Not Quite a Cold War
A Brief Inquisition – The Obvious Conclusion – The Vilest Creature – A Remote Player – Sherlock is Scandalised – Ganja Man – The Heavy Word – An Early Christmas – Quid Pro Quo.
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It was in the lift travelling up to the top levels of the building that Sherlock first suggested something radically out of the ordinary had just taken place.
"She called you by name," he murmured, frowning at the inside of the lift doors. "Not only that, she said your name both with familiarity, as if she'd known you for some time, but also with surprise, as if you'd not met recently. She knew you and you obviously knew her," he paused, delicately, feeling his way through a profusion of rank improbabilities. "Despite the fact you addressed her by her title and surname, Doctor Chandler, it would have been obvious to an infant that you knew her at a social level, which means you know her given name but deliberately chose not to use it," he paused, gathering his thoughts. "One wonders at the reason behind your use of a formal greeting rather than the more social one you had both clearly exercised before tonight, unless it was because of Lestrade and myself," Sherlock frowned again. "This was the first or second day of her employment here, as was clearly evidenced when she reminded the security guards to use her first name as well as asking them what time other employees usually arrived for work, thus you couldn't have met her here before, at her place of business," he paused. "But she definitely knew you, knew you well, judging by her autonomic responses after charging into you in the foyer; the sudden intake of breath, the faint, though distinct blush-reaction as she recognised you, the pupil-dilation ..." he turned, seeking his brother's eyes. "You have known each other for some time from somewhere outside of the work environment; a private ... a social environment, yet you chose not to reference that fact because you were not alone," Sherlock paused again, his gaze fixed on his brother's face. "Friends ..." he tasted the word. "How do you know each other as friends?" he asked, observing his brother's utter non-reaction and knowing with complete and absolute certainty there was more here than he'd first assumed. His thoughts flickered like a snake's tongue. "Or is it more than friends?" he asked, slightly appalled. "Why did her pupils dilate, Mycroft?"
Leaning back in the corner, Greg Lestrade folded his arms and grinned, tickled, as he watched Sherlock in the process of unleashing a full-frontal inquisition on the one man in London, possibly the one man in Britain, who could remain utterly unfazed by such an assault.
"My brother has clearly been overdoing things, Inspector," Mycroft kept his hands on the handle of his umbrella and his eyes firmly on the inside of the lift's steel enclosure. I'm surprised you permit such a state of affairs to exist. I assume he's been chasing a variety of felons at all hours?" Mycroft turned to stare at the Londoner, eyebrows raised in faint reproval. "An unreasonable workload perhaps, even for one such as he?"
"Leave me out of this," Lestrade folded his arms all the tighter. "It's been a bit busy, yes," he admitted. "But nothing that would have Sherlock in the realm of hallucination, I don't think. And don't go blaming me about the mad sod's determination to solve every cold case he steals from my files," he added. "He's right though," the inspector was thoughtful, the copper in him unconsciously weighing up the evidence. He remembered a pair of clear grey eyes glancing swiftly between him and Sherlock before confining themselves to the face of Holmes the elder. "She did go a bit pink after she realised who she'd bumped into," he smiled at Mycroft. "Until then, she was only flustered she'd charged into you because she hadn't been looking where she was going. It was only after she realised who you were that she blushed," he caught Sherlock's eye and winked. "Something you'd like to share with us, Mycroft?" his tone was on the edge of teasing.
A soft sigh was the elder Holmes' only response as the doors opened onto the seventh floor, permitting him to stride down the long passage towards a tall door at the very end.
###
The chill evening air felt good against the heated skin of her face as she walked through the central portal of Thames House main exit and onto the empty pavement. Fortunately the rain had stopped for the moment, leaving the sky cloudy with a half-lidded moon. It wasn't hard to spot an empty cab heading her way which slowed almost before she'd raised her hand in a hail.
Of all people, why him? And why tonight?
Giving the cabbie her address, Grace sank back against the cool leather and tried to pacify the swarm of thoughts and emotions bouncing around her brain. It was the unexpected nature of the encounter, she thought. The very last thing she'd ever imagined was that they might – literally – bump into one another again, so what she was feeling right now was the aftermath of shock at the unexpected meeting, she rationalised. She hadn't been ready for it; she had been so focused elsewhere that she hadn't prepared herself in time. It was the sheer surprise of their meeting like this that was still causing her heart to beat so loud in her ears. She would stop this now. She would. Any moment now.
Taking a slow, deep breath, Grace forced her thoughts elsewhere. Who were the two other men? The dark-haired one on the right had looked maybe the same age or just a little younger than herself, late thirties at least, with blue-grey eyes that glittered, but the man on the other side of ... him, had been older; closer to fifty, with silvery-grey hair cut almost ruthlessly short above a dark hazel gaze. He had a calm face, a kind face.
"That'll be eleven pounds twenty, please miss," the cabbie leaned back toward her, a smile at her absent-minded expression.
Grace hadn't even been aware of the car's movement, let alone the journey, brief though it would have been. Digging inside her purse, she pulled out a ten and a five, handing them over without comment or further thought as she opened the door and stepped back out into the increasingly unfriendly night.
She shivered.
Only one thing to do now, she realised, waving briefly at the cab-driver before heading into the well-lit vestibule of the building. Heading up the stairs at a fast run, anything that kept her thoughts in the here-and-now, she unlocked and pushed through her front door, walking straight through into the kitchen and towards the refrigerator. Opening the door, she pulled out the very decent bottle of Krug GrandeCuvéeshe'd been saving for this day. Unwinding the metal cage with impatient fingers, Grace removed the cork with the minimum amount of fuss, pouring herself a bracing glass of the bubbly.
Swallowing too quickly, she coughed as the fizz went up her nose, making anything else difficult to think about until the burning sensation dissipated. By the time the coughing jag was done and her breathing righted, she realised her body was finally back to normal.
Pouring another glass of the frothy wine, she allowed her thoughts to retrack to the moment when ...
Good evening, Doctor Chandler ...
He had stood there after she'd careened into him, stood there with a detached and impersonal look of acknowledgement on his face. He'd considered her the way another person might consider a poorly parked car. He hadn't been upset or embarrassed or anything of that nature, on the contrary; he'd been utterly impassive and proper.
The eyes. She remembered how his gaze could enchant and confuse and exasperate her, often simultaneously.
Alpha ...
No. Absolutely not. No no no. She would not allow herself to think about him.
Pouring herself a third glass of the fizzy, Grace threw her coat over the back of a kitchen chair, kicked her shoes into a corner and walked into the large, uniquely-shaped lounge. Too tense to think about television or music, she wondered if food might be a better idea, but found her appetite was quite absent despite the day she'd just had. Maybe in a while, after she'd unwound. As the alcohol began to bite, her body relaxed into the dark red leather of an old chesterfield settee, Grace found her brain coming back online.
So; Mycroft Holmes was still working with the security services ... he had clearly come to Thames House for a reason; probably a meeting. With Gerald Palmer? It seemed the most likely. What was Mycroft's connection to MI5? Did he work with or for the service? What was the connection with Palmer? And who were the other two men? The dark-haired one with the over-observant eyes had stared, both men had stared, but the younger one seemed to be observing with a distinct purposefulness. She wondered what it was. The other one, the older one, had seemed much more normal; he had just watched, without seeming to judge, as she extricated herself from the collision with as much grace as she could muster.
Mycroft Holmes was still around in London and still involved with his clandestine spy stuff. He hadn't changed much, then. No doubt he'd still behave in exactly the same way as when he'd ... No, stop.
Grace lifted her feet in the air and wiggled her toes as she sipped the chilly champagne. Though she was calm now, she was also honest enough to admit her reaction to ... his sudden appearance might be considered disproportionate.
She nodded slowly to herself and sighed. There was only one conclusion she could logically draw from this evening's oddly unsettling event, maddening though it was. To experience that level of discomfiture meant he was still under her skin to some extent; that she still felt ... something ... for him.
She sipped her wine again.
Well, that was going to have to change.
###
Deflecting his brother's interrogation with a skill born of many years practice, Mycroft found his mind racing far faster than the lift which carried them to the top floor of Thames House.
He had known Grace Chandler had every right to be in this building, and no reason to suppose their paths would forever remain separate from one another. This was an undeniable fact; his brain accepted it as a cold, logical possibility.
So why then did her unexpected and inadvertent appearance cause his entire system to freeze? He had known who the woman was, even while she was walking towards him, facing the wrong way and exchanging pleasantries with the security guards. He could have moved. He could easily have shifted out of her path, passing her by without so much as a sideways glance.
But no. Instead, his feet had felt glued to the polished marble floor; his entire body unexpectedly sluggish and unwilling to follow the direction of his thoughts.
But why?
As the lift travelled upwards, he allowed part of his mind to attend to Sherlock's wittering, even producing a vague verbal prod directed at Lestrade, but by far the larger stream of his thinking swirled round and around the fact that he had, quite knowingly and possibly even with malice aforethought, allowed Grace Chandler to plough into him.
But why?
Of course, his brother was correct. It would have been virtually impossible for anyone standing that close not to recognise her immediate physical reactions; the low gasp of shock, the swift blossom of pink at the crest of her cheeks. The horrified widening of her eyes, and yes ... the dilation of her pupils, a typical adrenalin response in moments of anxiety and fear, although there would have been no reason for her to fear him, surely not? The most likely probability was shock; the almost preternatural fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in. Meeting him in such an unforeseen manner after all this time, no wonder she had caught her breath. She must still consider him the vilest creature beneath the sun.
For some reason, the idea was vaguely unwelcome, though hardly to be surprised at.
The lift arrived on the seventh floor and Mycroft strode ahead, unwilling for either Sherlock or Lestrade to witness the unfamiliar chagrin he felt tightening his face. Lestrade was too experienced a detective not to recognise such a fixed expression for what it was; his discomposure. And as for providing Sherlock with even an iota more ammunition ...
Mycroft marched ahead down the long, carpeted corridor still wondering why Grace Chandler's pupils had dilated in fear. Had he repulsed her that much?
###
"And the truth of the matter, Inspector, is that we don't know," Gerald Palmer handed each of his guests a crystal tumbler of eighteen-year-old single malt. "There is always a certain amount of inconsequential data that slips away; it's incorrectly recorded and stored, or it's added onto the end of a different record; it degrades and fails ... there is always a small amount of information, both hard and soft, that will inevitably succumb to unplanned corruption of one sort or another, and yes; we have built that slippage into our calculations."
"But it would take something far more specific than just a small increase in your ... slippage ... to start considering the idea of a traitor, surely?"
Nodding, Palmer returned to his seat behind the large central desk. "Actually, it wasn't even the disappearing data that caught our attention," he said. "The information that was vanishing was relatively inconsequential in both content and dimension for anyone to notice. It wasn't until we found someone had bought some of the stuff, that we understood the nature of the problem. Even now," he said, taking a bit of a deep breath, "we aren't entirely sure just what we might have lost."
"And you consider yourself a security service?" Sherlock scoffed loudly. "It's amazing you have anything left to secure at this rate."
"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled accommodatingly at MI5's Director. "My brother is a little forthright at times, Gerald," he said. "But he has a point."
Flinging the younger Holmes a sour look, Palmer returned his gaze to one of the Yard's most well-known senior officers and took a deep breath. "As I was saying, Inspector," the head of MI5 rotated the half-empty tumbler in his hand. "We aren't completely sure what might have gone missing, when it disappeared, and certainly not how, although I have a team of people tracing a number of potentially productive avenues."
"So how do you know anything's vanished in the first place?" Lestrade still wasn't entirely clear on the whole thing.
"Because information that could only have come from our archives is beginning to appear on the open market in and around London," Mycroft looked dour. "Material that could only have originated at MI5, meaning that only someone from inside the organisation would have had access to it," he paused, swirling the scotch. "I don't need to tell you what will happen to our national standing should knowledge of this situation reach the public domain. Whoever has done this may only be in it for the money, but it's an act of treachery which may also be treasonous."
"A possible traitor, then?" the silver-haired man sighed. "Not good, that."
"Not good in the slightest," Palmer exhaled loudly. "But if we go in boots and all, whoever has been dealing this material will simply go underground and lay low, and we can't afford for that to happen. We need to know who they are, who their clients are and what's being bought and sold in London."
"Which is where, I suspect," Lestrade looked between Palmer and the elder Holmes, "that I come in."
"There are in fact, two clearly argued approaches in the current situation," Mycroft tapped the handle of his umbrella. "The current internal data-storage systems need both upgrades and increased security, as well as a total overhaul of all ICT in the department: with properly effective technology, it will be that much harder for anything like this to recur in the future," he paused, thinking. "Additionally, a thorough and systematic search needs to be undertaken to locate not merely the missing data, but both the dealer and clients of such an exchange," he sipped his scotch. "Anything that can be done to expedite these matters should be our first priority. We dare not risk open season on the missing classified data."
Narrowing his eyes, Palmer pulled open a drawer in his desk, bringing out several sheets of paper. Mycroft noted they had once been folded.
Handing the first sheet across the desk, MI5's senior administrator sat back and steepled his fingertips. "That do to be going on with?" he asked.
Taking the page between a finger and thumb, Mycroft scanned rapidly down the neatly handwritten text, each line a statement of intent.
"You did not write this," he said, looking back at Palmer while passing the sheet across to Sherlock.
"A woman's hand," the younger Holmes sniffed the paper, mentally cataloguing the faint scent of citrus. "A woman who knows the good stuff," he added, looking at the listed demands and lifting his eyebrows. "You have an expert in your midst."
"Our new Director of Archives, Grace Chandler, gave me that list earlier today," Palmer nodded, his smile one of private amusement. "She advised me the department had been run down into virtual uselessness, and insisted I do something about it," Palmer's smile remained as he recalled the conversation. "Doctor Chandler was quite adamant she be permitted to rectify the situation. She was rather firm."
At the sound of Grace's name, Mycroft resisted the urge to look up, especially since he knew Sherlock would be watching for any additional input in that particular area. He was entirely able to imagine the adamantine qualities of the new Archive Director. "Funds will not be an issue," he murmured, retrieving the list from his brother.
"No, the existing budget can be stretched for the fundamentals," Palmer flicked his eyes across a second sheet. "Though Chandler and her team will think Christmas has arrived far earlier than expected. The requested improvements are already in train."
"Well then if that's the internal security taken care of, what exactly, are you expecting me to do beyond these walls?" Lestrade wondered just how big an operation this might turn out to be. "You've got far more resources on call than I can possibly expect, even if I were to be able to help you out with this officially, which is something I'm wondering about, actually," the Londoner finished his scotch, replacing the heavy tumbler on Palmer's desk. "Not sure the Super would consider this the best use of my time, besides which," he hesitated, looking between Palmer and the elder Holmes. "Why me, a copper, when you have an abundance of talent in that area already in this place?"
"Don't concern yourself on that score, Inspector," Mycroft folded his hands over his crossed legs. "I've already spoken with your Commissioner and you are, as of this afternoon, seconded to special, though unspecified, duties with this agency for the immediate future," he smiled amiably. "I trust that meets your approval?"
"As if I'd have a lot of say in the matter even if it didn't," Greg was an old hand at this game. May as well give in gracefully; get the thing finished and get back to the real work. "But you still haven't said why you can't use MI5 agents; it's what they're trained to do, isn't it?"
"That is so, Inspector," Palmer acknowledged. "But we can't afford for even a breath of this to get out, and until we're sure who might be involved, then effectively everyone in MI5 is suspect, if you get my drift."
Well that made a little more sense, Greg realised. And hence the air of urgency; MI5 would want this cleared up pretty swiftly.
"While I concede the wisdom of the internal provisions and Lestrade's secondment, I am still at something of a loss as to why I am here," Sherlock sighed impatiently. "I do not do 'secondments', in case anyone was considering such a suggestion," he added. "Nor, as a private individual, am I required to do anything at all unless I chose to do so, and until you make this sufficiently interesting for me, you can forget my involvement. This needs at least an eight on the scale and it sound more like a five or six."
Turning his head slowly, Mycroft fixed his sibling with an instructive eye. "Inspector Lestrade is to be our point-man in this, Sherlock," he said. "But I want you with him, providing an on-the-spot analysis and feedback to me. We are going to have to be exceptionally and strategically agile in this operation, as we have, as yet, no clear idea how wide it has become or how deep the rabbit-hole may go. Whoever is our contact on the streets will need to be quick-witted and act with due authority. Since you are, by your own admission, nothing more than a private citizen, we cannot appoint you to an official task-force, nor can I empower you with any publicly sanctioned authority; that is Lestrade's role, however …" Mycroft turned to face the head of MI5. "We cannot ask the good inspector to provide us with the type of amplified analysis that may be needed in order to react with necessary swiftness, and that is to be your part in this little steeplechase."
Silent for several seconds, Sherlock leaned his chin on the heel of one hand. "You want a remote player," he said.
"Precisely, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled briefly. "I need someone I can trust to make the right move even if we are not yet in full possession of all the details. If we need to step quickly, for any reason and I suspect we may, then action cannot wait upon a delayed, centralised response. We need to know who's selling and who's buying."
"And where do you suggest we seek out these various … transactions?" the younger Holmes thought about some of the less well-known marketplaces in the city. Certainly not the kind of localities the average tourist might go for a souvenir.
"You want me to gallivant around London's dens of iniquity dragging this one with me?" Lestrade looked and sounded unenthusiastic. "At the very least, it'll be dangerous, and I mean guns and knives and brass-knuckles dangerous," he paused. "Not sure I fancy the idea of taking a civilian into those kinds of places."
"Oh, come now, Greg," Sherlock leaned forward. "You know I'm perfectly capable of taking care of things."
Noticing the younger Holmes had actually got his name right for once, Lestrade was also very aware of precisely how Sherlock was able to take care of…things.
"No guns," he said to the room at large. "This one gets a gun and I'm walking away, and I don't much care what you tell the Commissioner."
"There should be no need for weapons at all, Inspector," Mycroft was all sweetness now he seemed to be getting what he wanted. "You are the guide and Sherlock acts as our interim analyst based upon the situation on the ground. No guns or knives anticipated, just a quiet little saunter around town, chatting to a few old friends, asking a few questions, meeting a few people," he paused. "What serious danger could there be?"
Plenty, Greg thought. "Fieldwork not really your thing, is it?" he remarked.
Mycroft blinked slowly. A memory of Cambridge in early summer floated through his thoughts. "Not anymore," he said. "I am unsuited to its demands."
"So we're agreed?" Palmer looked around. "Doctor Chandler gets the new technology she wants, together with the system upgrades she deems so essential, while we simultaneously undertake a low-profile search-and-locate for any signs of the missing material in the city."
"When are you bringing her into this?" Mycroft kept his gaze on Palmer, studiously avoiding his brother.
"Already done," Gerald Palmer made a thoughtful face. "She was halfway there with her analytical criticisms even before I gave her the report," he said. "If I want this problem shut down for good from the inside, I need Chandler's total compliance. Bringing her in now seemed the wisest option."
"Very well," Mycroft amended his assessment of the situation to incorporate the new parameters. "Then she should be present for our next discussion of this matter," he said. "Especially if we expect her to monitor her own staff for undesirable activities."
"You consider that necessary?" Palmer had known there would be the possibility of this but had hoped it would never eventuate.
"You consider it anything else?" Mycroft looked bleak.
"Then I think we are done here for now," Palmer leaned back in his chair, turning to Lestrade. "How soon can you begin your investigation?"
"Tonight's as good a time as any," the silver-haired man chewed his lower lip. "There's a few places that spring immediately to mind."
"I'll need to change," Sherlock brooded momentarily. "I suggest you do too, Garvin," he added. "Your current ensemble screams law-enforcement."
"Greg." It had been too good to last. "And yeah, believe it or not, that idea was in my head as well," he said. "What say we meet down at the Palm Tree in Mile End in an hour?" Lestrade checked his watch. "There's usually a few fly birds with a bit of merchandise in vans out the back; they would know the word on the street."
The meeting, it seemed, was over.
###
Dropping Lestrade outside his small house off the Edgeware Road, Mycroft sat silently in the back of the Jaguar, deep in thought.
"Your mysterious lady-friend likes lemon verbena," Sherlock noted apropos of nothing.
"The handwritten list," Mycroft realised, maintaining his forward stare. "I know."
"Are you going to tell me, or shall I continue deducing?"
Closing his eyes briefly, Mycroft allowed himself a tired sigh. There really was little point attempting to keep his brother out of his private life; Sherlock had a knack for excavating the un-excavatable.
"It was nearly two years ago. A brief incursion by the GIS in Cambridge involving a valuable eastern European artefact which Doctor Chandler assisted in recovering," he said. "There was some ... collateral damage," Mycroft paused, collecting his thoughts. "I haven't spoken with her since."
"Your decision, of course," Sherlock nodded to himself. "Did she know you were Alpha? Or did you manage to conceal that little titbit of information?"
Mycroft felt the need to swallow although his mouth was dry. "She knew."
"Beta's are so predictable," Sherlock sounded almost as weary as his brother. "John maintains it's their very predictability that maintains national stability, but that's a dangerous truism."
The elder Holmes felt his heart thud as it had when he'd seen her photograph. "Doctor Chandler is not a Beta," he said.
The silence rose between them again.
"Omega," he added, eventually.
Sherlock experienced a sensation akin to that which the wardens might experience should the ravens ever leave the Tower of London. Not because his brother had finally admitted to a liaison, or even that it had clearly been of a deeply personal nature, despite its apparent brevity, but that he, an Alpha, had knowingly engaged the sensibilities of an Omega and then permitted her to slip away. It almost never happened. It wasn't supposed to be able to happen.
"Did you ..."
"Not that it's any of your business, but yes," Mycroft snapped. "May we change the subject now? My personal life has no bearing on the situation at hand."
"But how on earth did you manage to alienate her?" Sherlock had never heard of anyone doing such a thing. The physical chemistry between the two mutated physiologies, though the fodder of many a romantic fiction, was rarely sympathetic or entirely complementary. While at least half of the great works in English literature were written around this profound and quintessential coupling, the odds against Elizabeth and Mr Darcy becoming a permanent item were far higher than most people realised. Successful relationships between Alphas and Omegas were so atypical as to be unions of marvel. Beyond certain vocational gatherings it was almost impossible for one type to arbitrarily identify the other, especially since practices of privacy would have been followed since puberty. Thus even assuming two such partners were able to locate one another in the far greater population, there was still no guarantee of forming a compatible rapport... the odds against a responsive bond were perilously high, but once achieved ...
Mycroft drew a slow deep breath. If they had to have this conversation, better it be done with now, otherwise he foresaw a litany of questions and snide comments stretching endlessly into the future.
"It wasn't easy," he said, finally. "It was for her safety. If I wasn't able to protect her properly in Cambridge of all places, I had no hope of being able to do so over the longer term," he sighed, remembering. "It was for the best."
"Whose best?" Sherlock was fascinated at feeling genuinely scandalised; a rare sentiment indeed. "How did she take it?"
"Not well." Mycroft felt his face tighten with discomfort. "She was upset." Upset was probably the least descriptive adjective, but it would suffice.
"And tonight was the first time you met since Cambridge?"
"The first, but unlikely to be the last," Mycroft exhaled gustily. He had the distinct feeling he had opened the door on something better left undisturbed. Too late now, however.
"Hence her reaction this evening," Sherlock nodded again in understanding. "That she didn't run screaming from the building suggests Doctor Chandler is something of a pragmatist."
"Among other things, now can we please change the subject?"
"And do you intend to continue on in this manner?" Sherlock was nothing if not determined.
"Sherlock ..."
"I ask only in the spirit of brotherly interest," lifting his hands in mock surrender, the younger Holmes turned to look through the side window of the car.
This was not like his brother at all. Mycroft felt a genuine stab of concern.
###
It was well after ten when Lestrade found an empty barstool beside the central oval bar in the Palm Tree pub. Sliding onto the dark red velvet seat, he caught the barman's eye and asked for a pint of best. It was only after he'd taken a couple of sips that he started looking around the place, watchful not only for any familiar faces, but for the younger Holmes. It was busy, but not packed; the icy weather keeping all but the locals and the determined at home.
The Palm was a well-known haunt for tourists in the summer months; its location right next to the canal and the park a hard-to-resist combination for both singles and families. But tonight, at the arse-end of winter, only the tried and true would be here. Greg wondered when Sherlock would arrive, and as what.
They had collaborated – as useful a word as any – in the solving of crimes for a good number of years now, but Sherlock was still a mystery in many ways. A genius, a showman and, despite his cynicism and self-indulgent tantrums, both wiser than the hills and somehow as innocent as a puppy. There was also a darkness in the man that would never be completely at ease and which turned to febrile destructiveness if not regularly acknowledged and placated.
Greg smiled around a mouthful of beer. And then there were the bad days.
"Got a light?" The voice came from behind his shoulder. It was unusual for anyone to be able to get that close to him unnoticed, but then, Sherlock wasn't exactly anyone.
"Those things'll kill you, you know," he murmured, not bothering to turn around. "And you can't smoke inside anymore, remember?"
"Worth a try," Sherlock grinned, taking the next stool along and tucking the unsmoked cigarette behind one ear.
Taking in his companion's new look, Greg resisted smiling. A disreputable character if ever there was one. Jeans so unwashed they could stand up by themselves; a faded black t-shirt underneath a fraying cream-coloured Arran jumper, topped off with a once-trendy black leather jacket and a greasy old beanie. Though Sherlock had been perfectly clean-shaved at Thames House barely an hour before, now he looked as if a meeting with a barber might solve a lot of problems. He allowed his eyebrows to lift slightly.
"Yes? And what fashion-statement are you modelling this evening?" Sherlock took the chilled bottle of Belgian beer he'd ordered and sucked a good third down.
"This is my recently divorced and looking for distraction outfit," Lestrade nodded over his pint. "I'm non-threatening, yet in the mood to kick over the traces a bit," he added. "We're a dangerous crowd, us newly divorced blokes."
There was a slight trace of bitterness in that last sentence. Though it had been several years since his wife had finally left him for another teacher at the school where she worked, Greg still felt the sting of it. It had been an unpleasant time and he had no wish to risk his carefully restored sanity again. At least, not yet. Not unless there was someone special. Though who'd want an aging London copper with creaky knees and a fondness for questionable science fiction was anybody's guess.
"Your four o'clock," Sherlock muttered, reading the fine print on the bottle's label.
Turning gently, as if to check out the solitary loop of silver gracing his companion's left ear, Lestrade focused easily on three men sitting at one of the small round tables in the far corner of the room. They were deep in conversation.
A conversation that involved samples. Of what, Greg wasn't certain, but they came in small polythene packets and vanished from sight almost as quickly as they appeared. Lestrade smiled nastily.
"That's Danny Brown and the Parson boys," he spoke into his glass. "Small-timers. Low-level drugs, usually barely enough to count as dealing. Most often they prefer to shift stolen goods; usually easy stuff from liberated cross-channel freighters, fags and the like," he said. "They might be worth having a bit of a chat with."
"Allow me," Sherlock watched the trio for a few seconds before sauntering across to the table where he stood looking down at them.
"Yeah?" The oldest of the three scowled. "You looking for sumfin'?"
Hooking a nearby chair with his foot and dragging it over, Sherlock sat down, elbows on the table, a wide grin on his face.
"Might be," he sucked down more beer. "Saw your little packets," he added. "Ganja?"
"Don't know to what you're referrin'," one of the others, clearly sitting next to his brother. One of the Parsons, in that case.
"Yeah, you do," Sherlock leaned forward. "I have plenty of cash if you're interested in shifting any of it," he said. "Specially if it's any good."
Several pairs of eyes scanned the bar, but there was nobody there that appeared threatening or even vaguely official.
"Maybe we do an' maybe we don't," the older one spoke again. "What you after?"
"At least an ounce, perhaps two," Sherlock leaned back, stretching out his long legs. "But only if it's the good stuff from Amsterdam; no soapbar hash rubbish," he added, pulling the edge of several high-denomination notes into sight from his inner jacket pocket.
The three looked at each other.
"Not in here, then mate," the eldest and probably the one Lestrade knew as Danny Brown inclined his head briefly towards the outside. "Got it in the van, like, yeah?"
"Which one?"
"Blue Toyota under the big tree," the other Parson brother leaned forward now. "Nice and private, like."
"See you out there, then," Sherlock knocked back the last of his beer before rising silently and heading towards the door. In his immediate absence, the three at the corner table scanned the crowded room for anyone else making a move to the outside, or even looking their way in a manner that might be considered overly interested. There was nothing.
After several minutes of nothing, the three left their empty glasses and headed outside, the dark and the bitter chill catching at their breath.
Sherlock was leaning against the back of the van beneath the tree, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, the thick collar of his jumper rolled up to his ears.
"Can we do this fast; it's uncomfortably cold out here," he asked.
"Let's see the colour of your money first," Parson junior sounded somewhat pugnacious.
"You've already seen my money," Sherlock stepped away from the van doors, waiting for them to be opened. "Where's the stuff and what is it?"
"Best skunk this side of the Channel, mate," Brown smiled easily, unlocking the doors. "You want a try before you buy?"
"Sounds great to me, lads," Lestrade stepped out of the deeper shadow. "Let's have a good look at what you've got in there, shall we?"
"Bloody hell, DI Lestrade, as I live an' breathe," Danny Brown tried unsuccessfully to close the van doors behind his back. An impossible task with one of Sherlock's size elevens more than adequately wedging them open.
"Come on now, Danny," Greg grinned mightily. "No need to be shy," he added, wrenching the doors open and peering inside with the assistance of a small torch held between Sherlock's fingers.
Large bundles of heavy plastic bags; several brown cardboard boxes, likewise packed with clear plastic. The pungent smell of weed was heavy and pervasive even in the chill of the night air.
"Oh my, oh my," Lestrade was delighted. "What do we have here, then boys? A few gifts for the family from your recent cross-channel shopping trip? Eh? Done a bit of early bargain hunting for next Christmas?" his voice changed to a growl as he grabbed the van's keys from Danny's unresisting fingers. "Let's go back inside and discuss what's going to happen next, shall we? It's bloody freezing out here."
Within ten minutes, the three younger men left the pub, walked swiftly to the van and drove away.
Inside, at the same corner table at which they'd sat drinking, Lestrade folded his arms and looked mildly unhappy. He wasn't keen on the direction they might have to go next. The elder of the Parson brothers had been most accommodating when it came to word on the street about people talking about other people selling information. Not that he knew many names, of course, hardly any actually in fact, but there was one.
"Frankie Troy is not the kind of man you go bothering unless you really have to," he said. "He runs an illicit cards den in Cadogan Gardens for the new yuppie crowd out in Chelsea and is a distinctly unpleasant individual."
"Can we see him tonight?" Sherlock scratched his chin. The make-up he'd used was itching.
"Not looking like this," Greg shook his head. "The heavies won't even let us past the front door looking like this," he shook his head. "Nah. We either go in waving badges or we go in as punters."
"Since this exercise is supposedly off the beaten track, then using official ingress is contra-indicated," Sherlock sighed. "Back to Baker Street to change?"
"Only if I get to stop off at my place first to grab some different gear," his head spinning, Lestrade felt like he was on some sort of mad treasure hunt.
"Then what are we waiting for?"
###
"Didn't know you had a dinner suit," sitting by the fire, John dropped his book and was staring quite openly at the newly urbane Detective Inspector standing in the middle of 221B's lounge.
"Only wear it to Met bashes at Christmas and New Year," Greg fiddled with the knot of his bow-tie. "I bloody hate these things with a passion," he groaned, looking at his image in the mirror over the fireplace. "Help."
Laughing, John swung himself up from the armchair. "Stop fussing and let me do it."
"Do what?" Sherlock finally emerged from his room, dressed and ready to go. Gone were the disreputable jeans and sneakers, the t-shirt and jumper had vanished too, as well as the old leather coat. In their place, was a Sherlock transformed. In a sleek dinner jacket and matching trousers, a crisp white shirt which clung indecently to his chest, he wore a black bow-tie that was, inevitably, a perfect work of art.
Lestrade whistled. "You look exactly like a high-class gigolo ought to look," he grinned. "Shame we're not going on the razz; I could do with a wingman like you."
"I assure you, Inspector, I would be of scant assistance. For some reason, most women seem to find me irritating; not a terribly helpful quality for the purposes of seduction, I'm told."
John sniggered. "He means well," he said, finishing Greg's tie. "You're done."
Turning to admire John's handiwork in the mirror, Lestrade was struck by a small flare of vanity. He actually didn't look half bad, despite everything.
"Sure you don't want to come with?" Lestrade felt slightly guilty about leaving the blonde man out of the fun.
"Not in this weather, thanks," John rotated his shoulder gingerly. "Damn thing aches like mad as it is; no need to make it any worse."
The cab dropped them off in a street filled with tall, elegant, red-brick buildings, each eight or nine floors high. The rain had abated somewhat.
"Frankie's joint is just down here," Greg drew his long coat closer to him; it was really cold now. Had to be near freezing.
The subtle lights of a basement bar shone out into the dark. Two well-dressed and substantially-built men stood at the top of a set of down-ward steps, their breath steamy in the still of the night.
"Evening Gents," the nearest bouncer nodded politely. "We've just opened, but the place should warm up very shortly. Have a pleasant evening." He waved them both past and down the steps.
"That seemed fairly civil," Sherlock muttered. "I thought you said this man Troy was unpleasant?"
"They're only nice to you Sherlock, when they want to take your money and are fully expecting to do so. Frankie Troy is probably not going to be quite so happy answering any questions that might possibly get him into trouble, so just be ready, okay?"
"For what?"
"For the kind of things unpleasant people do when they're unhappy."
They dropped their coats at the tiny cloakroom entrance, walking into the much larger space ahead of them. A well-stocked bar; wall-mirrors sparkling in the subtle lighting; a scattering of small tables with equally small table-lamps. Only a few were occupied at present and Lestrade looked around for whoever was floor-manager tonight. He spotted a likely character over by the bar. Dark suit, flashy tie.
"I'll go organise us a drink," he said, strolling over, deliberately catching the man's eye. "I'd like to speak with Frankie when he's got a minute," Greg smiled in a friendly way. "Before it gets busy might be a good idea."
Flashy tie smiled back, though not quite so friendly.
"Mr Troy doesn't see strangers during club hours," he said, sniffing.
"Just as well I'm not a stranger in that case, isn't it?" maintaining his smile, Lestrade leaned a little closer. "Go tell Frankie that Greg Lestrade would like a word."
"And if I don't?"
"When Frankie finds out you got in my way, he's going to be a little bit miffed," Lestrade spoke very softly with the same gentle smile. "Possibly even vexed," he added. "Off you go."
Returning to the table and Sherlock with – what the hell, it was a stylish club – martinis, it was inevitable that the younger Holmes was already bored.
"Health and safety people would have a field day in here," he said. "In less than a minute I've been able to identify no less than seventeen breaches of the Public Safety Act that could have this placed closed down inside the hour."
"Really?" Lestrade grinned. "How inconvenient that would be," he nearly laughed. "I'm sure Frankie Troy would be devastated."
A shadow fell across the table. It was flashy tie.
"Mr Troy invites you and your friend to join him in his private office," he nodded at a small door to the left of the bar. "Now would be convenient."
"Then let's not keep your benefactor waiting," Sherlock was already on his feet, knocking back the clear drink in a single swallow. Not to be outdone, Greg did the same, only just managing not to embarrass himself coughing to death as the gin and vermouth went down the wrong way.
"Jesus Christ," he squeaked, fighting to stop his eyes blurring.
Frankie Troy was a big bloke. Well over six-feet, he lounged expansively behind a huge ornate desk, his bespoke dinner suit sheathing his muscular form in a very expensive-looking way, white teeth flashing brilliantly in his dark face.
"Gregory Lestrade," he grinned. "I haven't seen you since you had me up in court for that misunderstanding with the Danish barman," he said, lighting a cigarette with a chunky gold lighter before waving at the box of expensive smokes on his desk. "Help yourself."
"Thank you, no," Lestrade remained upright and unswayed, though Sherlock felt less restraint.
"Custom-made Virginia blend," he took one, approvingly. "Too rich for my pocket but appreciated, nonetheless." He accepted a light from the gold block and inhaled deeply.
"So what can an honest merchant of life's pleasures do for an old friend this evening?" Troy sucked down a lungful of the fragrant smoke.
"Wanted to talk to you about word on the street regarding the market for any kind of special documentation," Lestrade allowed his hands to rest in his pockets. "Really special," he added.
"Documents? What kind of documents?" Troy squinted. "And why should I be interested no matter how special they might be?"
"Classified stuff. In case they start coming through your front door," Greg shrugged. "Wouldn't want you to lose your bar-licence, or," he turned lazily to catch Sherlock's eye. "What were those public safety infringements you saw? Nearly twenty of them? Tut tut," he turned back to look reprovingly at the big man. "That's a bit naughty, Frankie, and you know how fine and upstanding a law-officer I can be."
Inhaling slowly, with one eye closed, Troy allowed a spiral of smoke to flow around him for a few seconds. "That sounds an awful lot like a threat," he paused, thoughtfully. "Sure you want to do that?"
"You know me, Frankie," Lestrade grinned. "Not much for making threats. Now promises, however, promises are my stock-in-trade. I'm known for the weight of my promises, aren't I?" he turned to Sherlock.
"Known for them," the younger Holmes nodded cheerfully. "The inspector, though desperately ineffectual in many areas of his life is quite true to his threat," he added, candidly. "Or his promise, as the case may be."
Holding the smouldering cigarette away from his head, Frankie Troy narrowed his eyes, weighing up the benefits and risks of co-operation.
"Might've heard a whisper," he said, eventually. "Maybe. Coupla of weeks ago there was word about a meeting going down with some exclusive dudes from a very hot place, with palm trees and camels and stuff."
"Date palms, I think you'll find," Sherlock finished his smoke. "Torquay has palm trees. When people think about trees in the Middle East, it's usually date palms they visualise."
"Yeah, whatever," Troy turned back to the older man. "Really rich dudes," he added. "Not here for the casinos or the girls, even though one of 'em came in and splashed a few grand around; his heart wasn't in it, you could tell."
"And what makes you think these men had any information relating to the sale of classified information?"
"'Cos while they might not be interested in cards or the girls," Troy grinned a wide grin. "They surely enjoyed the good stuff I keep behind the bar for the high-rollers," he said, laughing softly. "Not used to it, they ain't," he said. "Half-a-bottle of decent brandy inside 'em and they're singing like little larks, they were," he laughed. "They shoulda stuck with the cards."
"And this singing included a few lines about a shopping trip, I take it?" Lestrade leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. "And where might we find these two larks?"
"Assuming they're even still in London, I think they had us charge their account to a suite at Hotel 41."
"What, the one opposite the Royal mews?" Greg revised his initial thoughts about how rich the 'dudes' might have been. Hotel 41 was for the excessively well-heeled only. "Get any names while you were listening to all this melodic performance?"
"One of them was called 'Najjar', I think, but no idea about the other one."
"Then we'll just go and have a bit of a chat with the hotel manager," Lestrade was already moving towards the door, when he paused and turned back. "And if you hear anything more from these two songbird, you will make sure to give me a call, won't you, Frankie?" Greg was all smiles. "You know how much I'd like to keep you honest merchants of life's pleasure in business."
"Yeah," Troy's smile was a little artificial. "I just bet you do."
Wrapping up in their heavy coats and once more back on the dark and rainy pavement, they debated getting a cab to one of London's most expensive hotels to continue the hunt.
"At this time of the night," Lestrade looked at his watch. "Morning, rather," he corrected himself. "I seriously doubt anyone we're going to want to talk to will still be on deck; the night people, sure, but I don't expect they'll have a great deal to tell us. We need to speak to the daytime staff," he paused. "Plus it's getting really cold and I've had a long day. What say we adjourn and start again around eight tomorrow morning?"
A black cab approached and slowed at the inspector's hail.
"Drop me off at Victoria Station," Sherlock sounded deep in thought. "There's a couple of people I'd like to catch up with before tomorrow," he said, winding his scarf high up around his face.
Sensible people were long at home and in bed, but the night was not yet over for him.
###
Despite it being early March, the weather was still bitter, with grey, scudding clouds and a forecast of possible snow. Temperatures were in the infant class. Fortunately, when she had commissioned the architect who designed her apartment, Grace had insisted on a few high-quality basics, and a decent heating-system was one. Discreet, gas-ducted central heating kept the entire place perfectly cosy and a series of solar-panels installed around her specifically modified glass bedroom ceiling ensured endless hot water, even on a day like today.
Selecting neat black woollen trousers and a long-sleeved silky knit over a black t-shirt, Grace decided to brave the distance to work on foot and get some exercise. Putting her dress shoes inside a plastic bag, she hauled on a thick pair of socks and then her trainers, before donning her long heavy coat, a dense cream shawl and black leather gloves. Pulling a black felt hat down over her ears, she felt ready for just about anything as she headed down the stairs to the front door.
The sharpness of the early morning air caught her breath and burned its way down to the bottom of her chest. Her toes were already feeling the chill from the ice-cold pavement. The sooner she got a move-on, the sooner she'd feel warmer. Setting off at a fair clip, she was on Upper ground Street in minutes, passing behind the National theatre and the Southbank Centre as she headed into Belvedere Road. From there, it was straight on down between Lambeth Palace gardens and the river, until she hit Lambeth Bridge. Turning left at the roundabout, her new place of work was all lit up on the dark and wintery morning. She felt happy and excited; itching to get to grips with the new problems.
"Morning Gentlemen," she called, waving to Noodles and Winston as she waltzed up to the security gate and through with barely a pause.
"Lovely day for it." Winston grinned back at her.
"Lovely day for what?" she asked, baffled.
"You'll see!" The security guard's chuckle followed her all the way to the lift.
Heading down the long passageway, swinging her briefcase and whistling, she came to an abrupt halt in sight of the main entrance to her new department. Not only was the main door wide open, but there were all sorts of stuff stacked along both walls of the corridor; ladders; rolls and rolls of data cable; unopened cardboard boxes of all shapes and dimensions. Men in grey overalls were shuttling in and out, carrying furniture; equipment, huge coils of plastic conduit.
Managing to avoid the human obstacles, Grace eased her way through the door and had a real fight not to burst out laughing. The entire place looked like a bomb had gone off. In one corner there was a pile of boxes, each one labelled with the brand of a very good computer company. The long central table with its dreadful throne had already been removed, and a medium-sized circular interactive unit left in its place, the quartet of central monitors arranged in such a way that no matter where one sat, everyone could see what was being displayed. There was a specialised Wi-Fi server sitting on top of its own box with a technician running some tests.
Turning to peer through the open doors of the various offices around her, Grace saw that this same upheaval was taking place throughout the entire department.
"What the bloody hell's going on?" Shane Meath barely avoided being crushed by a new desk being brought through the door. He walked in, a dazed expression on his face.
Trying very hard to look as if everything was happening according to some great and mysterious central plan, Grace unbuttoned her coat and looked concerned.
"Is there a problem, Mr Meath?"
Something in her tone made his turn and look. "Is this all your doing?"
"I had a brief chat with Gerald Palmer yesterday and gave him our list," she said. "I also explained how the budget could be massaged into next year's funding round ... apparently it sounded the right note," Grace shrugged. "Although I had no expectation we'd see this level of development so soon," she looked around as yet more new furniture and ergonomic seating was brought into the department. "I wonder what his quid pro quo will be," she added, mostly to herself. She had never known such largesse come without all manner of strings in private industry and she very much doubted it would be any different in the public sector. Ah well; whatever was going to happen was going to happen.
"In the meantime, I suggest you go and take everything off your computer and out of your old desk before they get carted away," she nodded towards his office where men in grey overalls were beginning to gather.
His eyes widened. "The kids' photos!" Meath dashed into his office.
Hanging up her coat and shawl, Grace swapped her shoes and wondered where she went to get some tea.
"Are you the Good Fairy or something?" Colly wrapped himself around the edge of her office door. "Did you have to sell a kidney or do you have something really juicy on the Director?" he asked, a huge grin across his face. "The place is an incredible mess and it's brilliant," he added. "Tea?"
"Oh yes please," Grace looked suitably longing. "But you're going to have to show me where everything is so I won't die of thirst when you go on leave."
There were further sounds of surprise as the rest of the team arrived. Heading back out, Grace asked one of the technicians which one of them was looking after the new phones. Nodding his head at a couple of guys examining a reel of blue cable, Grace touched Stratford's elbow and beckoned him across the room with her.
"Gentlemen," she caught the technicians' attention. "When you're installing the new phone-system and you need to check any details in regards to placement, location or function, can you please liaise with Stratford here?" she smiled. "He's our user-testing expert," she added. "He knows what we need," she smiled at the Archivist's sudden look of panic. "Make sure you get it just the way we need it," she whispered in his ear. "Take no prisoners."
Patting the older man gently on the shoulder, she left the fate of the phones in the hands of the one person she knew would be looking for the most problems.
In the meantime it was difficult to actually do any work since the entire department was in an uproar. After the talk she'd had the previous day with Gerald Palmer, Grace felt it would be somewhat ungracious to complain about the lack of notice. Thus by lunchtime, pretty much everyone was hanging around unable to do anything since almost all of their systems were down.
Except one.
A pile of funky wireless keyboards had appeared on the central round table, giving her an idea. "Everyone like Chinese?" she shouted, her fingers already on her phone, dialling. "Too late now," she shouted a few seconds later, already placing an order.
Colly danced up. "Okay," he looked wary. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?" Grace smiled. The boy was happy; she could see it in his face, in the way he held himself. It was a good day for him.
"Your magic wand," he grinned. "At the risk of being impolite, there's not a lot of places you could keep it, so I'm curious."
Staring at the young redhead, as if she wasn't quite sure she'd heard correctly, Grace felt her eyes go wide. "You are extraordinarily impertinent," she snickered. "And I wouldn't tell you in any case."
"Need me to do anything?" Colly beamed. There were several large boxes of supplies marked for his attention and he couldn't wait to find out what was inside.
"Yes, there is, actually," Grace nodded at the door. "Go down to reception and wait for lunch to be delivered. It's all paid for, just bring it up here and we can eat," she looked around. "Not much else we can do at the moment."
"Sure thing, Boss," the young man almost saluted before sauntering out the door.
"Okay, people," Grace raised her voice to be heard. Everyone looked, including the various men in grey. "My people," she clarified.
Magda and Ruth, heads together over a software user-manual looked up. Stratford, overseeing the phone-techs, turned around; and Shane, in his office, directing the installation of his new computer, stuck his head around the door.
"What?" he demanded, grinning madly. "I'm in the middle of playing with new toys; this better be important."
"Got even better toys to play with over here," Grace sounded arch. "If any of you think you can beat me, that is," she added, dubiously. "Which I doubt."
"Oh yeah?" Meath walked over to look at the assembled hardware.
In the few minutes she'd had waiting, Grace had connected the main computer at the interactive central station to the internet and gone to one of her favourite online games, which she'd downloaded and set up for multiple players.
"Three-dimensional Minesweeper," she announced, cheerfully. "Just the thing to get us all used to the new tech," she smiled as Colly re-appeared with several heavy plastic bags. "Lunch is on me, but only if you get all my ships before I get all of yours."
"Prepare to die horribly," Shane Meath laughed joyously as he commandeered a keyboard and a plastic plate.
Lunch was a hard-fought battle, partly because Grace really was good at the game, having played it many times before, and partly because she knew how to cheat.
Colly had dropped out first, laughing too much to focus, followed by Stratford who was content to sit back and watch the demise of the others. In the end, it came down to Grace, Shane Meath and Magda Borowski. Watching the two of them conspiring to defeat her, Grace realised two things.
First, Magda Borowski was an Alpha just as much as Shane; she was just a little better at concealing the fact. The second thing she realised is that the two Alphas in her team worked very well together, even if their present objective was to wipe her off the board.
Finishing off the prawn crackers, Grace grinned unpleasantly as she found the last of Shane's subs. With a swift double-hit, she saw him close his eyes in abject defeat.
"Looks like I get a free lunch," she clapped her hands together delightedly at the same moment that Magda's expression lit up as she took her turn and pressed three consecutive keys.
Grace's remaining three destroyers vanished in a puff of pixels.
"Argh!" she sat back, disbelieving, jaw dropping. "No fair!"
Taking the final crispy crab claw from its greasy resting place, Magda smiled in a most superior manner. "A little overconfident, perhaps?" she laughed, relaxing back in the chair and taking a swig of lukewarm Chinese tea. "That was a lot of fun. We must do it again, sometime."
"Only when I can find a game you're no good at," Grace grudged, wiping her hands as she logged off. "But it was fun."
"Here you go, Boss," Shane threw a tenner onto the table.
"It's all be paid for, so no need for that," she pushed the cash back at him. "You lot can get the next lunch we have it delivered."
"You think there'll be another time?" Ruth Lannagan sounded doubtful, as if today had been a one-off; something special and therefore rare.
"At least once a week if we can manage it," Grace suggested. "We need downtime as a team," she added. "And I need to reassert management superiority by whatever means available, inclusive of bribery and cheating."
Her mobile rang and she moved away to take the call. It was Palmer. Grace walked into her office.
"I'd like you to join me for a review of the information I gave you last evening," he said. "If you've had an opportunity to go through it?"
She had been expecting the call, though perhaps not this soon. The matter was clearly pressing. "Certainly, Gerald," she was more than ready. "When?"
"Let's make it four-thirty this afternoon," he sounded a little tired and she wondered if he had been burning the midnight oil. "My office," he added, ending the call.
Had she thought about the information he'd handed her on the black USB? Only about a hundred times since she first read the report.
At first blush, it looked very much as if her predecessor had been involved and Grace wondered if this was so, and possible the reason she now had the position instead of him. She also wondered who else might have been involved; this seemed to be a very complex set-up for only one person to manipulate. And of course, the very next question she had was to wonder who else in her new team might have been involved along with him.
The notion left her feeling uncomfortable and wishing there were an alternative explanation. It was likely Palmer would want to know her thoughts on this; maybe he'd have some other difficult questions for her too.
Ah well. There was always going to be a quid pro quo for getting what she asked for.
Telling everyone to leave whenever they wanted, as their systems were certainly not going to be ready before the end of the day, Grace wished them all a pleasant evening and a good night's sleep as they would undoubtedly be working flat-out in the morning.
At precisely four-twenty-nine, she walked into Palmer's outer office, smiling at his assistant.
"The Director said for you to go straight in, Doctor Chandler," the assistant smiled, waving her hand at the closed, leather-clad door.
Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped into the inner sanctum, expecting to see Gerald sitting behind his desk.
What Grace did not expect to see sitting on the visitor's side of the desk was Mycroft Holmes.
Her heart gave an excellent impression of sinking.
Shit.
"Gerald," she smiled calmly. "Mycroft," she added, not looking at him.
"You know each other?" Palmer glanced between them. Grace adopted a noncommittal expression and said nothing. Let Mycroft explain.
"Doctor Chandler assisted my department two years ago in the recovery of a lost Russian icon," his face was blank and his voice as inexpressive as a grey wall. "It was a brief operation."
A brief operation. Grace felt her stomach clench in latent reaction. A brief operation? Was that how he remembered Cambridge?
"Mycroft is too charitable," she smiled brightly as she took another chair. "My part was minor and insignificant; I'd almost forgotten about it," she said, bringing up the report on her tablet "This makes interesting reading," she added, indicating the electronic device. "I have a number of questions."
"Such as?" Palmer left the intriguing revelation that his new Archive Director and the informal head of British Security, Mycroft Holmes, clearly disliked one another, leaned back in his seat and looked interested.
"Wouldn't you rather finish what you were discussing before I came in?" she met his eyes with the question.
"We were waiting for you," Mycroft announced stiffly.
"In that case, I'll jump in," ignoring the man seated beside her, Grace turned her attention back to the notes she'd made. "Although I anticipate you'll have raised most of these issues already."
"Continue," Palmer covered the faintest of grins with his hand. She really didn't like Holmes one little bit.
"First and obvious question," she looked only at her Director. "Can you prove who did this? Substantive proof is going to be needed for any successful legal action."
"Not yet," Gerald Palmer shook his head. "Though we have a fairly clear suspect and are currently investigating his possible methodologies."
"In that case, my next questions are how long has it been since this started and what has been taken?"
There was a little silence.
Grace waited, realising something here was problematic.
"Sometime within the last six-to-twelve months is all we know for certain," Mycroft's voice grated quietly to her right. "And the only way we know what has been taken thus far is because items are appearing sporadically on the black market."
The knowledge that someone had been selling classified material from MI5's archive – from her archive – outraged Grace so much, she forgot she wasn't speaking to him and turned to meet Mycroft's gaze. "What kind of items?" she asked, appalled. "Anything sensitive?"
"You mean top secret?" Palmer sighed. "Not that we know of, or, at least," he paused. "Not yet."
"We're tracking both the source of the information and the buyers," Mycroft observed the honest and unguarded shock in her eyes and remembered how easily Grace Chandler wore her emotions on her sleeve. She was too open and candid to consider any point in concealing such a reaction. He warmed a little inside. Whatever happened with the archive in the future, there would never be the same level of shrouded suppression; she was too direct to permit that.
"Which is why we've brought you in at this point, despite the fact that you've only been here twenty-four hours," Palmer leaned forward on his desk. "There's one more avenue we need to investigate, and that's the remaining team."
Grace felt a cold wave wash through her. She had known this might be on the books, but had hoped very much it wasn't.
"You're asking me to spy on my own team?" she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.
"Yes," Mycroft hadn't moved, but was watching her face intently. If she couldn't hold it together in here, she'd never be able to handle the real situation with real people.
Letting comprehension flow through her mind, Grace took a sharp breath and sat back in her chair, her fingers steepled in front of her as she thought.
It was a logical consequence. It was something she herself might have suggested. To not do this was to blindly ignore the obvious. This was not about her feelings.
"Yes," she lifted her eyebrows as she thought her way through the problem. "Of course you are."
"I realise this isn't the most comfortable way forward ..." Gerald Palmer began by way of mitigation.
"No; it's alright, really it is," Grace tilted her head and smiled a little wanly. "It's the obvious thing to do. I'll come up with some ideas on the most effective way of logging their activities and behaviour," she added. "My weakness here, of course, is that they're all new to me so I won't be able to notice if they start behaving differently as I have no pre-existing baseline."
"You agree to do this?" Mycroft was still watching her carefully. For some reason, he wanted her to argue against it; for her to say she wasn't going to involve herself in this morally questionable activity.
Lifting her eyes, she looked deep into the dark blue gaze and nodded.
As those wide grey eyes held his, Mycroft felt the same sluggish heaviness overtake him as he'd experienced last evening down in the foyer. It was as if his insides were momentarily in a different time-zone. Baffled, he forced himself to breathe slowly until the sensation left. Perhaps there was some issue with his blood-pressure or diet. He'd ask Anthea to make an appointment for him with his private medico.
"It may not be for long, in any case," Palmer relaxed, tapping a thumb against his lower lip. "As soon as we have a clearer idea who's behind all of this, we can go back to business as normal."
Business as normal. Grace said nothing. She already knew if any of her new team caught even a whiff of her watching any one of them, that she'd eventually have to give up the Director's position. Nobody could respect someone who'd agreed to spy on them. She wouldn't, and she had no right to expect others to behave any differently.
Still; she'd do what might be done to resolve the current problem and then see how the land lay.
"My department is in an uproar with all the system upgrades and new tech coming in, so I've told them all to head home early as we'll have a lot of catch-up to begin tomorrow," Grace stood. "As I foresee a long day for me as well, then I'll do the same. I'll have my suggestions for the necessary scrutiny to you in the morning," she added. "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"
"Not at present, Grace," Palmer allowed his mouth to curve in a genuine smile. Not only extraordinarily easy on the eye; smart, clever and adaptable, but she understood the way the place needed to work. Yes, he thought. Grace Chandler was exactly the sort of woman he needed in his senior team. Perhaps he should take her out to dinner when all this was over ...
Also rising to his feet, Mycroft picked up his umbrella and coat.
"I have the car outside," he spoke carefully, diffidently, even. "Might I offer you a lift home? It's already nearly dark."
"Thank you, no," she smiled briefly before turning away and heading for the door. "I have no need of any lift."
In her office, after changing her shoes back to her trainers, Grace debated whether to bother locking up the disaster that she was leaving here; in the end she shrugged and left her door open. There was nothing in there worth getting precious about just yet, and as she had no working hardware, then locking anything was a moot point. Closing the main door to the Archives Department behind her, Grace walked slowly along to the main bank of lifts, before taking the first one to arrive down to the foyer.
Even though it was dark, the way home was along main roads and well-lit. She'd walked home from Essex Street many times in weather worse than this.
Heading across the marble floor, she waved goodnight to the security chaps before stepping outside into the cold March weather. It had been raining and it looked as if there was more on the way. The wind was icy and would probably get worse. Wrapping the heavy scarf around her neck, Grace slid into her gloves and pulled her hat tighter onto her head as she prepared to race home. She could probably jog most of the way.
"It really isn't a good idea for you to be walking home tonight," Mycroft's voice was quiet yet clearly audible as he stepped away from the shelter of the wall. "The forecast is for sleet and possible snow." He pointed at the waiting Jaguar with the ferrule of his umbrella. "You could be home and dry inside eight minutes," he suggested.
It would be so easy to accept, Grace realised. So easy and so entirely wrong.
"Thank you, no," she realised she must sound dismissive, but she didn't really care. "I have no desire to have anything whatsoever to do with you outside of work," she added, meeting his eyes. "Please go away and leave me alone."
Shouldering the strap of her briefcase, she headed down Millbank towards Lambeth Bridge at a swift pace, both the road and the pavement virtually empty save for people such as herself heading home after work. This was not an evening to dawdle.
By the time she'd reached the pedestrian crossing up by the roundabout, her hands were already feeling warmer as her blood began circulating briskly.
Looking around before she crossed the road, she saw the shiny black Jaguar coasting along behind her.
It was so infuriating, she almost laughed.
Ignoring the car and its passenger, she crossed the road and headed across the bridge towards Southbank. She'd take the stairs down to the embankment walk; no cars could come that way.
Once she hit the broad embankment walk, she started to jog. Holding her case in her arms, she got up to a nice loping run before the heavens opened and a deluge of icy, blowing rain met her face-on. She hadn't dressed for such a downpour, nor did she even have a brolly with her. Too late now to worry about it, she thought, as she reached the point where she had to get back onto Westminster Bridge road.
The Jaguar was waiting several feet ahead. As she made to pass, the rear door opened.
"Get in, Grace," his voice was still quiet, but vaguely amused. "We don't have to converse if you'd rather not."
A fresh blast of icy wind pushed a growing chill up her wet trouser legs.
"Are you planning to follow me all the way home?" she stood beside the open door.
"Do you really need to ask? Now please get in; it's freezing out there and I have no wish to catch my death of pneumonia."
A fresh surge of wintery rain tipped the balance and she dragged herself inside the car's warm interior, pulling the door closed behind her. Drops of rain scattered from her coat.
"This makes no difference to my desire to have nothing to do with you," she said, staring fixedly out of the side window. "I will do what's needed for my job, but that's it."
"And what if we need to discuss work-related matters outside the workplace?"
He was mocking her, she knew.
She almost hated him in that moment.
Fortunately, the car was already pulling into Bridge House Street. Without waiting for it to completely stop, she had the door open and was on her way out. Slamming it closed behind her, she stormed into the building and up the stairs, fumbling with the keys of her apartment until she was safe inside. Dumping coat and bag and trainers in the ruby-lit vestibule, she stamped into the kitchen where she banged the kettle around, filling it with water to boil for tea. After that, she snatched at a mug, missed, snatched at it again and dropped it to the floor where it cracked clean in half. In a sudden fit of pique, she kicked the broken sections to the nearest wall, hurting her sock-clad toe and bringing a sting of tears to her eyes.
"Damn it all!" Staring down at the hapless pieces of china, Grace felt herself go woozy with ... what? Anger? Impotent frustration?
Leaning against the kitchen bench top and breathing hard, holding the cold skin of her face in both hands, she knew, with startling clarity, that she dare not have anything more to do with Mycroft Holmes. If he still had this effect on her ... if she was too weak-willed to control her reactions ... then there was only one thing left for her to do.
She had to find herself another man.
###
In the Jaguar, Mycroft had watched the blonde woman's furious exit from his car and comprehended with some finality, that she truly despised him. That was good; it would make it easier to dismiss her from his thoughts.
Omega.
A single raindrop had landed on the back of his left hand when she climbed in beside him and he raised it, unrealising, to his mouth and licked it away.