Meet Me In Samarra
Chapter 15
'It's been a difficult year, And terrors don't prey on innocent victims. Trust me….'
(Dan Reynolds /Aja Volkman)
London:
He woke with a jolt, body spasming from being curled into a space too small; John Watson's sofa. An unexpected alien noise had disturbed him The wail of a baby. A sharp sound rousing him from sleep, but not to trigger fight or flight.
Then came the sound of murmured reassurances. John Watson, speaking low, in the bedroom across the hall. Then silence again.
Well, of course. Caring daddy, conditioned baby.
He relaxed back down without relaxing and lay and looked up at an unfamiliar ceiling.
Calm. Be calm. Not an unexpected noise, not really. Because he wasn't in Baker Street, but in the Watson's flat. Within which lived a baby. Therefore a noise normal for the space. He just wasn't accustomed.
Breathe. Release the panic. He rolled his wrist to see the luminous hands on his wristwatch and find he had only slept for three hours. Not enough, but it would have to do. Realised he had slept despite himself; realised John Watson must have let him sleep on the sofa. Had simply put a cushion under his head, covered him with a blanket. And he had not even noticed.
Care, was it? So there was still care there, despite everything? An interesting indicator. Was that good? Or was it weakening, debilitating? To be avoided? Avoided at least until whatever was happening….happened. .
He stood then, felt disorientated, felt old. Folded and placed the blanket. Hovered with indecision; not knowing if that was being cared for or being dismissed. Whether he should stay and share breakfast with the little family, or get out of their way.
He decided to get out of their way. So much to do. Best alone. So much he wanted not to have to explain. So much he must keep to himself, for now.
He heard the baby cry out again as he closed the front door softly behind him. Flinched and grimaced. Did not turn back.
o0o0o
Norddal:
Salmon scrambled eggs on wholemeal toast. Orange juice and coffee. Grilled grapefruit. Twice. So predictable.
He plonked his plate of Loch Fyne kipper down between the two matching breakfast settings and drew up a chair.
Early breakfast at the Adventurer's Club, with just two mature elegant ladies dining in the atrium. Who moved their chairs apart without comment to allow him to sit between them.
"You again," the elegant blonde commented without heat.
"She means it's good to see you again," explained the brunette
"Really? When she knows I am only here to ask a favour?"
He looked dispassionately at them both, and they looked back, apparently equally unmoved. Two women old enough to be his mother, but with nothing motherly about either of them.
"A favour? You? Good lord." The brunette put down her cutlery and stared at him.
"Must be important. Fire away, then."
They paused while a waiter brought fresh coffee, an individual pot of Earl Grey tea.
"Recommendations for good child care," he said. More statement than question.
Braced for ironic laughter and scorn, he was taken aback to receive neither.
"Not your problem." Lady Smallwood spoke without even thinking.
Not directly, no. "
"Watson is over protective as a single parent. Allowing himself to be hamstrung by domesticity. Yes?" Maggie Driscoll was leaning towards him.
"Something like that."
"He got himself into this. Too needy of affection. Cutting off his nose to spite his face." Lady Smallwood again.
"Couldn't possibly comment."
"Your amanuensis has a near lethal determination to default to the ordinary. Such narrowness of mind will kill one or other of you yet. You are too loyal."
Maggie Driscoll never usually said such things. She covered her forensic objectivity by stealing a fork full of kipper. He let her.
"'Faithful unto death'" he quoted lightly.
"A vastly over rated stance, if you ask me," Elizabeth Smallwood said acidly.
"She means that in the final analysis neither Watson, nor both Watsons together, are as important as you," Maggie Driscoll translated. "Quite right."
"Thank you for your input. Most helpful." The words were one thing, the tone said something else.
He rose to leave, oddly hurt and somehow vaguely humiliated, breakfast all but untouched.
Three steps from the table, Maggie Driscoll's voice called him back. He paused midstride but did not turn. Would not display his humiliation easily.
"Your words give me an idea. Leave your little logistical problem with me."
He did not reply, just lifted one hand to show he had heard. Kept walking.
o0o0o
He had sat at the dining table that served as a desk and pored over several computer screens until his neck hurt and he was seeing black dots instead of letters. Two days of slow and careful reading of files, assessing, cross referencing, determined not to speed read, not miss anything, not make assumptions. Too much counted on this research.
Learning who Tamora Sologashvili was; from birth certificate to death certificate and everything in between.
Nico had been thorough. Everything about his wife and her life were there in the file he held close in his personal laptop. Touchingly so, if the base sentimentality of the very existence of the file - and it's extent - was recognised and accepted. More a declaration of love than a matter of record.
The extent and the intensity of the file, even the way it was compiled and laid out, had the air of a twenty first century shrine, a technological tribute. A commemoration.
And, as he read, even Sherlock Holmes had to admit Tamora Sologashvili had been an exceptional young woman.
An outstanding scholar through school and university, a happy and well balanced teenager with friends and hobbies, scholarships and trophies. A committed and high achieving student, then a growing career, bolstered and assured by a happy and successful marriage (complete with intimate photographs and love letters that would have made anyone more humane and empathetic than a consulting detective pass over them quickly and blush when doing so)
A life that could be seen as uniquely successful; as woman, wife, scholar and Georgian. A life uniquely charmed until becoming friends with Julia Tregarron as they planned the art and culture exhibition at the British Embassy.
He was concentrating so hard, cross referencing between three computer screens, that he absently ate all the toast his landlady placed at his elbow, drank the tea she kept putting quietly down on the table.
She chivvied him to remember to eat, to shave. To rest. He ignored her, or grumbled at her, his entire intelligence miles away from Baker Street, with a woman and a world far away.
He finally understood Nico Sologashvili's anger and frustration and despair. He even understood the sense of loss. He concentrated and frowned and worked his way relentlessly through a sense of impotence, the weight of the puzzle
While his landlady ignored his bad manners and distraction, tidied the notes in tiny, spidery handwriting, hovered, made tea.
Finally he came to the planning process of the exhibition, the weeks leading up to her death.
Nico had saved and catalogued everything. Emails and diary entries and photographs; even notes, embassy passes, texts. A labour of love.
And slowly, as he read, a pattern began to emerge. Almost too many messages relating to the exhibition. Too many messages from Julia Tregarron. And a pattern within them that began to emerge and then disturb.
'Running late. Sorry'
'Can we put back the meeting an hour? Tied up.'
'Diary clash. How about meeting tomorrow morning instead?'
'Forgot a conference call booked for later. Reschedule for lunch instead of dinner?'
And more, increasingly much more, of the same. Julia Tregarron, unusually lax and absent minded as far as the exhibition was concerned. Yet clearly a pet project and one she considered valuable and prestigious.
Business-like and the soul of brevity with everyone else. Accurate and astute. But with Tamora…..something else. Something more human, more humane and fallible, a different side to her character.
Tamora appeared always the scapegoat, the backstop, the easy excuse. Julia Tregarron was a woman with a haughty sense of her own entitlement, her expectation - assumption - Tamora would always comply.
And mainly she did. Kind, understanding Tamora. Except when she didn't.
'That's fine, Julia.'
'No problem, see you later.'
'Tomorrow good instead of after noon. You are getting very absent minded. Too much to do?'
'Could you put someone else off for a change? I have other work, too!'
This was not the communication of two women having an affair, despite the gossip. This was one woman taking advantage of the good nature and flexible schedule of another.
He looked at those messages that niggled at his instinct, messages he highlighted and gathered together. So irrelevant they seemed, at first. Insignificant, each little excuse on it's own; so no-one else had picked up the devil in the detail. Just a small thread, that tugged. But an insistent one. A flaw in the warp and weft of a busy life, a thread, when isolated, which grew and became a damning flaw.
A thread he had to pull. And follow to death or glory, just like Theseus in the Minotaur's maze.
He paused then. He had said something very similar to John Watson and Lestrade when seeking the stolen Margaret Thatchers; a reflective remark about pulling threads, how boring life would become without pulling those threads, words spoken just weeks ago. It already seemed years and lifetimes away.
So what had Julia Tregarron been doing to make her time keeping and reliability sloppy, that placed the ambassador elsewhere when expected somewhere else? That so reliably made Tamora Sologashvili both her alibi and the excuse she hid behind?
What was the British ambassador's secret? He needed facts. He needed more information. Triangulation.
o0o0o
Szczecin:
The telephone call was brief and to the point.
"I need material from the archives."
"Which material from which archive?"
"The working diary and the personal diary of Julia Tregarron from six years ago."
"From the time of the siege, in fact?"
"Bravo. Well done."
"You do not have that level of security clearance."
"Oh, please."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Sherlock Holmes waited Then nudged.
"Up to you, of course. If you really want this solved. "
Another long silence. A grudging concession.
"It will take a few days. To locate and send via the diplomatic bag."
"Chop chop, then."
o0o0o
Leichenstein:
John Watson was half way up the stairs heading towards 221B with his daughter in his arms and a plastic carrier bag on his wrist.
On the landing Sherlock Holmes and Mrs Hudson were having some sort of disagreement about food. Mulligatawny soup? Really? He suppressed a laugh.
Which was when the door knocker slammed down. Four knocks, at speed.
"You'd better go back down and get that," Sherlock Holmes said equably. "You're nearest."
Such a humdrum, everyday thing. Yet he remembered it afterwards as the prelude to something life changing.
But he abandoned the bag on the half landing - milk, bread, ham, marmalade, baked beans - and went back.
He opened the door one handed, Rosie on his hip.
As he did so, the thought flashed through his mind that he must look the picture of daddy domesticity: there was porridge in his hair - from Rosie's sticky fingers at breakfast - he had not had time to wash out. Fruit puree stained his tie, and he had only just noticed. The strings of a bib stuck out of his jacket pocket, and he had his arms full of wide awake and grumbling baby.
Unattractive, inelegant, inefficient. Did all single dads feel like this? Harried and unhappy, out of their depth yet desperate to do the best for their children? And did giving the appearance of a struggling single dad amuse or repel?
He opened the door as he had so many times before, and expected a case to be standing on the doorstep. A private client, seeking resolution. Lestrade, or even Donovan, with corny jokes and teasing sympathetic eyes.
It was the sympathy he hated. most. Teetering, as it always was when seen coping alone with his child, a reaction on the edge of pity. How long had Mary been gone now? Or was it best not to think about it, not count the days and weeks and months? He still didn't know the right answer to that.
The last thing he expected to see was a tall elegant young woman in black slacks and sweater, a classic Burberry trench coat. There was an expensive leather haversack on her shoulder. And in one hand she twirled a distinctive pale blue baby's sock with yellow ducks on it.
"Yours, I think," she said, brandishing it under his nose.
And he laughed then as she grinned at him. It transformed her dark, serious face. Crinkled the perfect complexion into laughter lines, the dark eyes into honeyed warmth. The expensive pushchair on the pavement beside her contained a child probably jut a few weeks older than Rosie: but it was always hard to tell such things, even to a doctor and father.
"You were in the supermarket," he said by way of greeting. Recognition of both the woman and the sock. "We bumped into you at the checkout…"
"Or I might have bumped into you!" her voice was low in timbre for a woman, attractive, middle class. "Always hard to tell when you have too many things and not enough hands - and a baby in tow."
She made a gesture towards her own pushchair with one hand. Purported not to notice the porridge or the puree, or even the unshaven state of his face. Kind then, as well as diplomatic.
"I spotted the sock all on it's own. Called out, but you didn't hear me. So I followed you. Like a spy. Hunting Cinderella."
He nodded then, and smiled back. No effort at all. Took the lost sock from her hand and tried to wrangle it back onto a wriggling left foot.
"You'll never manage that one handed," she observed mildly.
"Can but try," he replied. Dogged, distracted, hitching a hip and wishing, not for the first time, he had three hands or magical staff to command.
And was suddenly too aware of the shadows of Sherlock Holmes and Mrs Hudson peering down from the stairs.
"What's going on, John? Who are you're talking to? Not the postman, surely?" His former landlady, protective, as usual.
"No! it's….a guardian angel masquerading as a mum." He met the eyes of the visitor in appreciation before he half turned and called up the stairs. Then turned back to the young woman on the doorstep.
"Where are my manners?" he asked. "Hello and thank you. I'm John Watson, and this is Rosie," he added.
"I am Faithful Debebe Hamilton," she replied. " And the little person asleep, and looking deceptively angelic in his pushchair, is my son Campbell."
"Ethopian," declared a confident baritone voice from above them. "Interesting. And your husband is either Scottish or from Nevis. Which?"
"Nevis," she replied, with a little frown that acknowledged a little puzzle. "But how did you know that?"
A low, dismissive hum came from the stairs in reply.
"He does that. Don't worry about it." John Watson reassured.
"Don't worry," she said "I'm not worried."
She grinned back at him, meaning it. Ducked her head around John and Rosie Watson to watch Sherlock Holmes come slowly down the stairs towards her: head raised, eyes flaring with the blank forensic laser look that meant he was thinking hard and assessing.
Because she had already told them openly all he needed to know.
"Faithful unto death," he quoted thoughtfully.
Their eyes locked over the heads of Rosie and John Watson. Calm recognition, professional accord. The distracted father missed that look as he continued to struggle the errant sock back into place
"Absolutely," she agreed with a tiny nod "But I get bored with that quotation thrown at me all the time."
"With a name like yours…there is another quotation you prefer?"
He reached the bottom stair, hand on the newel post, Mrs Hudson behind him.
In the dimness of the hallway she registered the aristocratic face, the poise, the pale unblinking eyes.
"There are many. Most of them pompous or pious. I prefer Walter Scott; the one about the rusty nail placed near a faithful compass and sway it from the truth. That sounds better, more of a life lesson." And looked at John Watson.
The consulting detective smiled briefly. And returned the nod. Maggie Driscoll would have been proud of them both.
o0o0o
Il Nord:
He did not stop playing as John Watson entered the sitting room. Facing the bay window, ignoring sheet music on it's stand, he registered the distorted reflection of his friend back through the glass.
No briefcase, no baby. No shopping. No current pressures preoccupying him, it seemed.
So he simply played on. It was a long time since he had maintained daily practise, had even handled the Guarneri. But playing it now helped him think. And he needed to think.
Anthea had delivered the diaries. Both tucked inside a cornflakes box with ordinary shopping inside a plastic supermarket carrier bag. Wordlessly she unpacked the two worn books from the cardboard box, replaced them with two similar sized books from her capacious handbag, and turned to leave.
"Can't be too careful," she observed on her way back to the door.
"Could be. You could leave me the chocolate digestives," he remarked. "A goodwill gesture."
"Goodwill? You?" there was the ghost of a well bred smile. "Mr Holmes requires these with his morning coffee. More than my life's worth to go back to the office without them."
She tossed her head, dark curls immaculate, a constant of understated elegance.
"And he wants the diaries returned. When you have finished with them."
"Goes without saying. But thank you any way."
"Oh, you're being polite now? I am honoured."
And she was gone as quickly and carefully as she had come.
Leaving him to sink down at the desk with the two books that may or may not prove vital; provide those little nuggets of information or insight that might be the key to the case.
The desk diary was of maroon leatherette, standard government fare. Entries in uniform black ink, the handwriting of the ambassador and, he deduced, her secretary. Well ordered, neat. An old fashioned habit to back up the embassy computerised calendar.
The personal diary was smaller. A world museums edition, a work of art to begin and inspire every week. Multi coloured ink or biro, pencil and scrawl marked these private pages. Doodles. Words written upside down or within circles and hearts.
He began with the office diary. Cross checking against texts and emails from the Tamora file. To see what corresponded or not. Names and references to recognise and validate, others to investigate. Tedious but necessary.
Both diaries stopped abruptly on the same date. Leaving empty pages more eloquent than words.
So he lifted the latest cup of tea ( tea tray, buttered scone with strawberry jam; late afternoon, then?) and began to read, make notes, check the computer screens.
And the following afternoon, instead of succumbing to demanding sleep he had so far ignored, he stood and eased his cramped muscles, took up the Guarneri, and began to play. The clichéd change as good as a rest.
Mendelssohn and Sibelius and Glass. Bach. He was in the middle of a Baroque chaconne when John Watson arrived.
Lost in the intricacies of ricochet bowing and double stops, high notes and intervals and bitter sweet emotional complexity, he blotted out the world for a few precious moments. Inspiration and intellect within the music, intelligence and imagination lost in Tblisi. Ten more minutes of musical mastery that rebooted his brain and refreshed his synapses.
By the time he lowered his bow John Watson had made tea and was sitting in his old overstuffed Victorian armchair by the hearth.
"Nice music," he said mildly. "Don't think I've heard you play that before."
Quiet words, conversational, unaggressive. An unusual state of affairs these days. Sherlock Holmes did not remark on it, simply appreciated it and allowed his tensed shoulders to drop a little.
"Baroque. Vitali. Chaconne in G Minor. Bit of a mystery piece. Doubts about the provenance, beautiful all the same."
"Yeah? Well, what else would you play? Except something beautiful and mysterious."
He slowly returned the violin to it's case, the bow to it's clip in the lid. Closed it and the music in his head.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand. Is that irony? Sarcasm or something?"
"Does it have to be anything other than a simple remark? A compliment, perhaps?"
"John….."
"Just come and sit down, drink your tea."
So he did. Sitting opposite, warming his tired hands around the warm mug, stretching his legs before him and trying to force himself to relax. Aware of the silent scrutiny from the man opposite.
John Watson looked and observed and saw stubble, untidy hair, a three day old shirt, pale skin and red rimmed eyes Hunched shoulders and a repressed wild look that told it's own tale. Created a rush of some sort of feeling he swallowed down; inappropriate and unwelcome to them both.
"You look tired," he risked instead
"Yes." A rare admission. It nudged the doctor off balance. So he could not help himself but ask:
"Anything to do with Mary?"
The look that rose to meet his eyes was dull, vacant, puzzled.
"Mary?" For a moment it was almost as if he did not even know the name, that high functioning brain in an alternative universe far away from Baker Street. John Watson felt almost ashamed for mentioning the name.
"My wife. Your friend. The woman who ran off and abandoned her husband and child. Remember her, do you?"
He couldn't keep the edge from his voice; knew he was being over sensitive. Felt stretched enough not to care. Not at that moment.
Objective eyes turned his way, then lowered without challenge.
"Don't be ridiculous. Snide doesn't become you." And then, as if the words were hard to produce: "She hasn't abandoned you. She will be back. After she's….done what she has to do."
"Why are you so certain, Sherlock? I'm not certain, and she is supposed to be my wife." He sighed, his brief outburst collapsing into defeat as soon as it had begun. "But then, I suppose you have always known her better than me."
"Stop that. Self pity and does not become you. Nor is it necessary."
The expression was stern, the voice remorseless. John Watson wilted under the truth of it. And admitted it.
"I'm sorry. I am finding all of this….too much. Going on for too long. I can't…cope on my own for much longer."
"You're not on your own."
He sucked back what could become tears as a result of those five plain words, ducked his head and composed his features, gathered his thoughts. Changed tack.
"So where is she now?"
"Il Nord. Northern Italy. Offloading a cache of stolen paintings. Posing as a woman called Barbara Clarke selling off family heirlooms. Closing down another AGRA safe house and funds cache. She's fine."
"Kind of you to tell me." His voice was choked by his ignorance, between anger and emotion.
"I always tell you where she is, what she is doing." Sherlock Holmes spoke with utter seriousness, no criticism or self defence, but also offering no excuses. "I don't want your imagination to run away with you. Or have you believe I am keeping secrets from you. When I'm not."
"I know. I'm sorry. But this is hard. Harder than I expected."
"Why? She knows what she is doing. She is better alone. Keeping you safe was her first concern. Stopping Watson becoming an innocent pawn. Putting the two of you first, whatever you think."
"By not hanging off her gun arm?"
"She made a valid point, John. Not being critical of you. Nothing personal."
"Sherlock….."
"No. I don't want to hear. Keep your emotion to yourself. Don't distract me."
"From what?"
"A case."
Mary?"
"No. Not Mary." It was on the tip of his tongue to say 'not exactly' but he didn't. And reflected he might be finally learning tact in his old age. He braced himself for harsh words, the fear and disillusion his friend was finding hard to control while his wife was way being something other.
But instead the words that reached him from the chair opposite were barely a whisper. And unexpected.
"I say I'm not coping. But look at you. You're fragile. Not sleeping. Glued to the computer. Working too hard. Deducing even when playing the violin. Not sharing things with me. And being so rigid and distant. I haven't seen you like this for a long time."
"You exaggerate." Flatly. Then, in a different tone altogether: "Where is Watson?"
"With her new carer. Well fed and watered. Happy as a little pig in muck. Satisfied?"
The query was genuine. So was the answer.
"Yes. Thank you, John. Some advice. Make time for yourself during this interlude. Find rest. You can't do everything on your own. Watson is safe with Faithful and Jamie. Uniquely so." He paused. Thought better of expressing what he was thinking about the case, about Mary, about the parallels between Mary and Faithful.
"Relax. Believe no harm will come to your child or to you. Or to your wife, for that matter. Trust me."
The conviction in the words and the concern there rendered John Watson briefly speechless.
"I do. I'm sorry. About going on at you."
There was the briefest of pauses.
"Mrs Hudson has left me a beef hotpot. With rice and crusty bread and a bottle of Medoc it should stretch to the two of us."
He hesitated, then continued simply:
"Relax and break bread with me, John. Please."
"You never say please."
"I'm saying it now." .
o0o0o
Bugrino:
If he hadn't been caught by Mrs Hudson on his way out of the front door he would have slipped away unnoticed.
But she delayed him with unimportant chatter about dustbins and baby food and nothing really at all, but that was just long enough to give John Watson and his baby daughter time to round the corner and walk along Baker Street towards them.
Sherlock Holmes spun on his heel and swore under his breath. Pushed the duffle bag on his shoulder round onto his back, to be less visible.
"Good morning, John."
But the bag had been spotted.
"Off somewhere nice?" The query was deceptively mild.
"Just…a case, Should only be away a couple of days."
Oh, right. Where to?"
"Abroad. Nowhere special."
The pause and the quizzical look both took too long..
What do you mean, you're going abroad?"
"You know; big silver bird in sky….."
"You're going to Mary, aren't you? You're up to something, the two of you."
"Jealousy and suspicion, now? I am not going to Mary. The thought never crossed my mind."
"I don't believe you."
Please yourself."
He shrugged and moved to walk away, but the hand that flashed out to grasp his arm stopped him mid stride, wrenched the two men close together. Like combatants.
"Give me the tracker signal. So I know what's going on for myself."
"We have had that discussion. The answer is still no."
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock! I'm not a child! And she's my wife!"
"No. You are being hot headed and angry just now. Emotionally conflicted. I don't blame you, but it renders you neither sensible nor objective. Not as far as Mary is concerned."
"You pious prick."
"Indeed. Which keeps us all alive.."
He could not be colder, more detached.
"Are we in danger? Is she?"
"Possibly. Probably. Depends on the whereabouts of the man carrying the passport and credentials of Eshan Mohindra."
"Who's he?"
"The real Mohindra is a war correspondent, thought held captive in Syria. So how Ajay Moopanar has his credentials, passport and international press accreditation is a mystery."
But even as he spoke he remembered the sneak thief in a Tblisi market - swift and committed - and thought he did know how.
"He doesn't want to kill you. Or Rosie." He did not add 'just Mary.' He didn't have to. John Watson was no fool. "You are quite safe. Even without me here."
"How do you know that?"
Sherlock Holmes remained silent, watched his friend process his thoughts. Realise what he knew.
"This time it isn't about Mycroft and his underlings, is it? If it was Mycroft he would be all over us. Being the British Government." His breath caught.
"Faithful. It must be Faithful, turning up on the doorstep like that. Accidentally on purpose, was it? Being appointed my nursemaid? Well, thanks. But I don't need a bloody nursemaid!"
"No. You don't. Quite right."
"So why are we having this conversation?"
"Because you may not need a nursemaid. But your daughter does. And Faithful will keep you both safe."
He shook off the hand on his arm, walked away, but turned back to add: "You and Rosie. Live with it."
o0o0o
Tehran:
The big old car met him at the airport, the same young woman driving.
"I'm glad you rang," she said. "Glad you came. Nico will be pleased to see you too."
He remembered the last time he had seen Nico Sologashvili - brandy and breath and body contact - and refused to blush.
"I try to solve his mystery. It's just leg work and diligence. Thank you for agreeing to be my translator."
"Any time," she said. "Anything I can do to help. Remember she was my sister-in-lw." She grinned at him, a flash of superiority. "Anyway - Georgian is a difficult language."
But when they got to Gelder's pottery, behind the plot where the hotel housing the old British Embassy used to be, he did not need the translations services of anyone.
For the owner, a youthful Luke Gelder, greeted them in fluent American with a Pittsburg drawl. Stocky and fair, he looked more Anglo Saxon than Georgian, and explained his great-great grandfather had come to Georgia from Middlesex in the early days of British interest in the country, had married a local girl and stayed.
The firm had been successful ever since.
"I was away at university when the siege was on," he explained. "Grandfather was in charge. "
He showed them round the pottery, the processes of production with enthusiasm and pride. Proud of the family firm. And then into the long wooden studio streaming natural light from a wall of windows, with potter's wheels, drying racks, rows of containers for clay and paints.
"This is the heart of the place," Luke explained. "Where all the ideas begin, the designs and new lines."
"Like the Margaret Thatcher busts?"
"Yes, We were diversifying at the time; trying for the nostalgic market. Our designer Dato Geladze created a Cold War collection: Stalin, Khruschev, Gorbachev, Reagan, Thatcher… wonderful modelling.
"Did not catch on, though. Perhaps the styling was too modern, too satirical? The heroic style succeeds best in conservative Georgia. After the siege customers were embarrassed to buy English. Political. Female. Just bad timing, I guess. "
"So how did those Thatcher models reach the market?"
Luke Gelder shrugged apologetically. ""Those six prototypes were put on a shelf and simply forgotten. It happens.
"Last year Dato was cataloguing an old stock room. Found them again . So we put them on the website, just to see what happened….all six sold, to English customers, within days. Terrific stuff. The enduring reputation of the Iron Lady."
"Why are they special?"
"As far as I know - they aren't. But talk to Dato. He was actually making them the day the siege broke. The day renegades swept through the building…."
"What renegades?"
"I don't know for sure. Ask Dato. He was there. He will tell you."
"I need to speak to him."
"It's his day off today. Try The Golden Lion Bar this evening - Okros Lomi on Basris Kucha. He is usually there on a Tuesday night."
o0o0o
The old man looked like an artist. Lean, grey, gaunt. Slim expressive hands, a slow assessment of them both and then an even slower smile.
He excused himself to his friends - five of them, sharing drinks and card games in a corner booth - and joined them at their table.
Elegant and economical in movement, Dato Geladze accepted a glass of local red wine with grace, apologised for 'only a little English. Most enough to get by" and was happy to talk, Nia as interpreter, the conversation three way and unhurried.
The siege at Akhali Imp'erii Sast Umro, The New Empire Hotel, had made work and life difficult locally; too many troops about and, streets blocked. The local people, the workers, were soon bored with it.
They had only realised something had happened when the shooting started. And the shouting.
Dato had put his head down and kept working, taking the plaster busts from their moulds, setting them to dry and getting back to his new design sketches.
The unmistakable ripping rattle of sub machine gun fire had him diving for cover; his burrowing progress halted by the appearance of one man, running inside, dressed in fatigues.
"Rogor gamoiq ureboda?" Nia asked quickly. What did he look like?
She translated for Sherlock Holmes. Who nodded.
Oh, yes!
"Not tall, Wiry. Dark skin, hair. Black pits of eyes. Scared…
Under cover of his workbench, Dato explained he could not see, but had heard the young man clattering around, panting, almost sobbing with fear.
"What did he say? Here did he go?"
"Whatever he said,I did not understand. Then he was taken away."
"Taken away? Who by? Are you sure? The raid on your firm was never recorded. Never part of the official narrative."
The old man shrugged, smiled, indifferent to bureaucracy,
"He says no-one at the pottery wanted any fuss. Kept it quiet," Nia retold.
And suddenly the six year absence of Ajay Moopanar began to make sense.
"More men in fatigues came. Lots of them. They dragged him away…..I never saw him again."
"Was there anyone in charge?"
"Another man. Big. Ch'k'Cuose," he said. Chunky, she translated, raising an eyebrow.
"No. More big than that. A mountain bear," He sketched broadness with his hands, a beard, a gesture across his mouth.
"Okros k'bilibi," Nia translated. "Gold teeth."
Would I recognise him from your description?" Sherlock Holmes asked..
A cynical grin, then.
"What do you think?"
. o0o0o
.
He watched her politely walk the elderly potter back to his seat in the corner booth, smile her thanks and farewell with a flirtatious little touch to his face. And he blushed - as she knew he would - as she returned him to his circle of friends.
The flirtatiousness distracted him from the conversation they had just had. Memories of the past, when nothing and everything had happened. The master potter's small key role in a history that affected his country and his city and had happened because of his artistic talent.
Neither visitor told him his prototypes had led to deaths. Neither wanted the old gentleman to carry that responsibility. And Nia's lightness of heart and touch had made those revelatory memories seem nothing more important to him than an old man's musings, the retelling of an old tale.
Her smile died only as she left him and his friends, a little nod across the room towards Sherlock Holmes, as she returned to him, a beautiful brunette in a timeless blue dress, now focussing on him alone.
His public school manners were about to have him rise to greet her return, when a man leant over from another table, when she was still twenty feet away. A hand flashed out and caught her arm, stopped her dead.
A handsome man in his early thirties, dark hair slicked back in the latest style, designer stubble, searching brown eyes.
Sherlock Holmes could not hear their exchange, but saw her posture change, her eyes flare, her head and arm jerk away.
She was surprised to see the man, that was clear. She knew him, but did not welcome his conversation or attention.
Was there something familiar in the face?. The whole exchange lasted less than five seconds, her stride barely broken. But Sherlock Holmes could see how pale she had suddenly become; disturbed by this unexpected meeting, then.
Puzzled, he rose and took half a step forward to meet her, possibly protect her. Reactive, alerted, defensive, even?.
She watched that involuntary movement towards her, and her smile returned. Her shoulders went back, and her walk suddenly became highly female, snaking from her hips. The smile became his alone, and her eyes fixed on his, as if they spoke to him, a secret message only he could be able to read.
"Who was that? What…..?" he began, puzzled, as she halted in front of him, pushed one leg without subtlety into the space between his thighs.
He froze before her as she raised one arm, eyes intent, the smile now tiny, almost secret, and pushed forward one hand with calm deliberation, placed one finger carefully across his lips in the time old gesture for silence. He stopped talking.
The finger moved slowly and sinuously across his cheek, trailed along his jaw. The whole hand curled, finger by deliberate finger, down his throat, across his shoulder. Both hands grasped his forearms as she swayed forward into his personal space.
"What….? Nia…?"
In his peripheral vision he could see people watching them now, watching the beautiful woman focussing on the handsome stranger, the foreigner.
He watched her eyes, concentrating on him alone. Not the other man. Dark eyes with something he could not identify moving in their depths.
Her left hand rested firmly on one bicep, holding him in place. The right hand moved down, skimming lightly from his jacket sleeve, to his shirt cuff, to the skin of his wrist.
She lifted the hand, fingers gentle on the wrist, and turned it. Looked at the pale skin, the deep silver scars there, and he heard her make a little murmur of sound, as if in appreciation.
He wanted to withdraw his wrist from her hand, make her avert her eyes.
But she bent her head and with slow deliberation kissed the scar tissue on the inside of his wrist. It was all he could do not to wrench his hand out of hers. and he could not control the reactive sudden shaking, or the involuntary gasp he gave in response.
She heard the sound. Looked up and glowed deep into his eyes. Spoke, voice low.
"Seduce me, Sherlock Holmes."
o0o0o
Morocco:
Two men stood together in the twilight of the hotel room, both alert and looking out of the window, waiting for the approach of the woman they knew so well, shoulder brushing shoulder in their closeness and stillness.
The lack of light in the room and the half closed shutters disguised their position on watch, and neither moved.
The sounds and smells of humanity, of late night trading in the souk, drifted upwards, and was all that broke the localised silence as they patiently waited.
To John Watson this moment seemed surreal. The thought of seeing his wife again after all these weeks of worry, of being free of their child - just for a little while - and of being here in such exotic surroundings, here with Sherlock Holmes as they had raced from London to Morocco at only a few moment's notice, all felt unreal.
He had dreamt of the end of this nightmare of endurance. Hoped of it for long weeks that had run into months; and yet …..now the time had come to finish this mad mission, everything felt strange and dreamlike. And after the adrenalin rush of the journey, their arrival in Morocco and the sudden pause in action that followed, he was left feeling breathless and becalmed.
Only the body heat of the man standing next to him, the quiet steady inhale and exhale he found he was copying, grounded him to the moment, but also had him prepared for action - whatever action that might be.
"What are we doing here?" he asked quietly.
For a moment he thought Sherlock Holmes had not heard him, for the taller man beside him did not speak, move, nor change his breathing pattern.
"We are here to collect Mary. Bring her home, Safely and in one piece."
The words were softly and patiently spoken, without inflexion.
Yes. I know that. I mean - what I should have said - what are you doing here?"
Another long pause. No change of facial expression in the familiar profile seen against the half light; no glance seeking to read expression or meaning. Just…
"I don't understand."
"I mean…..why are you doing this? Putting yourself into danger? For us? Yet again?"
"Someone needs to. Make sure you both stay safe. Put Mary in a position able to return home. Then your lives can go back to what they were. Well - were becoming."
"What were they becoming?"
"Normal. Conventional. Happy. Whatever fulfilment that gives you. As a man and as a couple. Parents."
John Watson ignored what might have been a slight; and would have been from anyone else.
"But….why?"
"Pointless question. It's what I do, You know that."
The voice remained light and low; as if the subject was of no interest whatsoever.
"Yes. I do. I know that. And I'm not ungrateful. It's just that…"
"Just what?"
"It suddenly struck me, standing here and just waiting….." he swallowed. Wished his friend would turn and look at him. "How much you have done for us. How much you care."
"What makes you think I care?" The words were cool, and slow in forming. "You need looking after - you're an idiot. And so is your wife. Without me, you'd probably have already got yourselves killed. Sometimes it has already been a close run thing."
"Good job you're here, then."
"Apparently so."
They lapsed into silence again.
"What do I say to her? When she gets here, I mean? And how do I say it? To my wife? After all this time?"
"Why ask me? How would I know?" His tongue clicked irritably against his teeth. "'Hello, Mary' might be a start."
The feigned indifference (was it feigned?) was annoying John Watson.
"Well, thanks for that."
"Emotion Relationships. Intimacy. Not my area."
"So you say. But not very helpful."
"I can only do so much, John….."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. I shouldn't push you about it, Or blame you."
"Blame me for what? What are you worried about?"
"Oh, you know. The usual husband and wife stuff. Like: is the woman I married going to be the same person who left me and Rosie all these weeks ago? Or has she reverted to type? Become an assassin again? Who might kill me when she sees me?"
"She's not a praying mantis, John." There was a whisper of a nod. "She's your wife. And rest assured. If she shoots you, I will kill her."
Sherlock Holmes finally turned his head to look at his friend The quiet calm of that look was more terrifying than any anger or passion.
"You'll….you'll what?"
"You heard me. You should be reassured."
"My God, Sherlock. Why would you do that? For me?"
"Because you are my friend. Isn't that what friends do?"
I don't know. Is it?"
"I assume so. I…don't have…much experience…..with friends. Told you before. Just the one."
"You have more friends than me."
"Do I? Really? Or are you confusing 'friends' with people who tolerate me because I am useful to them?"
For a moment something raw and naked crossed the younger man's face.
"Don't think that. Just don't. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly…..I bet you do have more friends than I do!" He tried to make light of the situation, and wondered how everything had suddenly become so fraught.
His fears and his uncertainty, Sherlock Holmes's dogged loyalty and direction.
"No. I don't think so. And it doesn't matter. Relatively speaking, they don't matter."
"You have an ideal view of friendship, of our friendship, that I don't deserve. And I can't live up to," John Watson heard himself admit.
"Nonsense. You saved my life, John. I owe…."
"I shot someone who was going to kill you. I would have done anyone that favour. Anyone worthwhile. That's why I was a soldier."
"But you shot someone for me. And you didn't even know me then. So I owe….."
"Me nothing. Think instead of all the times you have saved me, Sherlock!. Saved Mary. You owe me nothing, mate. Honestly, Sherlock. Compared to what I owe you….."
"Stop it. " Angry now. But under tight control. Words plainly and unemotionally spoken. It was just the speed of the words and the blinking that revealed the agitation.
"No-one had ever done anything like that for me. No-one. It was…life changing, for me. Saving my life. Seeing a value in it. In me. I…I can't….Told you. Not used to friends,,,,"
He choked off his words. Pulled himself erect as he looked down along the alley below.
"Here she comes. Showtime. And off we go….Plan A."
And he was gone, swift and silent as quicksilver.
Leaving John Watson speechless and aghast in his wake.
o0o0o
"Here she comes."
At the top of the narrow and, at this time of day, almost deserted alley leading towards the hotel, a figure walked towards them with confident stride and sense of purpose.
A slight woman with a dark bob, her hair mostly covered with a flowing white scarf, dressed in dark slacks and a loose striped shirt, a bag on her shoulder, she could have easily passed as a local or as a tourist.
As she neared the Hotel Cecil she drew her bag closer to her side, her body language becoming alert and careful.
"Plan A," said the tall man at the window as he slipped silently away.
John Watson watched him go, unable to analyse the increased heartbeat, the sudden breathlessness, the tremble of anticipation. He gasped, and tried to kill the reaction.
This woman was his wife, for goodness' sake! He should not be scared or doubtful or faintly repulsed at coming to the end of this particular road. He should be happy, relieved, emotion: and yet he es none of those thing.
He followed Sherlock Holmes more slowly, watchful, listening, on edge. Clinging to the shadows…..
The reception room in which Sherlock and the boy waiter Karim were playing their double and rehearsed game was typical of Morocco; earth coloured walls, Islamic decoration, lattice doors, stained glass windows with jalousie shutters.
A low table at which they sit opposite each other, as rehearsed, relaxed and cross legged.
From the turn in the stairs John Watson heard the pistol cocked in the dark, imagined her holding the Glock at the ready. As the voices lured her into the trap.
"Not like this, my friend." Karim's voice is clear, confident, authoritative. "You haven't got a chance. Not a chance."
A brief pause without reply. John Watson imagined his wife moving forward from the corridor into the well lit room. Like a moth to a flame, he thought. Unable to resist a challenge, to resist the possibility of danger, And ho to del with it. His mouth went dry.
"I've got you where I want you," the boy' voice continued. "Give in. Give in! I will destroy you. You are completely at my mercy!"
He could be forgiven for overacting; it seemed to be working. John Watson risked peering round the corner of the stairs, and saw his wife poised in the doorway. A strong shadow. Lethal determination in every lineof her body, the way she held the gun.
"Mr Baker," said a confident baritone voice. Despite himself John Watson could not contain a grin at the ludicrous set up. "Well, that completes the set,".
Mary Watson recognised the voice; lowered the Glock slightly and relaxed completely.
"No it does not," Karim's voice was unexpectedly severe now in reply.
"Well, who else am I missing?" Sherlock Holmes asked, unperturbed.
Mary Watson stepped silently into the room to see the occupants properly: a young man in Arab dress facing her, playing cards in his hand. Sherlock Holmes opposite him and to her side, casual in suit trousers and dark blue open neck shirt. He was also holding a hand of cards, face blank in concentration. He gave no appearance of having noticed her.
"Mr Bun," the boy said firmly. "It's not a set without him. How many more times, Mr Sherlock?"
Mary Watson stood, dumbfounded, and watched the impossible man she thought she knew so well glare at the cards of the children's game and hum softly in concentration.
"Maybe it's because I'm not familiar with the concept," he said airily. Then, as she made an uncomfortable movement in his direction at the barb she knew was aimed at her, he continued smoothly and without any particular inflexion:
"Oh, hi Mary."
The boy Karim gave her a brief, superficial glance, but looked back to Sherlock Holmes
"What concept?"
"Happy families."
Finally - finally - he looked up and across at Mary Watson. Took in her appearance and presence at a glance.
"Nice trip?" he asked with nonchalant indifference.
"How the f….?" she began, spluttering, amazed, exasperated.
"Please, Mary. There's a child present."
"How did you get in here?" she asked. That was not the question she had meant to ask; she had meant to ask what he was doing there? How had he arrived in Morocco? How did he know where she would be? Was there danger? Had he spotted Ajay?
But there was a child present; a neutral witness, an innocent. So she asked the simplest question, and sighed instead. Bloody Sherlock Holmes!
"Karim let me in," Sherlock Holmes looked and shared a grin with the boy. Who looked across at her, smiled shyly and offered a little wave in greeting
"Hello," he said,
She nodded to him with the distant politeness of client to servant, dropped her shoulders, pulled the scarf off her head. Allowed a little tiredness to show through.
"Karim, would you be so kind as to fetch us some tea?"
Change of tone. Game over. Politeness and purpose now. Even the boy recognised it.
"Sure," he said briefly, putting the cards down onto the table, standing.
"Thank you."
"Nice to meet you,, Missus," he muttered as he oassed her and left the room.
.
Finally they were alone and together. Mary Watson looked down at the still seated detective. Who did not speak, did not help her. Even after noting her smile.
"I…I…." she began, mouth suddenly dry, "I mean…how did you find me?"
"What?" That disconcerting, distracted little boy frown. Then: "I'm Sherlock Holmes.," as if that explained everything.
"No, really though - how?" She could not decide whether to be angry and exasperated or unsurprised and unmoved. Opted for simple honesty. "Every movement I made was entirely random. Every ne personality just on the roll of the dice."
He looked at her - that forensic laser look that in less than a second told her he did not believe a word she said about her trip; and never had.
"Mary," he began, as if patiently lecturing a wayward child, "No human action is ever really random. An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped onto a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably."
She looked at him blankly; lost somewhere deep in his narrative. She assumed he understood what he was saying….
"I myself know of at least fifty eight techniques to refine this seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables.".
She nodded slowly as if comprehending.
"But they're really difficult," he continued, paused. "So I just….stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick"
He snorted with laughter and her face dropped as she realised the simplest of solutions to explain his presence, knowing finally how he had found her; realisation dawning that he had known where she had been all along; knew where she had travelled. And possibly he even knew why.
She knew she should have been angry. Disconcerted. Fearful. But this was Sherlock Holmes she was dealing with. What else should she have expected? She realised how stupid she had been to try to out-think him, to drug him, to flee, to undertake her Quixotic journey around the world.
So had it all been for nothing? No. Her first reaction was not that she would do it all again, but that she should have done this thing long ago. To close down what had been AGRA - all it's characters, all it's connections, all it's memories and links - and step into a new world, all the old milestones and memories left behind.
Where they could no longer hold or harm, keep her heart hostage. She had a new life now. A new world to inhabit. Danger ws still an echo in her mind, but was no longer her purpose in life Just something she could acknowledge and live through and beyond.
Her world turned on it's axis and settled in a new place. And all within seconds.
She sucked in a deep breath, looked up, smiled a proper smile at the man who had out thought her, and who she trusted beyond thought or objectivity or instinct.
"Oh, you bastard!" she exclaimed at him. Watched his face change infinitesimally, his eyes crinkle and twinkle at her. "You bastard!" she repeated.
"I know," he admitted without rancour. "But….your face!"
"The mathematics of probability!" she protested, trying not to laugh, and failing.
"You believed that;" he determined, mock severe.
"Feasible variables?" she repeated back to him.
"Yes," he did a quirky, characteristic little motion of his head. "I started to run out about then."
Still grinning at him, Mary clutched her head in mock frustration.
"In the memory stick!"
Unable to stop himself, John Watson softly entered the room. No laughter on his face, no humour shared.
"Yeah," he said coolly. "That was my idea. I do get them occasionally."
She turned to look at him and her smile slowly dropped.
She would have gone to him. Laughed and charmed and taken him in her arms. Made a joke about how wonderful it was to see him, how glad she was to be back in her real life; finally finished with the role that had been hers in AGRA: and to tell what sh had done to make him understand that AGRA would not come between them or influence who and what they were, what they had, ever again.
But his shoulders were rigid, and his face blank; just an angry hurt glitter behind his eyes that showed he was thinking about her - about anything at all.
"All these weeks you've been away. Months. And what do you do? Run and greet me? Tell me you love me and ask about our beautiful baby girl? About where she is and how she is and if we have missed you?
He stepped into the room, military bearing holding him upright, anger and hurt and jealousy and relief screaming out of him.
"No. None of that. Too busy enjoying a bloody joke with bloody Sherlock! You know no court would ever convict me if I wrung your bloody neck?
TO BE CONTINUED…..
Author's Notes:
Diplomatic bag: An accepted diplomatic method of transporting articles, without custom tests or inspection, between countries and embassies. The 'bag' can be as small as a pouch, as large as a shipping container..
Minotaur: Half man, half bull, who lived in a maze, and from Greek mythology
'Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give you life' (Revelations10:2)
Mulligatawny Soup: Also known as curried soup, based on vegetable, chicken stock, curry powder and sometime mango chutney.
Nevis: A small island in the Caribbean. Usually teamed with St Kitts. American advisor to George Washington (and subject of the hit musical) Alexander Hamilton was born on St Kitts.
'A rusty nail placed near a faithful compass will sway it from the truth and wreck the argosy.' Sir Walter Scott
*Apologies for the delay with this chapter: A huge intervention by the distractions of real life.