Chapter Nine
Maintaining Standards – A Lesson in Odds – Her Majesty's Bad-Asses – A Close Relation – That Way Madness Lies – Go! – A Certain Risk of Death – Not a Single Word – Complete Surrender.
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After a story about cyber-pirates, in which heroes of the British Secret Service successfully foiled a fiendish attempt to steal the Queen's computer, Mycroft sat and watched his sleeping children for a few rare, undisturbed moments. By their ability to grasp not only most of the vocabulary, but also the abstract concepts of his tales, he realised they were significantly in advance of social expectations. Where most children their age were still in the process of identifying simple nouns, these two were already experimenting with the eight parts of speech. The books of few words and large pictures of puppies and fire-engines had long been consigned to the lowest shelf of their growing collection and now both he and Cate were constantly hunting for texts with smaller print and fewer pictures. It seemed almost every day one or the other would demonstrate some previously unknown knowledge or skill and their development appeared to be rushing forward at an indecent speed. He wondered, idly, which of the two would be the first to read. Probably Blythe and probably soon. He smiled and lifted his eyebrows as he looked down at her untroubled sleeping face, a dark curl brushing her eyelids.
Mycroft understood his wife's desire to keep them as children for as long as might be possible, but even and perhaps especially she could not fail to recognise how this situation was likely to evolve.
In the quiet of his thoughts, Mycroft acknowledged the increasing similarities between the twins' rapid development and the course of his brother's own childhood. As a small boy, Sherlock had been voracious for new understanding, but he had been alone and had nothing to temper or test his perception. Perhaps because there were two of them, neither Julius nor Blythe would be destined for solitary anxieties or hopes and their interaction with the world might be a more harmonious experience than had been Sherlock's lot. By the time his brother was ten, he had already become horribly aware of the social limitations into which he was expected to enter as an adult. Mycroft hoped his children would have an easier maturation than that; that he and Cate might, between them, create a scaffolding which would enable their children to develop without fear and to embrace adulthood without regret.
It was odd, he found himself reflecting, that he had never given himself to much consideration of such thoughts as these so clearly before – there always seemed insufficient time, always some unseemly need to rush. But now, as Mycroft felt his thoughts becoming less streamlined and more … organic, it was as if the recent disablement of his celebrated reasoning had set free an entirely different level of comprehension. Was it new, he wondered, or had it always been there, hidden and silenced beneath the heavy adamantine layers of more critical perception?
"Mycroft!" Cate stuck her head around the door, an urgent expression on her face. "The box on your desk is flashing and bleeping. Is it dangerous?"
"Not for anyone in the house, my love," he stood quickly, switching off the bedroom light as he left. "How long ago did it start?" he asked, walking swiftly down the stairs and into the front room to the left of the hallway which they had decided to use as a more formal office as there was a large desk in one corner. On their arrival at the Cornish house several days before, Mycroft had set a small black box, about the size of a DVD case, in the centre of the desk. Along the top edge of the slim container were a row of five tiny, unlit windows.
As he approached the device, Mycroft noticed that in addition to a soft regular beep, three of the five windows were already glowing. A dark red at the far left, through a dull orange to a bright yellow in the centre. The remaining two lights would be a vivid blue and the last, the most critical of them all, a brilliant and pulsating white.
"Less than a minute ago," Cate watched the glowing lights, the third one, the yellow one, blinked rapidly. "What is it and what are all these colours?"
"A moment, my love," he said, reaching for his Blackberry, Mycroft made almost instant contact with Alex Beaumont. Clearly his call had been expected. "It's happening," he said. "The third light is flashing, which means they're already inside the second perimeter. Can you track them?"
"Pinpointing them as we speak, Mycroft," the American's voice was steady but subdued as he spoke with unknown others in the room beside him. "Looks like we have the RAF on hand if needed," he added. "But your marines are demanding first blood, and since I've had an opportunity to actually watch some of them in action, I'm going to chicken out and allow you to make the call, Boss."
A smile flickered across his face as Mycroft sat at the desk and activated his laptop. "I need real-time satellite," he instructed. "Who is the closest to immediate response?" he asked, "this isn't about counting coup, but managing a problem. Who can respond expeditiously?"
"That would be your Royal Marines," Beaumont's cultivated tones were quietly positive. "There's a standby contingent of Four-Two Commando on board HMS Westminster, which just happens to be on a degaussing operation off the Cornish coast."
"How entirely convenient," Mycroft said dryly. "The Westminster?"
There was amusement in the American's voice. "I know you have your standards."
"Send the Commandos," Mycroft focused on the real-time satellite transmission flickering across his laptop screen. It was almost totally dark, but from over his shoulder, Cate could clearly see the shape of what seemed to be a jagged coastline on the screen's diagonal, with the sea filling well over half of the screen and land taking up the remaining space.
There was something moving; she leaned in closer, resting her hands on Mycroft's shoulders as she peered at the computer-screen.
A ghostly greenish-white light indicated movement of some kind, There was something closing in from out at sea, vaguely boat-shaped, although the outline was deformed with odd curves and lumps. It looked like it was heading in to shore.
With a brush of the screen, Mycroft was able to track the movement of the craft, as a second image came into view: on land and also outlined in the same greenish-white glow, this was a squarer, much blockier image, obviously a building of some kind. The footprint of the building was substantial.
"Is that us?" Cate asked, riveted.
"It is," Mycroft pulled her to his left side, sliding an arm around her hips as she leaned against him. "We have the best seats in the house," he smiled up at her standing there, her face a study in concentration. "Quite literally."
"Who is in that boat and what is all this fuss about?" Cate was still following the slow movement of the vessel with an unblinking stare. "And why are you tracking it with this," she waved her fingers at the black box "…thing?"
Turning in his seat, Mycroft took both her hands in his own. "Smugglers," he said.
"Really?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Smugglers? In this day and age?"
"Perhaps I should have more correctly said people smugglers," Mycroft squeezed her fingers gently. "There's an increasing number of illegal entries into Britain from a variety of countries, many from Algeria and what used to be French North Africa," he paused, "as well as from France itself, of course," he added. "In recent months there has been a sharp rise in landings along the Cornish coast. Most of the unfortunates are picked up after they've been dumped on some remote beach, but there are still a number who manage to evade detection. When I knew we were coming here for a month, I arranged with Alex Beaumont to run a trial of some extremely advanced and decidedly clandestine technology that enables a barrage of highly-focused marine-traffic location techniques to be deployed at shore-level, something we've not been able to do before," he looked back at the satellite transmission which showed the boat much closer to the demarcation line between sea and shore.
"That's why I was able to use my laptop on the beach?" Cate lifted her eyebrows. "Your secret technology uses Wi-Fi?" she thought a bit more. "But how did you know to even have it installed here?"
Rubbing his nose, Mycroft looked contemplative. "Several weeks ago, an MI6 operative disguised as an illegal enroute from Syria, came through a smuggler's charming care," he said. "It was his second encounter with this particular smuggler and his people, but on this occasion, the operative was prepared, carrying the latest thing in micro-digital cameras. He was able, even on a moonless night, to take a series of images which led us to believe the smuggler's landfall was somewhere in this particular area," he said. "It was pure coincidence that this house was within the hypothesised radius, but it seemed too fortuitous not to trial the new location technology while we were here," Mycroft paused, tilting his head slightly to one side and watching her eyes.
"We've known for some time that a particularly insidious individual by the name of Bisset has been making free with the Cornish coastline, and I wondered if, by trialling this device here and now, we might be able to generate additional data on nocturnal traffic," he paused again, watching the boat edge nearer. "It appears we may have landed more than we bargained for."
Still fascinated by the green-white blob approaching ever closer to the house, Cate realised it wasn't coming into land at the beach directly in front of them, but at a spot somewhat over to the right. There was only one cove that close and in that particular location.
"They're going to land at the secret beach," she murmured.
"It certainly looks that way," Mycroft's eyes were locked onto the screen, knowing that whatever he saw, Beaumont was also able to see and so too, he hoped, were the marines aboard HMS Westminster. "I believe it has been used quite frequently; I observed signs of recent use when we were there."
"But that's where Sherlock and Tomas and John have just gone," Cate realised as a cold sensation slid down her spine. "While you were upstairs with the children, Sherlock was demanding a sample of something and all three of them have gone back down the tunnel to find it," Cate's eyes grew wide at the idea of them walking into danger.
Already reaching for his mobile phone, Mycroft stood, his free hand at his wife's back. Speed-dialling his brother's number, Mycroft waited for several rings before making a face and ending the call. "There's no response," he said. "No signal in the tunnel."
"Then I'll warn them," Cate made as if to turn to the door when she found her lower arm held firmly.
"No … you won't," Mycroft's voice was curiously flat.
"But you know what Sherlock's like," she said, exerting a little pressure against his grasp. "They are probably going to charge right into whoever it is on that boat," Cate waved helplessly at the screen which showed the target craft actually breaching the divide between sea and land.
"In which case anything you might do is already too late to be of use," Mycroft's eyes met hers. He blinked slowly. "Least of all for yourself," he smiled gently. "Sherlock and John can take care of whatever comes their way, I have no doubt."
Sliding his fingers tenderly up to her wrist, he tugged her gradually nearer, bringing the back of her hand to his lips. "No heroics tonight, my darling," he dropped his Blackberry into a pocket of his trousers and slid the free hand around her waist, holding her tantalisingly close. "Not this time."
###
It was the flare of the lighter that had given the man's identity away, of course, Tomas realised as he wondered how Sherlock could have recognised anyone at such a distance in the dark. But how on earth would they be able to keep the three men … and maybe even more on the boat … from leaving whenever they wanted?
As if reading those exact thoughts, Sherlock turned to John. "Your phone, please," he said, holding out a hand.
Digging into his jacket pocket, John handed over his mobile. "Why do you need my phone?" he asked. "Yours was working perfectly well last time I looked."
"Yes, it is," Sherlock nodded, his fingers turning the volume down to zero before dialling a short number. "But as the data stored on mine are more important than those stored on yours," he said, shielding the soft glow from the screen in his hand. "Of the two, I prefer not to lose mine."
"What are you talking about?" John frowned. "Has the smell of that stuff started to affect you too?"
Holding John's phone in his hand, Sherlock flattened himself against the inner lip of the cave's entrance. "I have to get this into the boat," he said, waving the slim device. "It's too far to throw this in the dark without being seen, and were any of us to attempt moving closer, at least one of those three on the beach would spot such movement in an instant. I need a distraction."
"Why are you planning to throw my phone into their boat?" John's mouth compressed in a straight line. This would be at least the fourth one he had been called upon to sacrifice at the altar of Sherlock's ingenuity.
"The Speaking Clock, John," Sherlock's faint smile was barely visible in the revealed glow of the phone's screen as he turned it towards John's gaze. "It never goes silent and therefore the call will not automatically close until the battery runs out," he paused, frowning. "I do hope you've had the foresight to keep your battery charged?"
"And the reason you want this call to last until my battery runs out, is ..?"
"An open call can be traced," Sherlock muttered. "Your phone's demise will not be in vain. If we can't stop these men from departing in their boat, at least Mycroft's people should be able to locate the signal and send in the cavalry."
"Then shouldn't you be calling your brother?" John was resigned. It wasn't as if this was the first personal item he'd lost to a Holmesian caprice.
"Trying," Sherlock whispered. "Can't get any reception in here; the rock's too thick. I need to get out in the open."
"I'm smaller than the both of you and probably a bit faster as well," Tomas was fortunate not to see John's eyes narrow at the comment. "Give me both phones, and I can chuck one into the boat and call Uncle Mycroft on the other once I get into the shadow of those rocks over there," he pointed at a deeply-black ravine some thirty feet from the entrance of their cave. "All I'll need is a bit of a distraction so they're not looking at me when I make a run for it."
"There is not one chance in hell we're going to let you do anything so damn silly," John caught the shoulder of the boy's jacket and hauled him a little deeper into the cave. "You're already walking on thin ice after this afternoon's escapade, so don't bring it up again, okay?"
"You were going to do it," Tomas grumbled, turning to face Sherlock. "And the odds are far more in my favour than they are in yours," he said. "If you've got a piece of paper and a pen, I'll show you."
"Now is not the time for a lesson in the calculation of odds," Sherlock was staring out through the cave's entrance where it looked as if the three men were getting ready to move. "I need to distract them in such a way that will make them hold their position rather than relinquish it."
"Then what about these?" Tomas picked up a couple of hefty, sea-worn stones. "You've got longer arms than me, but I bet I can throw them just as far as you can."
In light of nothing better suggesting itself, Sherlock nodded, gathering up a handful of smaller pebbles. "When I say," he whispered, "aim your fire at the other side of the boat, even into the water beyond, if you can get it that far."
Arraying themselves across the pitch-dark entrance of the cave, as far out as they dared without being spotted, all three poised to make a throw.
"Now," Sherlock whispered, as their volleyed ammunition shot out into the dark sky over and above the profile of the boat. It was a matter of only a couple of seconds before there was a mass thunk as all the rocks hit almost in the same instant, making a very satisfying racket. It sounded for all the world as if someone watching in the dark had slipped on a rock and was now attempting to be very, very silent.
Instantly, the three men leaning against the bow of the beached craft ducked low, all of them straining to see where the noise had come from and wondering what was going to happen next. Unaware of their audience in the mouth of the cave, Bisset, his compatriot and their mysterious passenger gradually edged around the point of the bow; crawling with their bellies in the cool sand in the hopes they might be able to make out the interloper.
It was that exact moment Tomas plucked John's phone out of Sherlock's lightly-closed fingers and ran like a hare towards the rocks on the moon-dark side of the boat.
###
"How long to intercept?" Mycroft was back on the phone with Beaumont who had rung to confirm the unit of commandos had been dispatched from the Westminster. Two groups of four men, each group in a small inflatable, each fully equipped for a night operation.
"Only eight?" Mycroft's expression suggested he was unconvinced. He wanted to be absolutely sure of capturing whoever it might be in the boat about to beach itself in the secret cove below his house. "I want no chances taken," he sounded deadly.
"Mycroft, have you ever seen these guys in action?" Beaumont barely managed to restrain his enthusiasm. "They will probably use two or three of them to get the job done while the others ensure a safe perimeter," he added. "These are serious bad-asses and I'm doing you a real favour by not passing on your concerns."
"Bad-asses, Mr Beaumont?" Mycroft found himself smiling. "Your nationality is showing."
"Intercept in approximately nine-minutes," Alex Beaumont grinned down the phone, Mycroft could hear it in the man's voice. "I'll call you back when it's all over."
###
"Shit," John hissed, hugging the inner curve of the cave's entrance as he watched Tomas scuttle silently along the edge of the far rocks. Fortunately, the boy's clothing, other than his jacket which he had at least had the intelligence to remove before his mad dash, was all dark cotton: nothing to contrast against the background or gleam in the rising moonlight. As long as his hurtling footsteps in the sand weren't heard and as long as he was able to make the relative shelter of the crevasse in the rocks, he might just get away with this. But there would be a reckoning; he promised himself, assuming Cate's idiot nephew managed not to get himself blown away in the interim.
"Not quite the plan I had in mind, but at least Tomas is sufficiently close to get your phone into the boat," Sherlock tried his Blackberry again, holding it out of the entrance as far as he could. There was still no reception. Therefore it was not only the cave itself that was blocking the signal, but likely also a problem getting a signal down into this deep little cove in the first place. In this case, they could assume no assistance would be forthcoming from external sources.
"Don't tell me you approve of such rash behaviour?" John scowled, watching the three men in the shadow of the boat as they gradually regained their feet, still peering through the darkness for whatever it was that had made the earlier noise.
"He is closely related to Cate," Sherlock sounded fatalistic. "The similarities between them are quite marked."
"Not even Cate would be that reckless," John stared out into the dark as the boy waved back from his place of safety behind the sheltering wedge of rock.
"Cate's not a fifteen year-old boy," the younger Holmes watched as Tomas peered cautiously over the top of his limpet-encrusted concealment. "Imagine what she would have been like at his age."
"Don't think I'll bother, actually," John gritted his teeth as, observing none of the three men from the boat looking in his direction, Tomas decided to lean out and lob the purloined phone over the gunwales of the beached vessel and their eyes followed the slow arc of the device as its fall cleared all obstacles. There was the faintest of noises as it landed, but even that was partially obscured by the waves on the sand. It was a safe bet that none of the three men still staring out into the darkness had heard much.
About to consider making a dash back into the cave, Tomas realised that he would need another distraction. Bending down, he scrambled in the increasingly waterlogged sand around his feet to locate anything in the way of a loose rock or heavy piece of detritus that he might use to divert the mens' attention away from any run of his back to the entrance of the cave. There was nothing small enough to lift, let alone throw.
The first wisps of concern spiralled up the boy's spine.
If he attempted to go for the cave without first distracting the men in the boat, it was highly unlikely he'd make it unobserved. If he stayed where he was, any accidental sound might give him away.
A cold sensation around his feet made him look down. No longer just waterlogged sand, but actual water. The tide had turned and was on its way back up the beach.
He mightn't be able to make a run for the cave, but neither could he stay where he was.
As a cold sensation of real unease settled in his stomach, he looked towards the mouth of the cave to see if either Sherlock or John had noticed his plight. Staring into the darker shadow that was the cave, he saw something that looked like a hand. A hand holding up five fingers.
As he watched, one of the fingers disappeared. Then another. Then another.
A count-down.
Hoping he had got the correct message, Tomas waited until the moment the final finger vanished, then began his sprint back towards the cave.
At almost, but not quite exactly the same moment that Tomas had begun to run, another barrage of stones flew out over the top of the beached craft to land noisily on rocks and in the rising tide, the sound of his racing steps painfully clear for a second before the landing stones attempted a diversion.
As the men lurking beneath the bows of the boat snapped their heads around to locate the footsteps, it was impossible for them to miss the fast-moving form heading towards the cave.
Standing abruptly, all three turned to stare at the unseen opening of the cave, not realising until now that there even was a cave in the cliff – since they only came here at night, it had always been just a blacker shadow among others.
But now they knew, and they also knew that at least one someone had seen them, possibly even identify them. That someone had to be dealt with.
"Wait," Joubert heaved himself back up the rope-ladder and in only a matter of seconds, threw a couple of torches down onto the sand at the feet of the other two as he jumped down with a soft thud.
Flicking their torches to high-beam, the three men moved slowly towards the entrance of the smugglers cave.
###
There were now another two ghostly-green blips on the laptop-screen: smaller than the boat which had been stationary on the shore for several minutes. These two new ones were so small, their shapes were really no more than luminous blobs, but by the trajectory and speed of their approach, it was clear the marines from the Westminster were about to engage with the master of the beached vessel. It was only another four minutes, perhaps, before they made land.
In a corner of his mind, Mycroft almost wished he could be there to watch the resultant excitement, especially if it really was Bisset. The man and his nefarious activities had tested the better part of his good nature for far too long, and the idea of being in at the kill was a particularly attractive one.
However, he could scarcely indulge himself in an activity from which he had excluded Cate: were he to set a precedent in that direction, he'd never be able to dissuade her from doing anything at all, and that way lay madness.
The two glowing blips were three minutes away now. He wondered what Sherlock was doing.
###
It was only when Tomas hurled himself through the narrow rocky entrance that John was able to intimate there might be an unsympathetic and physical response to his spontaneous little jaunt. Had there not been three unpleasant and in all probability, very bad men fast approaching their refuge, then words would have been accompanied with a certain level of aggression. Shouting would not have been out of the picture.
Preferring to get the boy to a safe place before berating the crap out of him, John contented himself with a low growl as he manhandled Tomas towards the lowest step of the passage back up to the Cornish house.
"You better be able to run faster than that, you little sod," he snapped, shoving him forcibly upwards.
Deeming it wise to say nothing until things had calmed, Tomas took one look at the expression on John's face, then headed for the steps, his feet flying.
Sherlock brought up the rear, his long legs able to take some of the steps two-at-a-time, and John just ran like hell. Between the three of them, they had almost achieved the relative safety of the old iron gate before they were caught in the torchlight of the three men chasing them. Sherlock observed his trailing foot momentarily silhouetted against the step in front of him and knew they'd been spotted. Yet the gate was mere yards away. Could they make it before they were trapped like deer in car-headlights?
Wrenching the gate open, Tomas was first through, followed in the next second by John, the younger Holmes dragging the barrier closed behind him, forcing the latch back into its rusted old holder.
"I need something to wedge this into place," he muttered, holding it in still with one hand while patting his jacket pockets with the other.
"I've got a pen," John held it our without much optimism. It was a lightweight plastic felt pen and Sherlock grabbed it with alacrity.
"Perfect," he acknowledged, stabbing the entire body of the pen as deep as he possibly could into the narrow brace of the gate's latch. There was a faint crack as the casing gave way under the abnormal pressure, but it seemed to be thoroughly wedged.
"This isn't going to hold them long once they find out where and what the obstacle is," Sherlock looked straight into Tomas' eyes. "I want you to run to the house and alert my brother in case they make it past us and up to the bookroom," he said. "Someone is going to have to be there to stop them."
"You want me to leave you?" Tomas looked aghast, as if deserting them was the worst possible thing they might have suggested.
"Go!" John's arm shot out, his index finger stabbing into the dark above them. Such was the imperative in his voice that the boy took off without a backward glance.
"Still enjoy pulling rank, then?" Sherlock grinned briefly.
"I am so going to kick his arse when this is all over," John shook his head and pulled a deep breath into his lungs. "If we're going to try and slow them down, then we need to take cover somewhere and make a stand."
"They may have guns," Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Might be dangerous."
"Yeah, yeah," John made a weary face. "Bit late for that now."
On the far side of the gate, there was the unmistakable sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, pausing as they reached the faked cave-in. Would it be enough to convince them that nobody else could have come this way? The pursuers had been so close, it would have been impossible for anyone to have got passed them and there had been no option to branch off into an alternate direction. It would be obvious to any but the rankest idiot that this had to be the route of escape. All that remained was for one of the pursuers to successfully navigate the blockage and further escape became moot.
There was a guttural murmuring on the far side of the gate before Sherlock sensed the artfully created trompe lóile being carefully prodded. It took only moments for its deceptive nature to be discovered.
"We'll soon find out if there is a gun," Sherlock whispered, flattening himself behind slight outcrop in the wall. John was very swiftly beside him, both holding their breath as they waited.
They didn't have to wait long. With an almighty crash of noise, there were two, closely-spaced reports of a handgun, one round striking the iron of the gate, making it reverberate with a sound of metallic anguish, while the second round passed clear through both sets of artifice as well as the gate to ricochet off the tunnel wall some several yards behind them.
"There's definitely a gun, then," John sighed. "Mean's we can't stay here and hold the fort without getting shot, so we'd better retreat to a more strategic spot."
"They're not the only ones with weapons," Sherlock was already moving up the steps that would lead them shortly into the widened chamber with the table and candles. "I have a plan, but we need to be quick."
Running up the stone steps behind his flatmate, John wondered what fresh lunacy his friend was about to unleash. He wondered what Mycroft was doing.
###
"There is a hidden entrance behind this … material," Joubert waved at the fake landslide with the barrel of the Luger in his hand. "Whoever was watching us on the beach has gone through here and may be waiting on the other side with weapons," he turned to Bisset. "Do we risk it?" he asked.
"There is no choice," the rough, gravelled voice of their previously silent passenger echoed unpleasantly around the cold stone walls of the tunnel.
Both Frenchmen turned to him in surprise. "Why no choice?" Bisset didn't much care for being told what to do. "They probably never saw us before, wouldn't have been able to see much of us in the dark and most likely couldn't describe us if their lives depended on it," Bisset sniffed dismissively. "I doubt the effort is worth the risk."
"Someone saw me and they ran," Elbaneh spoke softly but with intent. "I have not paid you a king's ransom only to be betrayed to the British authorities by some accidental witness," he said. "You will go through there and risk possible attack," Elbaneh smiled nastily as he produced a small Beretta and aimed it squarely at Bisset's chest, "or risk certain death," his tone was mild. "Your choice."
The Frenchman was nothing if not pragmatic. Narrowing his eyes, he gave a classic Gallic shrug. "Fair enough," he said. "But you better keep that thing in your hand for the rest of the time we're together," he smiled, just as nastily as the other.
"There's a metal gate underneath all this," Joubert's arm was invisible from the shoulder-down as he fumbled deeper inside the old daubed canvas. His fingers located and fiddled with a heavy latch. It was stuck, but if someone else had made it through here, then it was certain they could. He gave the handle a violent upwards tug and felt, as much as heard something give a soft crunch as the latch came loose in his fingers.
Looking carefully between Bisset's black expression, he wondered if shooting their erstwhile passenger might be a poor business-choice. Eventually, he took a deep breath and pushed the opened gate inwards and edged cautiously through, waving his torch at eye-height.
There was nothing inside but darkness and more steps. "We go up, then," he said.
###
Tomas burst out of the secret passage into the bookroom just as Mycroft and Cate entered through the room's main door.
"There's three men chasing us with guns!" the boy's chest heaved. "Sherlock said one of the men was a guy called Tontini Albanay, or something," he choked; dragging in huge lungful's of air.
"Totoni Elbaneh?" Mycroft's voice was suddenly very sharp. "You're sure?"
Nodding rather than attempt further speech, Tomas stood, resting his hands on his knees as his breathing regulated.
"John sent me up here to warn you that they might not be able to be stopped and for you to close this door and call for help."
The shadow of a smile crossed Mycroft's face. "There is no need," he said. "Help is here."
Taking pity on the pained look of confusion on her nephew's face, Cate went to hold him up. "Your uncle is having the marines come in from a ship," she nodded soothingly. "They're already on the beach."
"But they won't know how to find the passage entrance in the cave!" he cried. "Sherlock and John need to be told!"
"Tomas, I can assure you …" but Mycroft's words ended in thin air as Tomas dashed back into the tunnel, dragging the bookshelf across the gaping entrance as he did. It closed silently but with a decided click.
Standing almost beside the closed bookshelf, Cate took one look at Mycroft who seemed about to say something.
"Not a word," she directed, holding up her index-finger, palm towards him. "Not a single word," she added, turning and lifting her fingers towards Rasselas she pulled the book towards her and waited for the bookshelf to swing open again.
###
As Joubert edged silently up the continuous staircase, there was nothing but still, cold air, although he could swear there was an acrid whiff of smoke hanging in the space ahead. Holding the Luger steady, he walked up the next couple of steps and onto a much wider, flatter area of masoned stone. There was still no light to see by, but his torch was able to pick out the wider dimensions of the area: large heavy flagstones on the floor, mostly smooth and well-wrought walls cut from the rock itself. It also looked as if there'd been a fight at some point: there were chairs overturned, and an old table on its side. The smell of recent smoke was stronger.
"There's nobody here," he hissed, waving Bisset up beside him and completely ignoring the other man.
It was only when all three of them were stationery at the top of the lower staircase that John and Sherlock leaped up from their hiding-place behind the hastily overturned table and began pelting the interlopers with handfuls of a stinking, clay-like substance.
As Joubert and Elbaneh levelled their weapons to fire, both Sherlock and John immediately stopped hurling the rank substance, lifting their arms into the air almost as if by some pre-agreed action.
"We surrender," Sherlock's voice was perfectly steady, as he made no movement at all that might be construed as belligerent. John was equally still.
"Yes," the blonde man added. "Completely surrendering, here."
"What is this stuff?" Bisset used both hands to scrape off the sticky, noxious paste that was on his face and arms as well now, as all over his hands. He spat. Some of the foul muck had even touched his mouth. "What is this you have thrown at us … mud?"
Shaking his head and looking a touch apologetic, Sherlock shrugged. "A deadly toxin, that's polluted the earth around this house," he offered, casually. "If you don't wash it off within the next ten minutes, it'll have permeated your skin and reached your bloodstream," he sounded offhand. "Up to you, of course," he added. "But I'd be making a sharpish move back down to the beach right about now, were I you."
"Ha! This is no poison," Elbaneh scorned, wiping the oily residue off his face. "If it were, you'd both be risking your lives just by touching it with your hands."
"If you care to shine your torches up here," Sherlock and John waggled their hands in unison. "You'll see we came prepared," he added, as the combined sweep of three torches caught and reflected the shiny plastic of two long pairs of HAZMAT protective gloves.
A horrible uncertainty crossed Joubert's face. The material stank horribly, that was true, but was it really a poison?
"As I said," Sherlock sounded bored now. "You really should consider getting that stuff washed off as soon as you can. By my count, you have less than five minutes before it soaks into your skin and it's nasty stuff."
"Very nasty stuff,' John nodded. "And I'm a doctor, so I would know."
The anger that had been slowly building in Totoni Elbaneh's heart began an open simmer. Stepping forward he pointed his torch directly at the tall, dark-haired man.
"In my country, we believe in an eye for an eye," he snarled, aiming the compact Beretta at the middle of Sherlock's forehead. "That you tell me I should expect to die means that I may say the same to you," he grinned menacingly as he levelled his weapon. "And I would suggest that you have even less time than you have given me."
It was at that precise moment that, with a shriek like an attacking banshee, Tomas ran across the short stretch of flat stonework, yanked the rusted old machete out of its long-slumber and went for the man with the gun.