Extradite
Verb. Hand over (a person accused of or convicted of a crime) to the jurisdiction of the state in which the crime was committed.
"U ovdje"*. Mycroft's grasp of Serbian should have been sufficient to attract the guard's attention. The tone of command was more important than fluency, in any case.
When there was no reaction, he walked behind the unaware guard and shouted in his ear, "Vojnik!"
"Jest, ser!" The young man ripped the earphones out and blushed bright pink. The pop music that hissed out of the dangling white earphone annoyed Mycroft. What were the soldiers of today coming to, when they had to drown out the sound of a brutal interrogation with the latest global pop song? He let his scorn show, as he gestured into the interrogation room.
"Javnost ga."
The young man went into the room and put his rifle down, pulling an old fashioned skeleton key from his pocket and unlocking the first of the iron manacles that held the prisoner suspended. The bloodied man fell to the floor, his legs too weak to hold him upright. When the guard unlocked the second manacle, the prisoner curled into a ball, waiting for what must have been the traditional booted kick in the ribs that signalled the end of another interrogation session.
"Uzeti ga; JA sam uzimajući ga sa mnom."
That drew a puzzled frown on the face of the young guard. "Gde? Zašto?"
Mycroft gave him a look of stern amazement. For a private to question the authority of a senior officer was…outrageous. Fortunately, Mycroft was well used to intimidating juniors with just a look, and the young soldier paled visibly. Then, he shouldered his rifle, bent down and hauled the prisoner to his feet, dragging the half conscious figure out of the cold cell.
Mycroft stalked past them, leading the way up the stairs. The guard struggled to get the prisoner up the stairs; in the end, he was forced to half carry him. At the top of the second flight of stairs, the prisoner lost consciousness, and the guard was forced to put the bloody man over his shoulder and stagger on.
Mycroft swept into the harsh florescent lit guardroom that was between him and the exit.
A middle ranking officer was the only one on duty and he sprang to his feet. "Ser, vi ste uzimajući zatvorenika?"
Mycroft turned to him and marched up closer, until his physical presence intruded on the officer's. "Ima. Šarić je trgovinu ga za zaštitu. JA sam da ga u Beogradu."
That surprised the officer. "Gde?"
"On je diler droge koju je poslao Rumuna. To je vlade da ga izruči na zapad- u zamenu za veću pomoć- plaća vaša zarada."
The officer stepped aside.
"Mu pomoći da se sljam u vašem automobilu."
And that was that. The driver waiting outside for Mycroft popped open the boot, and the unconscious body was unceremoniously dumped in and closed. Then Mycroft slipped into the backseat, and the car with government plates drove away from the castle grounds.
The driver left the mountain fortress and headed back to the town of Ianjica. From there the mountain roads to Uzice and the little Ponikve airport would afford more privacy. About forty minutes after leaving the castle, the driver took a small lane off the main highway, went up the mountain track for another five minutes and then stopped. It was dark in the forest. Both he and Mycroft got out of the car. In the frosty night air, their breath clouding, they opened the boot.
"Christ, Mycroft, I'm bloody freezing to death, you bastard." This was delivered in little more than a whisper, but it was enough.
"Don't bring Mummy into this, Sherlock." He handed his shivering brother a woollen blanket taken from the back seat, to cover his bare back. "Try to stay warm…and do keep quiet. We are by no means home and dry. It's another two hours to an airport, and then another two hours' flight on a plane that is entirely too small to be comfortable. At Dubrovnik we can relax a bit, and pick up better transport."
This travel itinerary provoked a groan from the dishevelled man. A voice that was rough and broken managed to get out "Alright for you, sitting up there in comfort. Care to swap places for a while?"
"Sorry. Appearances must be maintained. You're being extradited. Apparently, you are wanted for crimes in the UK. The papers are good, but you are definitely persona non grata here with anyone other than the Justice Minister, who happens to be on our payroll. So, I can get you safely out of the country; if the drug barons and their corrupt friends in the police don't get you first, that is. So, do be a good boy and snivel quietly."
The driver seemed to be more sympathetic. In the light of the tiny torch he was carrying, he handed across a cup of hot sweet tea from a thermos. Sherlock cupped his hands around the metal cup and whispered, "Hvala vam na pažnji!"
That provoked a giggle from the driver. "You speak Serbian like a Kosovan." His English public school accent betrayed how he was recruited.
The first swallow hot tea went down a parched throat and there was a sigh of relief. "Leave the thermos, will you?"
"Time to get the show on the road, brother mine. Back in your box."
Sherlock gave him a filthy look, but complied.
oOo
The car drove onto the tarmac of the small Ponikve airport near Uzice. The driver showed papers to the airport security guard, who opened the chain linked gate, allowing access to the row of small planes. The Cessna was parked third along the row- easily identified because it was the only one that had a pilot in the seat. The plane door popped open, as the car backed into the space between the parked planes. No need to let prying eyes see who the prisoner was being transferred to the plane. Aware that he might be seen by binoculars from the tiny control tower, Mycroft went up the two steps to sit beside the pilot, while the driver half carried Sherlock and helped him into the seat in the back. There was another blanket which the driver arranged around the half conscious passenger, and then strapped him in the shoulder seat belt. Sherlock groaned and promptly passed out.
Mycroft turned around to look over the seat. "Thank you, Markovic; your services are gratefully appreciated, as is your discretion." He eyed his brother's filthy long hair and his chin down on his chest.
"Of course, sir; always happy to oblige. Anything for a fellow Old Etonian." Doors were shut and the driver backed the car out of the way, allowing the little propeller driven plane to bounce down the potholed tarmac. The pilot exchanged pleasantries with the tiny control tower and then in a ridiculously short distance down the runway, the light aircraft lifted off the ground. Once out of radar contact with the airport control tower, the pilot dropped his altitude to barely a thousand feet and banked hard to the left. Moments later, they were headed toward the coast.
Mycroft leaned over towards the pilot, almost shouting to be heard over the noise of the propeller. "Are we safe from detection?"
"The Minister's reach is a bit tenuous here, so we're flying under the radar to be safe. Unregistered aircraft, disabled transponder. An AWACS or NIMROD will pick us up, as well as satellite. But, the Serbs don't have access, so we're OK. I bribed the controller when I filed the flight plan- they think we are smuggling drugs. Pretty common practice, so even if they do spot the turn, they will assume we're heading for Italy with a cargo of cocaine. Saric does it all the time."
The noise of the plane made conversation difficult, and Mycroft was not in the mood. His horrid uniform itched; the coarse wool and the sweat of its previous wearer blended with the smell of petrol and motor oil. He'd taken off the ridiculous hat. Flying at tree top height was also a rather bumpier experience than he liked. He shut his eyes and tried to shut out the rest of the sensations that were irritating him. Within moments, he was asleep.
oOo
He woke up when the pilot banked and started to climb steeply. The man slipped earphones back on- and was now talking to someone on the radio, while he reached over and hit a few toggle switches. Mycroft saw the wingtip lights come on. Then in Croatian, the pilot announced a call sign and a flight plan for landing at Dubrovnik. The plane was rising now to a proper altitude, leaving the treetops behind.
"Ten minutes, sir."
Mycroft looked over the back seat. Sherlock had not moved. His head was still down, chin on his chest. His neck is going to be sore. He almost winced at the thought that among all the other injuries inflicted on his brother tonight, sore neck muscles would hardly be noticed.
The landing was somewhat surprising. After two hours of night flying over dark forests carefully dodging the occasional small settlement, they suddenly came out over the sea and turned a sharp left, heading north over the ocean towards a brightly lit city in the distance on the coast. Well before they reached it, however, the plane turned back inland and then Mycroft spotted the airport's landing lights. The descent was quick- they were low by Mycroft's usual standards; jets made a quicker climb to commercial flight levels of 17,000 feet and above.
Moments later, they were taxiing over to a hanger alongside a row of parked executive jets, away from the main terminal. While the prop plane idled, two men emerged from one of the jets - both of whom Mycroft recognised. For the first time since crossing the border into Serbia three days ago, he took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. He thanked the pilot and got out onto the tarmac, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs, watching as the two men lifted Sherlock out and carried him up the steps of a Citation jet- officially the fastest mid-sized private jet, capable of 600mph airspeed. He followed them up and the steps were retracted almost immediately. He threw the wretched hat onto a seat, and shrugged off the uniform coat as fast as he could manage it.
"Good evening, sir."
"My dear, you have no idea how glad I am to see you. Have you brought some clean clothes?"
Not Anthea smiled. "They're in the washroom, sir. I assume you want to change before we take off? According to the pilot, we've got about ten minutes before our departure slot."
Mycroft walked by the place where his unconscious brother was being put onto a stretcher that had been strapped in place between two facing seats. A third man was hovering, the doctor that Mycroft had brought with them. "Just in case," he had told his PA. Just this once, I hate being proved right.
He shut himself into the small WC and began to strip. It was not easy for a man of his size to change clothes in such a confined space, but he was desperate enough to get rid of the disguise that he would have done it in a phone booth, if necessary.
The boots came off first. The puddle of clothing under his feet grew- to go undercover, everything had to be local. He ran some hot water into the stainless steel basin and washed as much as he could reach. His PA had thoughtfully ensured his brands of soap and deodorant were on hand. Once dried, he pulled on the silk boxer shorts and the 100 percent pima cotton vest, then the silk and cotton blend socks. He brushed his teeth. Looking at the face reflected back in the mirror, he rubbed his chin. Shaving would have to wait, but like his brother he had been blessed with a sparse beard, and the discomfort was minimal. As he put on his clothes and then his hand-made brogues, he thought of the bloody filthy mess that was Sherlock, and wondered how he could have stood it.
As he placed the folded handkerchief square into the top left pocket of his jacket, he realised the plane was in motion. He went out and looked up the aisle. In the jump seat by the door, where a stewardess would normally be seated, his PA was watching him. One of his agents was seated facing her, already strapped in. The other one who had lifted Sherlock out of the Cessna was a trained field nurse, and he was busy inserting an IV line into Sherlock's right arm. The doctor was taking Sherlock's blood pressure.
As he passed the stretcher, Mycroft asked, "Prognosis, Doctor Radley?"
"I can't tell much, yet. His vitals are a bit shaky. He's badly dehydrated. BP is higher than I'd like."
"Continue once we are airborne." Mycroft willed himself not to look at his brother's face as he walked by and dropped into a forward facing seat, and put on his seat belt, just as the small jet made the turn onto the main runway.
While the plane accelerated, he cast his mind back to the conversation that started this journey, eighteen days ago. He'd been in Elizabeth Ffoukes' office at Vauxhall.
"We don't know what to do. The terrorist threat is credible, but all sources have turned up empty. No humint, no signal traffic. Not a peep. It's got the boys and girls on both sides of the Thames in a tiz. My God, Mycroft, even you- all you've turned up is a date- November. That's less than a month away!" It took a lot to rattle Elizabeth Ffoukes, but she was clearly rattled. "Whatever is going on, it's so deep underground that no one can figure it out."
He turned back from the window overlooking the Thames. The tide had just turned. "There is someone who could, you know."
A silence fell. Her face softened, and she said quietly, "I don't know where he is. We…ah…lost the trail in Tibet. He disappeared into China. That was almost eight months ago. Not a peep since."
That confirmed what Griffin** had told him. He'd take almost two months to figure out that Sherlock had gone north to Nepal after absconding from the hospital in Mumbai. By the time he traced him to the Tibetan monastery, almost four months had elapsed, and the man was gone. The abbot was silent on the direction that Lars Sigurson had taken, and no amount of persuasion changed his mind. A few tentative scouting exercises turned nothing up, so Mycroft had recalled Griffin.
The debrief took place in private, at Parham.
"Describe what happened." Mycroft's order was directed at Albert Griffin, who was wearing the country tweeds that blended in well with the rest guests on the shooting weekend. Now, after the other guests had retired for the night, Holmes had brought him into his private rooms and handed him a brandy. "I want…everything. Every step of the way, from Locarno to Mumbai." Mycroft had been starved of information about Sherlock's progress. For once in his life, the elder Holmes had been outmanoeuvred by the younger Holmes. It still rankled. Being recused from the operation on the orders of the Prime Minister rubbed salt into the wound. Not even MI6 knew what was really going on, unless Sherlock bothered to tell them. "Deniability," is what Sherlock called it. "Idiocy," is what Mycroft called it.
Griffin summarised the seven months he had managed to keep on Sherlock's trail in the next half hour- the incidents, the stories behind the mysterious packets of intelligence information that had arrived in the in-boxes of various intelligence services heads across the world. But never Mycroft's own. He was being kept in the dark, on Sherlock's orders.
"Once he acknowledged your presence, did he talk much?"
Griffin shook his head. "Lars Sigurson is one of the most silent men I have ever met. He spoke only when it was necessary for the work. He never initiated a conversation with me, rarely acknowledged my presence. After Locarno, I think that he stopped trying to hide things from me, but he never volunteered any information about where he was going next. He just…well…made it easier for me to follow him. He really only tolerated me at a distance."
"And you weren't there when he was injured in the knife fight in India."
Albert Griffin looked into the flames of the fireplace. "No, I regret to say I wasn't, sir. If I had been, I might have been able to prevent him getting stabbed, or at least realised the extent of the injury and done something about it before he became ill with infection. He rather overlooked his own health. I didn't realise how serious it was until he collapsed."
"He's never been one to think about risks until too late." Mycroft tried to keep the bitterness out of his tone.
Looking at the MI6 DG that afternoon nearly three weeks ago, Mycroft had decided to take a risk of his own. "Let me find him then, Elizabeth. Tell the PM that the recusal is over. Needs must. This terrorist threat takes priority over whatever plans Sherlock is privately pursuing. Lord knows, he's been at it long enough. Time to come home."
"You're assuming he'd come if asked. I'm not so sure that his priorities and yours match."
"Leave that to me. The needs of the country are more important. Just tell the PM that and let me loose from this absurd situation."
It was testament to the seriousness of the terrorist threat that he had his answer from her within minutes of leaving Vauxhall. The text he opened in the back of the car on the way to the Diogenes Club was brevity itself:
16.12 You're cleared. Find him.
Even so, it took him another fourteen days before his intelligence sources came up with the goods.
"Drugs dealing in the Balkans?" His eyebrows had risen.
"Yes, sir. The trail leads to the Serbian, Darko Seric***. His cocaine operation is the largest in Europe. The Dutch AIVD received a tip off from an anonymous source that the man is under the protection of someone called Baron Maupertuis. Turns out the baron's in charge of a financial empire linking up the Netherlands with Sumatra in Indonesia. The source suggests that the Dutchman does the money laundering not just for Saric- but just about everybody who's anybody in the cocaine business. We think the source is Lars Sigurson. Just why the former Norwegian manager of Moriarty's network would turn a former client in, we don't know. But he's in Serbia- been spotted in Uzice. Maybe he's trying to muscle in on a former client. Rumour has it that Saric's men have captured him."
"Then we will have to move fast." Mycroft turned to his PA. "If someone else has taken the trouble of confining him, then we have a fighting chance of recovering him. We will need a legal story, to deal with any political fall-out if we are discovered. You know the extradition arrangements that will suit, so get started." His PA knew; she was the only one.
As the jet lifted through the cloud ceiling over Dubrovnik, he realised she was watching him now. And her eyes betrayed her concern. To the rest of the personnel, the man now lying strapped to the stretcher was simply the most valuable intelligence operative the British had- a Norwegian double-agent called Lars Sigurson, who had single-handedly destroyed Moriarty's criminal network. But his PA had been involved in the thirteen scenarios that got Sherlock off the roof of St Bart's alive. Mycroft had trusted her with the most important secret of his political career- that despite the PM's insistence that he have nothing to do with the plans of Sherlock to fake his death and go undercover, Mycroft had actually agreed to help his brother.
It was neither rapprochement, nor reconciliation. An armed truce was a better description. After that most peculiar incident in Devon, the two Holmes brothers met three weeks later. At the estate, of all places. Sherlock had a good excuse to be there- the funeral of Frank Wallace brought him back to the house.
The old gamekeeper had retired the previous year; arthritis after a lifetime's exposure to the elements had claimed his health. He'd moved from the gamekeeper's cottage to another smaller property on the estate- leaving the kennels and the work to his assistant. It was a fall and a broken hip that did him in; complications and pneumonia meant he never came home. Mycroft managed to visit him once, to hear Frank complaining that if he were a dog, they'd "do the decent thing and put me down." Despite an optimistic prognosis, the gamekeeper just gave up and died three days later.
Sherlock showed up at the funeral at the last minute- stood in the back of the chapel, as if uncomfortable with the surroundings. He stood silent at the internment, but left before the graveside service was over, striding away across the grounds into the solitude of Northpark Woods. At the reception back at the house, Mycroft had been left to see to the estate workers and the shooting syndicate members who had come out to show their respect for the gamekeeper.
Hours later, in front of the fire in his private rooms, the door opened and Sherlock slipped into the leather chair opposite his brother.
It was left to Mycroft to start. "I'm glad you came."
"I didn't do it for you."
"I know that, but your being here allows me to collect a debt. You owe me for Baskerville."
Sherlock snorted in derision. "You got what you needed- exposure of a secret research project started by the CIA, carried on clandestinely here under the noses of the military police. I'm sure you just loved rubbing the nose of the Defence Liaison in that little mess. I don't owe you anything more than the discovery."
MyCroft sighed and sipped at his malt whisky. "Just stop this feud. I can be helpful."
"Since when?" Suspicion was an undercurrent in the baritone.
"Since now. Your chances of living through this will improve if we work together."
Sherlock's face was unreadable. Then a barely perceptible nod. "That's true. But only on my terms."
"Whatever you wish, brother mine."
That made Sherlock look at him. Whatever he saw must have led him to decide to talk. "Moriarty's going to come after you in a big way- something splashy, headline grabbing- a way to demonstrate what he sees as your failure to control him."
"Tell me something I don't know." Mycroft was well aware of the Irishman's enmity.
His brother leaned forward in the chair. "Well, I'm going to get there first. Elizabeth has delivered three cases that will put me on the front pages. Think of it as covering fire. I get to distract him, while you get me data more on his network. Everything you can."
"I've been told I'm not allowed to do that. Your little power-play earlier with Lady Smallwood means I am officially recused by the PM as having a conflict of interest."
That provoked another snort. "Since when has that ever stopped you? This way, at least I can get some of the benefit of what I know you are doing anyway."
Mycroft took another swallow of the whisky; this one nearly a gulp. "And what's in it for me- this sharing of intelligence?" He put some sarcasm on the word.
It had no effect on Sherlock. "I will tell you what I plan to do- but only just before I do it. If I need your help, I'll ask for it. But otherwise, we are to maintain the appearance of a rupture. Feed his ego, make him think that he can divide and rule."
Not that far from the truth, brother mine. Mycroft was not quite ready to forgive his brother for the embarrassment of being out-manoeuvred in front of Elizabeth Ffoukes and Lady Smallwood, not to mention the PM. "Do you really know what this will cost you, Sherlock?"
The younger man sat back in the chair and turned toward the fire, unwilling to look at Mycroft. Then, quietly, "yes…almost everything. But, that is better than the alternative. I want to live through this; and I want to have the chance to come back, if it is remotely possible. That's all. The plan will work. You will just have to trust me, Mycroft. I know that is hard for you. But, really there is no alternative."
After a moment's silence, Sherlock had got up and left the room without looking back. And that was the last time Mycroft had seen his brother face-to-face until tonight, in that wretched castle cellar. Almost twenty seven months. The longest they had ever been physically separated since the day Sherlock was born. Even when he'd been on assignment overseas, he had managed to get back twice a year to see his little brother. It wasn't much to a teenager, but it had mattered to Mycroft that he did it. Even the dark days on the streets of London, or lost in addiction, Mycroft had not abandoned his brother. Being forced to be apart was something that had distressed Mycroft more than he would ever admit.
The angle of ascent suddenly decreased, and he could hear the engines being throttled back. Cruising altitude- the pilot switched off the seatbelt sign, and he could hear the two men behind him immediately get up and cross to their patient. He would resist watching them examine the injuries. He'd seen the damage being done. Up close and personal, as if the interrogator had been trying to impress the bigwig from Belgrade with how tough he was on a turncoat drug dealer. Being forced to watch Sherlock being beaten was perhaps the most difficult hour of his career in the service. It had taken every ounce of his cold logical unsentimental side that he could muster. The visual horror was only outstripped by the sound of his brother's painful grunts as the blows struck home. Mycroft had nearly lost his control when the guard had hit Sherlock in the throat, reducing that voice to a whisper. Even then, Sherlock had not given up. He watched him take his guard apart psychologically until the man fled the room.
Extradition- an appropriate cover story, brother mine, for the crime you committed by taking this mad journey of yours, against my wishes. Mycroft's reluctant help in the final roof top showdown had been hastily constructed and managed by Sherlock. Once he was off the roof, there was no further contact. He never did figure out how Sherlock left the country. Elizabeth Ffoukes would have been involved, no doubt. And the American side of Moriarty's network had been taken apart at the seams over the next five months- the USA, Canada, Mexico and then into the drug countries of Latin America. The intelligence that ended up on her desk showed Sherlock's usual finesse and thorough attention to detail. Mycroft had only been allowed to see parts of it. That…was like salt in an open wound.
Behind Mycroft came the sound of overhead lockers being opened and medical equipment being brought down. He watched his PA's face. She was observing their ministrations.
"My dear, could you please check with the pilot how long before we cross into Italian airspace?"
She nodded and picked up the phone on the wall beside the stewardess's jump seat. He watched the question being asked. She never stopped looking up the aisle at what the doctor and his assistant were doing. Mycroft could deduce their activities from the sound of their work, and the expression on his PA's face. She put the phone down, and broke off her observation to turn her eyes to his. "Seven minutes."
"Did you hear that, Doctor Radley? You have seven minutes to decide whether we can make it back to London non-stop, which will take two hours, or whether we need to find the nearest Italian hospital, which is due west in Pescara and less than a half hour from here."
He heard a grunt of acknowledgement behind him, and then busy activity. He heard a hiss of compressed air, and imagined the mask being fitted onto his brother's face. He hates the scent; let's hope he stays unconscious. Mycroft watched the chronometer on the wall above his PA's seat. When it reached six minutes, he stood and turned around.
"Time to decide, Doctor Radley."
The doctor pulled the stethoscope from his ears and stood up to face Mycroft. His expression showed his indecision. "He has a stable airway, is breathing with the mask reasonably well. There is no sign of head trauma. The wounds on his back are nasty but manageable on board. I wish I had access to a portable x ray or an ultrasound. He's been beaten badly, but you knew that. There is damage to the ribs- but it's hard to tell if the bones are bruised, cracked or broken. There is some internal bleeding- which appears to be soft tissue, but I can't tell if there is organ damage. The bleeding isn't severe enough to indicate anything major- so far. He's so dehydrated that it's hard to know if there are renal issues, or simply that he hasn't had enough to fill his bladder."
"Perhaps I did not make myself clear." Mycroft let the steel show in both his tone of voice and the expression on his face. "The choice is twenty to thirty minutes away from a hospital or two and half hours away. The latter will be a better, more secure hospital, but it is further away. Your advice is required, now."
The doctor swallowed. "Safety says get him to a hospital as quickly as possible." But Mycroft could hear the man's caution. "But, he is stable, so the alternative is possible, just a little bit riskier."
Mycroft turned back to Not Anthea. "Tell the pilot to get back to London as quickly as possible." He returned to his seat. Not once had he looked at his brother. He was not sure he could make such a decision if he had done so. Sentiment clouds judgment; caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.
Author's Notes:
*To any Serbian readers, I apologise for the failings of Google Translate. In English the dialogue is "In here"/"Soldier!"/"Release him"/"I'm taking him with me"/ "Where? Why?" /"Sir, you are taking the prisoner?" /"Yes, Saric is trading him for protection. I'm to take him to Belgrade."/ "He is a drug dealer sent by the Romanians. It is up to the Government to extradite him to the West- in exchange for more aid- that pays your wages."/"Help him get that scum into the boot of the car."
** To understand who Griffin is, read my story Still Talking When You're Not There, Chapter Five
***Darko Saric is real. Google to find out how this notorious drug lord was just recently captured.