Chapter Thirteen:


As soon as he had left the dining room when Carlton escorted Miss Adler up to her bedroom, Mycroft tried to find Sherlock. He knew that his brother's first instinct would be to flee. Master of avoidance. A quick check of the Library and the drawing room came up empty. He then went up the stairs to what was once Sherlock's bedroom. That's when he saw the suit carefully hung on the wardrobe. He cursed inwardly, and then contacted the security team at the house. Within minutes the CCTV footage was checked and he was shown the footage of the tall figure leaving the house and heading into the woods. He sent men after his brother.

The team called in twenty minutes later. "We tracked him to the point where he crossed the estate perimeter. He might have hitched a lift from a car on the Greatham Lane taking him either east or west. The footage shows eleven cars passing the camera at the road junction, any one of which could have stopped to pick up a passenger once it got out of camera range. There was no sign of a trail on the other side of the road. About 200 meters to the west, he could have headed across open fields. I'm sorry, Sir, he's just disappeared. We don't have enough men to chase down all the possible routes." The man sounded apologetic. "Do you want to call in the helicopter, sir? The one on the helipad here doesn't have any thermal imaging equipment, but we might still be able to spot him with a floodlight."

Mycroft knew his brother's ability to disappear was not dependent on being in London. He sighed. He asked the security team to see if they could locate Sherlock's phone using GPS. He tried calling his brother's number. It went straight to voice mail. "Unless you're an idiot, you know who you called. Leave a message. If it isn't tedious, I might get back to you." This was said in a bored baritone. Mycroft left a tersely worded command. Ten minutes later there had been no reply.

He started texting.

12.19am Where are you? The stuff on this phone is fascinating. We need to talk about next steps.

No reply.

12.27am On foot, cross country? How nostalgic. But I'm not at Eton this time, brother. Call me.

No reply. He resumed texting.

12.43 Answer your phone. I need you, if we are to tackle JM together.

If Mycroft hoped that he might get cooperation by appealing to Sherlock's ego and offering him the chance to work together, he was sadly mistaken. There was still no reply. The security team leader got off his own phone to say "I'm sorry sir; we think he has turned his phone off. No sign of it anywhere in the system."

Mycroft sighed. Why did Sherlock always have to be so bloody difficult? He called off the manhunt. He had other things to think about, and could not afford to waste time on Sherlock distracting him from what he needed to do.

oOo

Mycroft spent the rest of the night sitting in the study digesting what was on the phone and trying to plot the morning's activities accordingly. While it was still dark, before five a.m. he went upstairs, took a shower and dressed; the car picked him up thirty minutes later. By 6.50 he anticipated would be in the Cabinet Office room that he sometimes used as an office, waiting for the promised phone call from Moriarty. The American NSA Security Adviser was due to arrive at 8am, and the COBRA meeting was now due to start at 10.15. The PM would be meeting the US Ambassador at noon.

As the car journeyed up the A23 toward the M23, Mycroft rehearsed his night's work. His planning had been based around two scenarios- the first was that Moriarty would leave him high and dry, with no excuse- just for the pleasure of watching him crash and burn. Unlikely that he would do this, given the investment made so far, but it was prudent to plan for it, just in case. Mycroft had his story ready- about the source that had tipped him off about the CIA having the evidence that the terrorists knew that their code had been broken. Mycroft had found a photo on Irene's phone, of the CIA agent Nielson meeting with Moriarty's right hand man, one Sebastian Moran. He'd actually met the man at the plane, sent from the Embassy to investigate what had happened to call the flight off. He was clearly an underling, not privy to the plans. Thank God, otherwise the flight would have been betrayed to Moriarty months ago. On the other hand, that would have been preferable to having his own brother leak the information. Mycroft ruthlessly squashed such pointless what if exercises. No point in wasting any energy.

A file under the directory on Miss Adler's phone called 'Secrets' revealed nearly a dozen of Moriarty's dark angels, some of whom she had been instrumental in recruiting. That data would be shared with the Americans, and Nielson served up as the sacrificial lamb to start with. Mycroft hoped that would set off a frenzied witch hunt in the US security services. At last he had an answer to the question that had been puzzling him since the CIA first turned up in Miss Adler's Belgravia flat. What did Nielson think was on that phone which would be worth risking that kind of smash and grab raid in a foreign ally's home territory? Now he knew- a fair amount of dirt on the CIA's own weaknesses, not to mention the name of three of their own people who were linked to Moriarty. The NSA was always delighted to have evidence that the Langley lot were useless. The Secretary for Homeland Security would intervene, and the resulting bun-fight might keep people's attention distracted from him. But Mycroft knew that if he played this right, he could also get more out of Moriarty before the man realised he had not won.

What he wanted was for Moriarty to give him the information he promised about the faked data lost somewhere in the CIA which would excuse the cancellation. With that data, it would be possible for Mycroft to pinpoint the actual weakness in the CIA- to find more culprits and then be seen as the hero- able to find the moles that the CIA had not been able to find. That would convert a near disaster into a personal triumph. Expensive in terms of budgetary cost, but preventing the PR disaster of having the flight uncovered after the explosion would earn some kudos. Topping that would be icing on the cake-being able to prove (yet again) that the British Intelligence services were better able to do their jobs than the Americans were, and that his team in particular were invaluable. If he played it right, then this could strengthen his position exponentially.

Of course, this would not be enough to defeat Moriarty. It would probably serve only to motivate the man more. And that made Mycroft wary. Even if I survive this round as a draw, or am lucky enough to win it, it's only one battle. The war continues.

And he knew now that Sherlock was a weakness that Moriarty would try to exploit again. If…. no, when the Irishman failed this time, he'd be back for more. That made Mycroft very uncomfortable. Somehow, he was going to have to figure out a way to beat the man, to stop being forced always to react, rather than to strike first. And he was going to have to remove Sherlock from the firing line. This one had come way too close to success. The next one would have to be directly between Mycroft and Moriarty. No more proxy wars. Later… I will think about that tomorrow, once this battle is won. As he looked out of the car window over the dawn coming up over the North Downs, he wondered where his brother was, and what he was thinking.

oOo

Less than an hour later Mycroft was standing at the window on the second floor of the Cabinet Office, looking out over the parade ground at Horseguards. Too early for more than the occasional early morning jogger, no smart business suited or uniformed men and women on their way to work yet. It was 7.03 and he was getting uncomfortable waiting for Moriarty's call.

Then the phone rang, and he took a deep breath. He checked that recording was on, and opened the connection. "Good Morning, Mister Moriarty. I hope you have something useful to share with me." The tone was icy and professional, with just enough edge to it to make the man believe he was anxious. To be honest, Mycroft was not putting on much of an act.

There was an exaggerated sigh of contentment on the line. "Top o' the morning to you, too, Frosty. Did you have a sleepless night? I do hope so." The man put a little bit of condescension in the tone.

Mycroft's retort was crisp. "There isn't time to gloat. There is a very important someone I need to impress with the reason why I have just blown an enormous hole in his budget allocation for the year. It had better be a good reason, or your investment in me may prove to be rather short lived."

"Ohhh- are you rattled? I like the sound of that. Promise me you'll do that again, the next time I put you on the spot."

Mycroft found himself trying to bite his tongue. He would have loved to have done nothing more than tell Moriarty the truth and then listen to the man's realisation he'd lost. But that momentary fantasy passed. He needed the truth.

"I hate repeating myself, but I will now as you seem to have misunderstood the urgency of my request. Send. The evidence. NOW."

"Not until you beg for it. Say, 'pretty please', or you won't get it."

Mycroft held the phone away from his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. This is insufferable. "I will point out that you are the one who has gone to a great deal of trouble to turn me into your messenger. If you wish this investment to bear fruit, then give me the message!" This last was said through gritted teeth.

That provoked a snort. "You really don't know how to be gracious in defeat, do you? Ah, well, don't suppose you've had much experience of it. I will remedy that, never fear. Might as well make you realise just how dependent you are on me to save the skin of yours. Okaaay- get ready to catch this life-line. I'm sending you through a file reference number. It only makes sense to a CIA officer. I can guarantee that the file to which it refers does exist. Expertly produced and strategically placed. Bullet proof, it is. All you have to do is point the finger."

"You have to tell me what the file says. They will expect me to have seen it, or at least know what's in it, who it came from, what its provenance is. So, yes, please, I want the full details."

There was a snort from the other end. "You know something? You get a little whiney when you don't get things your way." Mycroft did not rise to the bait, letting a silence lengthen.

"And now you're sulking. Is there a pout on that aristocratic face? I suppose I can let you know a teensy bit. Just a little titbit then- the buried file contains a cryptic message sent by a terrorist cell in the Swat valley- something that the CIA didn't understand, in the aftermath of a drone strike targeting a particular individual. There were casualties, but the US military reported the death of another suspect in the same attack- and the fact that this other person was in the room when it was hit by the missile could only have been known if the terrorists' own code was broken. If the Yanks had two grey cells between them they would have realised that it would tip off the fact to the terrorists that the code had been broken- but you know as well as I do that the American military can be a bit thick at times. It's enough of a smoking gun, and completely plausible that the CIA would miss it. You know, the left and right hands in America never could manage to work together."

Mycroft's retort came instantly. "So, by pointing this out, you are allowing me to be the ambidextrous hero." It was not only plausible, it was actually highly likely to have happened. "Any chance this is the real thing, rather than a plant by your people?"

That brought a full throated laugh from Moriarty. "You wish; I'm not going to tell you, am I? Suffice to say, it will stand up to scrutiny."

"It had better, because it is certain to be scrutinised. And that leads me to another point. How am I supposed to have come across this information?"

"Use your imagination! That's for you to come up with. Fecking hell, man, you're the one who's supposed to be the spy mastermind here."

That brought a tiny smile to the lips of Mycroft. "On the contrary, Mister Moriarty, I am just a minor official in the British Government."

"That better not be the case, Holmes. Because when I call this little favour in, you'd better bet it's going to need a major player to deliver what I want."

Mycroft glanced down at his phone to see that a new text had arrived. "I assume the text I've just received has the file reference?"

"You assume correctly. Now- go to work for me, Mycroft Holmes. Remember I will have eyes and ears in that meeting, so just watch what you say and how you say it, because Daddy will be listening."

Mycroft allowed himself a tiny mental fantasy of just how Moriarty would react when he learned the truth about the incident. I am so going to enjoy puncturing this infernal egotist's balloon.


Author's Note: If you are curious about Mycroft's text above referring to Eton, then watch this space. After the next two chapters of Level Up, I will take a short detour- and post Expedition in the Ex Files Story. If you aren't following that yet, you might want to, in order not to miss the back story.