress. Wonder why. Not this puzzle. She enjoyed that. There is something else that she's not telling me. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was regretting what his brother had identified as some form of collaboration with Moriarty.
"Are you ready to deliver your side of the bargain, Miss Adler?"
She pouted. "All work and no play makes you a dullard, Mr Holmes. I did ask for proof."
He rolled his eyes, pulled the blue phone out of his pocket and punched a couple of keys. The photo app opened, and the first image appeared- now bearing a caption with the murdered woman's name and the GPS co-ordinates of the crime scene where her body had been found, floating under the pontoon bridge at Hammersmith, with a pair of lace panties stuffed in her mouth. She flicked through the other five, confirming that they were all there.
"I am surprised not to have had a call from …an associate of mine, who was supposed to be following you to these sites and keeping an eye on your GPS data. How did you manage to fool him?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Because I will need to chastise him for his failure."
He touched the keys again, opening the app bar- and showed her the jamming device. "It doesn't block the signal, just warps it. Your associate will have tracked me all through the East End over the past few hours."
"Clever. I might find that app useful."
"You can have the phone and the app. I have no need of either."
She looked at him with curiosity. "You can keep it, you know. To the victor goes the spoils."
He shook his head. "It's rather too flash for me. Attract too much attention. I move in rather dangerous circles; suspects can get rather greedy, so there is no point in exciting their acquisitive instincts."
She nodded, and the tilted her head to look at him speculatively. "So, why do you think the CIA is after my phone?"
"That's what you are supposed to be telling me."
She glanced at the clock over the bar. 5.30pm. As much as she was enjoying this little exchange, she needed to bring it to a close soon, or her client would complain. She pulled her own phone out and pulled up the photo function. "I can show you two photos." The first image was of the man Sherlock recognised as the CIA operative who had the large silencer on his gun- apparently the leader of the team.
"His name is Nielson. Minor officer in the Grosvenor Square embassy, but actually a covert CIA plant for dirty work. Don't know his first name. He isn't one of mine."
The second photo was a bit grainy and taken from some distance. Nielson was talking to another man. Blond, taller, but with the same military set of his shoulders. In half profile, his facial features weren't very clear. It didn't matter.
Sherlock had gone very still. Then he spoke, "His name is Sebastian Moran."
"OH, so you recognise him?"
"Yes." It was said tersely. Sherlock remembered the beating he had received from Moran, when the sniper kidnapped him, drugged him and held him until a deadline for meeting Moriarty had passed. The incident had sent Sherlock into a rehab clinic for almost six weeks.
"I suspect that this CIA man is one of Moriarty's dark angels. Someone who both gives protection and does him the occasional favour."
"Tell me about 'dark angels'."
She took a long sip of her champagne, then nodded. "I don't see why not. I'm not betraying any confidences here. Moriarty has a network of legitimate people- useful contacts, politicians, judges, police men, business tycoons- all of whom 'owe' him something. One of his so-called consultants, Charles Milverton, specialises in blackmail and helps him build his network here in the UK. He calls on these people to help out when either he or one of his criminal clients need a favour. If we were talking spies, think of 'sleepers'- respectable people in the right places, with the right connections to do him a favour."
The tall brunet drank some of his water, and kept his eyes on the glass when he set it back down on the bar. The bubbles rising were so different from those in Irene's champagne glass. His mind went off on a tangent. (carbonation, the expression of carbon dioxide gas under pressure in liquids of different chemical composition and the impact of the alcohol molecule on the process of bubble formation)
"This Nielson is a legitimate CIA operative then, but doing Moriarty's bidding. Why did you take his picture?"
"To try to build in some protection of my own, against Moriarty, should he prove awkward at some point."
"Supping with the devil, Miss Adler, is dangerous, by definition. Why are you doing business with him at all? Are you providing him or this Milverton with blackmail material on potential dark angels?"
He could see in the mirror that she was eyeing him with an appraising look. She shook her head, as if to herself. "No, I don't do that. My photos are my protection. I'm not a blackmailer. I thought you realised that about HRH, when we last met in Belgravia."
"You don't need Moriarty for that."
"No, but in the process, I inadvertently collected something he wants very much. I don't want to hand it over, but he is willing to apply pressure on me in the hope of recovering it. I thought it might prove useful, but I'm beginning to realise that it is a double-edged sword."
"So, Miss Adler, were you Nielson's target, or was I?"
She met his gaze. "I think we both were."
As she let that reply sink in, she continued. "I am going to need to talk to you again, Mr Holmes. We have some interests in common that are worth exploring. The old saying might apply- the enemy of my enemy is my friend." She smiled. "I think we might be friends, Mr Holmes. Or at least fellow travellers, if your address book doesn't allow for friends. But, unfortunately, tonight is not your lucky night, nor mine. Duty calls, and I mustn't be late. So, consider this a rain check. We will meet again."
She finished the glass of champagne and collected the two phones from the bar, returning them to her bag. Then she stood and strode out, her Louboutin heels flashing their red soles as she walked away.
Author's Note: The six Nude Murders actually occurred between 1964 and 1965, and are one of London's great unsolved serial killing sprees. The names, crime scene locations and details as described above are historically accurate.