Chapter Twenty Six: Tactical Alliance?
It was late. Or early, depending on one's perspective. John had gone to bed hours ago, but Sherlock was still sitting in his chair. The lights were off; the flat only had the ambient glow of the street lights through the windows onto Baker Street. Sherlock liked this time – the streets were quieter, fewer distractions to keep him from thinking. In between cases at the moment, bored witless, but trying not to give ammunition to his brother or John, he was wrestling with a difficult problem.
The index finger of Sherlock's right hand was gently bouncing on the strings of his violin, a slow and steady beat that if he had thought about it he would have recognised as being in synch with his own heart's rhythm.
Mycroft. The fingers of his left suddenly gripped the fret hard. He was still angry; he could feel that anger right in the middle of his Mind Palace, like some jarring noise or the clash of a garish carpet in an otherwise serene minimalist décor. His brother was playing games again. He knew it at a deep level; Mycroft was too careful to leave any obvious clues. But the knowledge that came from knowing the man for all of his own life whispered things to him that he knew to be true, even without factual verification. Sherlock had grown up with his brother. He was the object of Sherlock's earliest deductions, the subject on whom he had honed and sharpened his skills of scrutiny. Mycroft was perhaps one of the most difficult men in the world to 'read'- he'd built an entire career based on his inscrutability, yet Sherlock could read him like an open book.
And what those chapters were telling him right now was something really annoying.
In the midst of this conclusion, Sherlock became aware of another jarring sensation. He glanced over to the table, where his phone was vibrating, and the screen coming on lit up the room like a tiny beacon. He got up, put the violin carefully aside and picked up the phone.
2.23am Remember that rain check? Need to see you NOW. Cork St Mews- your usual entrance. IA
He considered it, and decided. If you can break the rules, brother dearest, so can I.
oOo
Sherlock climbed the fire escape stairs. His trip south from Baker Street to this part of the West End took him a little longer than usual, as he had to be very careful to avoid any surveillance cameras. He was not sure how Irene knew about his sanctuary on Cork Street Mews, but her choice signalled to him that she did not want her movements known, nor his when coming to meet her. As he came up over the top of the metal ladder onto the roof-top terrace, he realised that the restoration project which had been on-going for the past two years was now complete. The last time he'd been here was the night of the pool. He'd been so distraught after arguing with Mycroft that he'd sought sanctuary up here. But now, instead of being the unoccupied space that was both dry and unobserved by anyone, the terrace was now part of a living area. By the furnishings in the room beyond and the table lamp that was on, the building was now occupied, as well. The sliding glass door was open a few inches, and the sheer curtains moved in the cool breeze.
"Took you long enough." She was sitting in one of the modernist chairs to his left, screened from immediate view of the ladder. He came around to look down at her. Irene's legs were tucked up on the chair, and she was wearing a quilted down coat, with a fur hood. She was smoking; he could see the lit end of her cigarette, and the scent of the tobacco was…enticing.
She put her cigarette down in what he presumed was an ash tray, and pulled another from the pack. The lighter lit up her face in the dark for the briefest of moments. No make-up, hair down, her face was drawn and she'd made no effort to hide the fact that her eyes were red, as if she had been crying. Then the lighter went out, and the darkness covered them both again.
She handed him the lit cigarette and picked up her own again. "Sorry- not your favourite brand. I did find a pack of those here a month or so ago. They were cleared away when the builders did their final tidy up. Your last visit about six weeks ago? You didn't realise that the owner had put a camera up here to see who the mystery visitor was- he was afraid it was a private detective hired by his wife. He showed me the clip, and I told him to relax when I realised it was you."
The tall brunet started to chuckle. "All this time I've been using this terrace as one of my bolt holes, I never knew about any connection between it and you." He took a deep drag of the cigarette, pulling the tobacco deep into his lungs and feeling the almost instantaneous impact of the nicotine in his brain. Ah, bliss.
"Why should you? I've only been here three times. My client agreed to let me stay here when I called him last night. His wife doesn't smoke, so I'm out here, despite it being November."
Sherlock took a seat in the other all-weather chair. "What's happened?"
The end of her cigarette glowed brighter as she took a deep drag. Then with a sigh as she exhaled, "He's taken Kate. Holding her hostage, and the ransom is my phone."
"Why would he do that?"
"Got tired of waiting, didn't he." She sounded bitter.
Sherlock considered the situation and what he knew about Kate and Irene. "You intend paying the ransom, but don't know if you can trust him."
There was a snort of suppressed laughter. "Oh, I know I can't trust him. It's just the involvement of his proxies that makes life difficult."
Sherlock waited.
"Sir Charles Augustus Milverton and Sebastian Moran."
"Oh, that is awkward." Moran was bad enough, but Sherlock was one of the few people who knew that Milverton was a blackmailer. A client of his had been targeted once, and it was with some degree of difficulty that Sherlock had managed to extract the incriminating evidence. But the client had not been willing to prosecute, said the publicity would be too damaging. The idea of all those photographs being in the hands of such a consummate blackmailer was …worrying.
She carried on in a voice slightly ravaged by the smoking and the crying. "It's password protected, but Milverton will be such an idiot that he will destroy the phone and its contents trying to get into it. There goes my protection. Even if I can convince Moran to release Kate, without the phone I will be exposed to quite a few former clients who will want to ensure that I disappear. Those photos are my life insurance; without them, there will be a feeding frenzy and I'll be eaten alive. Even if I get Kate free, she would have to run for her life rather than stay with me. I'm stuffed, as they say." She sounded bitter.
"So, why are you telling me this?" He'd finished his cigarette and was starting to feel the cold. She must be frozen.
"Come on. I'll explain once we get in and warm again."
She stubbed out her cigarette and led him into the room,sliding the door shut and pulling the thick curtains tight before turning on another light. "I need coffee. Do you want one?"
He nodded and then followed her downstairs to the kitchen. The house was amazing. Décor and furnishings had a vaguely continental feel to them. All open spaces, neutral colours enlivened by the occasional piece of exquisite art- paintings, sculpture and even textile hangings. The kitchen looked like a cross between a chemistry lab and a morgue- all gleaming chrome, steel and marble. As she got the espresso machine going, he waited for the explanation.
Over the top of her cup she looked at him, making proper eye contact for the first time. "I need your help, Sherlock. And I thought our mutual enemy might lead us to a tactical alliance."
He didn't reply immediately. She looked away. "I could try to manipulate you, but you'd see through that, so I won't bother. You and I are not that …dissimilar. I can only guess that Moriarty has threatened both you and John. I've seen the way he looks at you. Oh, by the way, he's got a camera on your living room, so be careful what you get up to there. You are what he likes, he's obsessed. That makes John a target- and therefore you, too. Well, he knows my weakness and it's Kate. She doesn't deserve to be caught up in this, and I fear that my affection for her will, quite simply, be the death of her."
"If that is true, then what's stopping you from giving Milverton the phone in exchange and then running?"
"You say it as if it were so easy to do. That phone is my life. It is my guarantee that my enemies will leave me alone. Without it, I will be a walking target, just waiting for someone to administer the coup de grace. Kate would be better off without me, but if I do this I won't be able to keep her away from me. She'll feel obliged. And that will mean her death, too. I am truly between a rock and a hard place here."
Sherlock started thinking it through out loud. "If you tell Milverton that the contents will be destroyed without the password, then surely he won't be stupid enough to risk it. He will try to find a way to get it out of you. That means he will have a vested interest in keeping Moran from killing his hostage. I can't see him handing the phone over to Moriarty- to a blackmailer, that phone is worth more than the crown jewels. He'd probably just tell Moriarty that he had it and could use it to secure more dark angels. But generally, Moriarty uses Milverton to do his recruiting for him. He doesn't like to get his hands dirty." He was puzzled. There was something missing in this puzzle. She started to speak, but he gestured in annoyance. "Shut up, just let me think."
Despite the gravity of her situation, his rude reaction made her smile. She waited. He looked off towards the corner of the kitchen, but his eyes were not seeing anything. Ten minutes passed. She had a second coffee. His untouched second cup grew colder by the minute.
"Are you certain that Moriarty knows?" Sherlock's question was quietly posed, but the sound of his baritone voice startled her anyway.
She thought at first to dismiss the question, but then cocked her head, surprised, as she thought about it. The only communication had come from Moran to say that he had Kate, and Milverton that he wanted the phone in exchange. She had assumed that Moriarty was behind both. But what actual evidence did she have?
"I…don't know, for sure. I could call him right now, if you think it makes a difference. Does it make a difference?"
Those peculiar grey green eyes skewered her. "Of course, it does! Moran has been known to…do his own thing, when he thinks he can get away with it, and it suits his purpose. And, Milverton knows that what is on that phone could make him able to dictate terms to Moriarty. I would not put it past the two to be working together on the side, without Moriarty knowing."
When she did not demur, Sherlock realised that another piece of the puzzle had just dropped into place. This wasn't about the compromising photos of people, not even a Royal. Something more was at stake. Something both the CIA and Mycroft knew about. He didn't think that Irene's earlier explanation of the bent CIA man could be enough to get his brother that interested. If Moran wanted the phone, then maybe it had something to do with him. Sherlock was still feeling the effects of the sniper's jealousy, which had driven him to kidnap and administer a brutal beating in the hopes of ruining Moriarty's plans to recruit Sherlock to his side.
He ruffled his hair with his hands in frustration. "There are too many unknown variables in this. I'm missing something crucial." He glared as Irene as if she were responsible.
"What do you think I can do to help you out of this?" He sounded genuinely confused now by her wanting him to help her.
She eyed him carefully. "Well, to start with, you're a lot more mobile than I am. You've figured ways of staying off camera, whereas everywhere I go, your bloody brother's eyes are going to be following me. My bolt hole after Belgravia is blown; Moran chased Kate down there so I can't go back." She looked at her empty cup wondering if three would be too many. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. Nothing of value was left in that flat. Hence this," gesturing to the kitchen. "So, I need you to go get the phone and bring it back to me here."
He looked at her. "Why would I do that? You drugged and thrashed me to get it back before, Why would you trust me to bring it to you now?"
"Because I've just told you that you won't be able to unlock it any more than Milverton will. Handing it over to your brother might save a princess's blushes, but doing so would mean both Kate and I would be killed. And I don't think you'd let that happen, just because your brother wanted the phone. He's been annoying you for decades, is my guess. Time for a little independence, don't you think? Make your own choice, Sherlock."
She was looking him straight in the eye now, as if daring him to trust her as much as it seemed she was trusting him.
"Why didn't you keep the phone with you? I thought you said it was your life?"
"Exactly. If Moran thought I had it on me, don't you think I would have been targeted by a sniper's bullet by now? No, I put it in a safe place, in fact, a very safe place. The only one who can retrieve it is either me or you. Since I'm out of bounds, it has to be you."
oOo
An hour later, Sherlock was standing in front of the night concierge at St Pancras Hotel. He held up a key and said to the bleary-eyed man behind the desk, "I believe you've been keeping something for me. Care to bring me the safety deposit box that matches this key?"
"We don't do this sort of service out of normal reception hours, sir. If you'd like to come back at 7am, I am sure the manager will be happy to oblige."
Sherlock looked at him. "This is a five star hotel in a city that never sleeps. You will bring me box number 37 right now. I cannot wait." He stood implacably still, and utterly determined.
The desk clerk sighed. "It will take me a while, sir, to get the keys to the cage. You might as well take a seat."
But Sherlock didn't, he paced instead.
On his way up the back stairs, the night clerk stopped, put the box down beside his feet, and pulled out his cell phone. A call was made, and answered on the third ring. "You asked to be told when someone came to claim the package. Well, someone has." The person on the other end must have asked for a description. "He's tall, dark hair and rude as hell." Another brief lull, then "Yeah, well make it in twenties please, and post it to that address I gave you." He hung up and proceeded up the stairs.
The actual procedure of signing various forms, showing identification and opening the box with the dual keys was dragged out as much as the clerk thought he could. The brunet was getting very annoyed, and when the box was finally opened, he literally grabbed the small padded envelope and bolted out of the lobby.
The night was just starting to give hints that dawn was not too far off. There was only one cab in the rank, and the driver was asleep, so Sherlock rapped on the window. When it opened, he just said "Baker Street" and then jumped into the back.