Chapter Three
The Burden of Atlas – I Will Do This – The Botheration of Mycroft – An Agreement Between Gentlemen – Followed – A Meeting is Arranged – The Flight of the Doves – Death in Egypt – Hors de Combat – No Argument.
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Staring at his friend from under his brows, Sherlock sighed. It was annoying having to respect John's boundaries when it was as clear as day his problem was money-related, involving a third-party unable to speak for themselves; that the demand was excessive, yet he felt obligated, ergo it was some agreement he'd made on another's behalf and now was being called upon to meet. All John needed to say was that he had a big debt to pay, and that would be the end of it. But no: apparently his misguided sense of honour and fair play meant that he would carry this thing around like the burden of Atlas. Sherlock only needed to borrow John's phone for a few moments and the entire sorry affair would become clear. Doing his best impression of reading, he waited for an opportunity.
John was fairly convinced he had put Sherlock off the scent: he'd casually mentioned needing to find some ongoing kind of employment and his flatmate had fallen silent. Job done, then. Now all he had to do was find some way of making the payments. He opened the paper at the employment pages. Better start looking.
###
Doing what she usually did when she was upset or bad-tempered, before heading to the university this morning, Cate sought a physical release. Wrenching her white belt tight with an angry yank, she crossed the dojang floor, heading to the side mats for a warm-up. Stretching until everything felt relaxed and loose, she started her warm-up with kicks and rolls. Finding a free practice-dummy, she started jabbing, her strikes increasingly vicious, each one accompanied by a grunt of effort. It was only when Kwan stood beside her wearing a concerned look that she realised she'd been making a bit of noise.
"You have a problem, Cate?"
"I am in a bad mood, Master Kwan," she looked sheepish. "Sorry if I was being too loud."
"Loud does not mean bad," he paused, "and if it removes anger, then there is purpose to it."
Looking at the old Korean with laughter in her face. "Are you being inscrutable?" she asked.
"Indeed, I attempt to be," Kwan winked and grinned. "Come with me," he said. "I have something for you."
Leaving the practice mats, Cate tagged along as Kwan walked over to a bureau desk in a small office-type space in a remote corner of the room.
"Here," he said, handing her a red belt. "Try this on."
Cate was seriously surprised. She'd accepted that, as a novice, she'd have to work her way through the ranks of skill. She had no expectation of anything beyond a white belt for at least the foreseeable future.
"I don't think I'm ready for this," she ran the sash through her fingers.
Making her jump with a burst of laughter, Kwan nodded in understanding. "You are still a little erratic at moments," he admitted, "but with your existing abilities, and the way you have taken very naturally to the new skills of the discipline, you are easily competent in all the defence forms you have tried."
"But that sort of defence is rarely more than blocking or getting out of the way and letting the other person fall over through their own momentum," Cate frowned. "It's not a complex concept."
Kwan looked smug. "And your bongsul is improving steadily?"
Now Cate's turn to grin: she'd taken to the use of the short fighting sticks with real enthusiasm. A cross between a diminutive long-staff and a wooden sword, the tahn bong, at only a couple of feet in length, enabled her to capitalise on her previous experience of an entire season learning how to dance with two heavy clubs. Compared to that, the lightweight bongsul were child's play. All she needed was some thunderous music, and she'd choreograph a fighting dance with them. It would be fun.
Observing her pleased look, Kwan nodded. "And yet you do not consider yourself ready for red?"
Wrinkling her nose, Cate made a face. "I haven't done the kyuk pha yet."
"This worries you." Kwan nodded again. "For some reason, the thought of having to break a piece of wood always worries women more than anything else," he said. "Do you think you are weaker than these men?" he asked, gesturing around the room. "Or that only brute strength is required to complete this task?"
Inhaling slowly, Cate knew he was right. It wasn't just about brute force, but the belief that sufficient force was available and any pain could be overcome. It was a both a physical and mental challenge. Thinking about it, Cate made up her mind.
"I want to do it today," she said. "I want to do it now."
Master Kwan looked at her. There was no fear, or even a sign of nervousness on her face. She had reached the place of awareness and was ready for the test. Very well.
"I don't want an audience," Cate said. "I simply want to know I can do this thing."
"Then come with me," Kwan beckoned her with him into one of the empty corridors where it was cool and quiet. "Do you want to warm up before you do this?" he said. "It might help."
"No," Cate shook her head. She had practiced the strike with both her hands and feet. She knew what she needed to do.
Nodding, Master Kwan indicated for her to wait, returning momentarily with two pieces of wood: one was thicker than the other. Cate pointed to the thicker of the two. She would kick first.
Bracing himself close to the ground, Kwan held the wood just off his body, the expression on his face focused and distant. He was waiting for her, now.
This was it. Looking away, Cate breathed sharply, steeling her body in the way she had seen others do, the way she had practiced. With a sudden and dramatic lunge, she powered her entire body through the point of contact in her foot.
It was all over before it sunk in that anything had happened. Cate had no idea if she'd succeeded until she slowly tuned back in to the here-and-now.
Kwan held up the shattered wood. There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he bowed. Picking up the second, thinner piece, again his face took on a distant look as if he were away from his own body.
This was the one Cate had been avoiding. This was the hand-break. She had to be able to do this to complete the test. She could do this. She would.
Again she breathed, building up the focus, holding it … and lashing out.
The stab of agony in her hand was indescribable. Between trying to breathe through the excruciating waves of eye-blurring pain, Cate was sure she'd broken something, maybe several somethings. Kwan was immediately there, checking, pulling her arm gently in his hands, identifying any damage.
"There is no break," he said, relieved. "But you might wish there had been by tomorrow." Turning her wrist very carefully, he inspected everything. "This will swell and bruise."
But Cate wasn't interested in what she couldn't do.
"Again," she directed. "Other hand."
Kwan shook his head. "That would be foolish."
"Then I'll be foolish," Cate growled. "I will do this."
Searching the adamant set of her features, Kwan lifted his eyebrows in silence. He sighed quietly: better she be rash here, than try it alone. Nodding briefly, he breathed deep and held out the wood, once again entering his own place of focus.
Cate realised what she was risking. Kwan was right: this was madness. Her right hand was throbbing and already swollen. To chance both hands was sheer lunacy. She breathed deep, allowing her thoughts to focus on her pain, on her vexation with Mycroft, on the reason she was here in the first place, on anything that made her angry enough …
With a sharp cry she struck, her punch so hard she was stopped only by Kwan's ribcage.
It was done.
Looking down at her left hand, Cate was stunned. There wasn't a mark on it: it wasn't even reddened by the blow. There was no pain, no soreness. She held it up, wiggling her fingers in amazement.
Master Kwan laughed softly. "Are you ready for a red belt now?" he asked, lifting her right hand up for another view. "This needs to be iced."
"Thank God I'm a Southpaw," she smiled.
"There is one additional part of the test you have not yet completed, however," Kwan looked serious.
"What?" Cate was horrified. She had done everything: the self-defence, the combat, the sticks and now the breaking. What had she missed?
Unable to maintain a straight face, Kwan grinned. "You have to write me a four-page essay," he laughed.
"Only four pages?" Cate was weak with relief. "Master Kwan," she grinned back. "I'll write you a book."
###
Mycroft was bothered. A small, localised coup in the Sudan had removed one of Britain's oldest allies. An explosion in Kazakhstan had levelled a government office, killing a British diplomatic envoy and setting off a flood of accusations and inevitable paperwork. A minibus of Newcastle backpackers had been arrested north-east of Cape Town, accused of attempting to smuggle illicit diamonds. A shipment of Chinese heroin had been located enroute to a children's hospital in Cardiff, and seven Russian cultural attachés had gone down with apparent food-poisoning in a roadside services café on the M3. Quite what seven Russians were doing there in the first place, was unknown, but odds were it was not something with which the British security services would be entirely delighted. On top of all this, there was the visit and potential arms deal of bin Khalid and his little troupe; and then there was Malik al Badour, and all that was entailed by his current presence in Britain. There was also the matter of al Badour's daughter and her youthful companion.
Yet, it was none of these things that unsettled him, but the possibility and even the likelihood that Cate might somehow be dragged into the al Badour morass. Her attitude at breakfast had been unhelpful, although he had half expected her to resist his request. If she continued any association with the student Medina, she would inevitably attract MI5's scrutiny. Of course, he could ensure any such enquiry was simply terminated, but lacking an explicit cause, he was loathe to interfere with a perfectly legitimate investigation. On top of this, there was the faint chance al Badour himself might become a factor in Cate's future well-being. And that idea, he realised, he didn't like at all.
Pulling out his Blackberry, Mycroft initiated three, fairly brief, phone conversations. The first was with Charles Shelsher, Vice-Chancellor of the University College of London; the second, with one Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard, and the third was with Donald Parker, Director-General of MI5.
Charles had been puzzled but eventually compliant. From the little information he was willing to divulge, it was clear Mycroft knew people important to the university, and therefore the request he made of Shelsher seemed not unreasonable. It sounded a little inequitable for the student involved, but Charles had been in politics and higher education for more years than he would admit, and recognised battles he could not win. Mycroft ended the conversation with the VC's somewhat reluctant agreement.
Greg Lestrade knew Mycroft of old and immediately demanded to know what game was being played. Since his job-description made no mention of having Mycroft Holmes as his boss, Lestrade took a little more convincing of the need for Mycroft's plan of action. The words 'Civil liberties' featured at least once in their discussion, as did 'just cause' and 'wrongful arrest'.
"Why do you want to get me involved?" Lestrade demanded. "This really isn't my department, and you, Mycroft," he observed. "Are not the person to whom I am accountable."
"Would you like me to remove either of those obstacles?" Mycroft was perfectly obliging.
"You probably could, couldn't you?" Lestrade's experience of both the Holmes brothers reminded him that neither made such offers in jest. "But that's not really the point, is it?"
"Inspector," Mycroft sighed. "I would like your assistance in this small matter. Are you willing to help; yes or no?"
"You just want me to have the girl picked up and handed over to the visa people at the Home Office? And that's all?" Lestrade double-checked to be absolutely sure.
"That is all."
"Then yes," Lestrade nodded. "I can manage that, although," he added. "It seems a bit rough on the kid."
His chat with Donald Parker was the most … delicate, in that it involved Cate specifically.
"You are surveilling Malik al Badour." Mycroft placed no question-mark at the end of the statement. He knew MI5 were watching al Badour, because his staff had been observing MI5.
"And?" Parker and his people had little affection for Mycroft's department.
"My wife, Catherine Adin-Holmes, is a Professor at University College," Mycroft continued. "Medina bint Malik al Badour is one of her students."
"You wife is teaching al Badour's daughter?"
"Yes." Mycroft's sounded detached. "The girl is being squired by a young man, one Erik Norling, son of a London businessman."
There was a distinct pause. "And your price for this information?"
"Your people will not harry or interfere with my wife in any way."
"That's a big ask, Holmes," Donald Parker was dubious. "If there's a clear line of investigation …"
"Highly unlikely," Mycroft was peremptory. "You will leave my wife alone."
There was another pause. "Agreed," Parker was begrudging. "Unless we find something directly connecting her to al Badour."
"That is acceptable." Mycroft realised he could expect little more. "Let us hope this situation remains discrete and is self-resolving."
The call ended. Not quite a gentleman's agreement, but better than nothing. Now all he had to do, Mycroft realised, was to bring Cate up to speed on the matter. Despite the fact his actions were entirely in her interest, he had a suspicion she would not be easily persuaded of this.
###
"There's that man again," Medina watched a distant reflection in the shop window next to her. "He's been following us all morning."
Grinning, Erik shook his head. "Been reading too many cheap novels?" he teased.
"I'm serious, Erik," she said, glancing in a different window. "We're being followed."
"Okay," he said. "If the guy's really following us, then he'll be easy to spot if we nip down here," he indicated a long, narrow alleyway between two buildings. He shook his head again: the things some girls imagined. They walked quickly to the far end of the alley, looking back just as they turned the corner.
Erik stopped grinning. There was a man standing at the far end; he made no attempt to disguise the fact that he had been watching them. Medina was right. They were being followed.
###
He had appropriated the phone when John had gone to the bathroom. It took less than two seconds to scroll through the 'sent' calls, and he had the number. Sherlock Googled the number to a small finance company based in Stepney. It was the work of a few more seconds to compose and send his own message in John's name. Replacing the phone, Sherlock was back to his book before John had dried his hands.
Scant seconds after John had reopened the paper, his phone signalled a text arrival.
Meet at Egyptian Room 61, British Museum. 4.30 today.
It was unsigned, but since it had the call-number of the finance company he'd spoken with earlier, John could only imagine he was to meet and speak with someone about Sean's loan. Why the British Museum, though? Odd kind of a place for a business meeting. Oh well.
"Got to head out for a while," John shrugged into his jacket. "I'll get some milk on the way back."
Waving a vaguely disinterested hand in the air, Sherlock was too engrossed in his book to even look up as John left the flat. At the sound of the door closing, he was on his feet and into his coat. Waiting until John walked down into the Baker Street tube-station entrance, Sherlock followed. He would get to the heart of the matter, and do something about it.
###
Resting her right hand in her lap and trying to ignore the hot throbbing pain of it, Cate sat and looked at the two young people in her office. Kwan had bandaged it up very proficiently, but it still hurt like blazes.
"But he was following us, I swear."
They had come to Cate's office to go through a rewrite of the central section of Medina's Masters proposal and wanted Cate to give an opinion before doing any further writing. But the conversation had travelled far away from its academic purpose.
Thinking of that morning's conversation with Mycroft, Cate felt a dark cloud approaching. There was only one thing she could do. Looking at Medina, Cate took a breath.
"Is Malik al Badour your father?" she asked.
A startled look of concern washed over the girl's face. "Yes," she nodded. "I travel in my mother's family name because my father is a soldier and involved in important political things at home."
Trying to find the right words, Cate made a face. "I think your father is the reason you are being followed," she said. "I believe you may be in danger in London because of this."
Frowning, Erik stared at her. "How do you know any of this?" he said. "I only met Medina's father this morning."
"Your father is here," Cate's eyebrows went up. "In London? Now?"
"Yes," Medina looked confused. "What is the problem with that?"
Realising this must have been one of the 'details' Mycroft felt unable to share, Cate sat and thought. "If the authorities are watching your father and they know who you are, then they're clearly following you to confirm your connection," she paused, turning to Erik. "You say you saw him this morning?"
He nodded.
"In that case," Cate made another face, "They'll be watching the both of you."
"You haven't answered my question," Erik was almost scowling. "How do you know any of this?"
"I … know someone connected to the security services," Cate prevaricated. Her next words were interrupted by a text arriving on Medina's phone. It made a particularly irritating sound.
"This is a student admin text, it is usually important, one moment please." The girl quickly opened and read down the brief message. Her eyes widening in horror, she turned to Erik, showing him the text.
"The university is excluding me?"
Cate's breathing slowed. Why would Medina get a text from the student administrative department telling her she'd been excluded? Students were only ever excluded after they'd done something dreadful, but she'd known several who'd frolic'd naked across the Chancellery lawn at midday and even then, only receiving a warning. Medina had done nothing. Exclusion made no sense.
If Medina had done nothing worthy of such a punishment, then it was not a punishment for her behaviour, but a deliberate act because of who, or what she was. The university had been perfectly happy to enrol the girl; therefore it couldn't be an academic issue, so it had to be something personal. Medina had enrolled under her mother's name, so any personal information would only cover that side of the family, and anything there would have been known upon the girl's enrolment. Therefore it had to be some recently-discovered information about her father, and that kind of information only came from a few sources. Therefore, if Medina was being excluded, it was because of a decision, high-up. There was only one person Cate could think of with that sort of clout at the University. She swung around to her desk-phone and rang the internal number of the Office of the Vice-Chancellor.
"Hello, Annie," Cate greeted the VC's secretary. "This Is Cate Adin-Holmes, may I speak with Charles if he's free, please?"
A moment later, the rich vowel-sounds of Charles Shelsher echoed down the line.
"Always nice to hear from you, dear Cate," he said. "Still don't understand why you turned the deanship down – is this a change of mind, perhaps?" he asked optimistically.
"Hello, Charles," Cate smiled. The VC was a pleasant enough man, but a born politician and therefore as devious as a fox. "One of my Masters students has been excluded without cause or notice and I think she's going to go to the papers."
Medina and Erik both looked uncomfortable at Cate's statement. Nothing had even been mentioned about what options might be available to them, let alone anything about going to the Press. Frowning, Cate shook her head, waving them into silence.
Clearly Shelsher was unhappy with this news as his voice grew noticeably louder in her ear. His voice was questioning.
"But I don't know, Charles," Cate said. "That's exactly the point: why was Medina excluded? Who signed off on the exclusion? What cause was given?"
There was a brief silence at the other end of the conversation which told Cate what she wanted to know. Someone had told Shelsher to get rid of the girl. That someone had to be powerful enough to not only give the VC a directive, but to ensure any such order would be followed. This further meant those responsible for the directive were connected to the government, which didn't leave too many candidates. It had to be MI5, the Home Office itself … or someone like Mycroft.
Ending the conversation, Cate began to feel rather cross. Whoever was messing around with one of her students better have a bloody good reason.
"Medina," Cate was thoughtful. "I think the same people who've been following you may also be the ones trying to get you out of the university." Looking at the distressed girl, Cate's feelings turned to empathy. This must be awfully upsetting for someone so unworldly.
"I really don't think this is about something you've done," she said, trying to put a positive spin on her words, "but because of who your father is."
"But my father is a soldier and a businessman," Medina was almost in tears, her fingers grasping Erik's sleeve. "Why would the university throw me out because of that?"
"I don't think this decision was the university's to make," Cate spoke slowly. "I think the government has decided it wants you gone."
"But that's not fair!" Erik was angry on Medina's behalf. "How can they do that?"
Sighing, Cate saw that both these young people were about to learn some of life's unpleasant verities.
"No," she said. "It's not fair, but it's the situation we have, and so we must think of how best to deal with it."
"We'll go to my father," Erik was emphatic. "He's really good with sorting out big problems – he'll know how to fix this."
Cate looked at the boy. He meant well. She sighed: her entire arm was aching now.
"You can't do that Erik, unless you want your father to get pulled into this as well," Cate felt weary. "If this is, as I suspect, some government action, then you really don't want to bring anyone into it unless you have no choice."
"But you're in it," Erik retorted. "And you had choice."
Smiling a little at the young man's indignation, Cate shook her head. "I think I was in this the minute I accepted Medina as a student," she said.
"But what should I do?" Medina was lost. "I can't stay in the university residence any more, and if I go to my father, he'll just take me straight home, and I don't want to go home." On the edge of tears, Medina looked across to Erik. He picked up her hand and squeezed it.
"We'll think of a way, won't we, Professor?" There was a hopeful expression on the boy's face as he looked at Cate. She sighed again. Young love had just entered the building.
"If you can't go back to your hall of residence, then you'll need to find somewhere else to stay that's safe." Cate thought for a moment. "Are you sure you can't go to your father?" she asked. "It might be the most sensible thing to do."
Judging by the looks flying between the two of them, Cate saw that sensible was not the first thing on their minds.
"You can't stay with me, unfortunately, because the government already know where I live," Cate paused, realising she was thinking now of Mycroft as government. "If you don't want to go home which someone is clearly trying to make you do, and you can't go to your father, then you need to go to an obscure hotel or somewhere equally off the beaten track." Thinking again. "Do you have cash?"
"I have a credit card," Medina pulled out a Platinum VISA card. Erik's eyes popped.
"You can't use any credit cards," Cate was firm. "All transactions can be tracked almost instantly."
Erik looked at her strangely. "How do you know all these things?" he asked. "You seem to know an awful lot about this kind of stuff."
"Don't ask," Cate grinned suddenly.
"I don't have any cash with me," Medina said. "Do you?" she asked, turning to Erik. He shook his head.
"Okay, so no money, can't go home, can't come to my house, can't involve any friends or other family." Cate made a face. "I can think of one place, in that case," she said. Grabbing a scrap of paper, she wrote down an address and some instructions and gave it to Erik.
"This is just in case we get separated," she said, standing. "Get your coats on."
Heading out of the office and down to the lift, Cate gave them some advice.
"Don't use anything that can be traced or tracked," she said. "No mobile phones, no private computers, no credit cards, nothing." Digging into her bag, Cate pulled all the paper cash out of her purse. It was only around a hundred, but better than nothing. Handing it over to Medina, Cate smiled at their woeful faces.
"Remember," Cate said. "You can go to your father any time you like, and you are only taking this road because you're telling me you don't want to go home." They both nodded. Feeling she had to make one last appeal to common sense, Cate looked at them carefully.
"Are you absolutely positive you want to do this?" she said. "You may be making a bad situation worse by running away from it."
"I don't want to go home," Medina was adamant. "If you don't want to help, then I'll manage by myself, Professor."
"I'm not letting her do this by herself," Erik defended his decision.
That was that, then. At least if they kept her in the loop, Cate could hopefully steer them away from the extremes of disaster. Exiting the lift on the ground floor, she shepherded them down the empty corridor. They were nearing the far door, when it opened and two men stepped through. The way the men held themselves, the way they looked. Their expressions. Cate knew what they were. She stopped short.
"Go out the other way," she said quietly to Erik. "Go to the place I wrote down for you."
"What are you going to do?" Erik looked nervous as he watched the two men approaching. His father had men like this working for him. He grabbed Medina's hand and backed away.
"My Great great great Aunt was a Suffragette," Cate turned and gave the two young things a comforting smile. "I'm going to do what she did."
"What did she do?" Medina was barely breathing as she watched the two men coming closer.
"Make trouble," Cate looked quite disposed to emulate her distant relative. "Run," she added.
Turning back, she smiled as she walked towards the men from MI5.
###
Avoiding the exodus of tourists from the main museum entrance, John made his way quickly along the left-hand side of the ground floor towards the Egyptian collections. Room 61 was labelled 'The Room of Life and Death' which seemed suitably ironic. Festooned with pharoanic history and dramatically obscure hieroglyphs, John strolled past several massive stone sarcophagi into the tomb-chapel of Nebamun. It was gloomy, it was creepy. It was full of ancient dead things. He was the only person in there: everyone else had gone onto more interesting exhibits or simply gone. He waited.
Looking around, John noted the immense thickness of the stone coffins and wondered exactly how anyone could have worked out how to move them. Over to the right of him, he heard an odd flapping noise; like a curtain in a draft. There was also a faint sound of a … sigh? It was coming from one of the lesser chests arrayed along the most distant wall of the tomb. Stepping close, John leaned over the open stone box and looked inside.
There was a dead man.
John knew he was dead because living people didn't generally have their throats sliced open like this one did, nor drown in pools of their own blood. The sounds he had heard must have been the corpse settling into its final rictus. Balancing his body on the wide edge of the coffin, John leaned in to check that there was actually an absence of pulse. Trying to locate the carotid artery itself was not easy beneath all the gore, and hunting for a pulse was nigh impossible. The blood was still fairly liquid having not yet entirely cooled. The man couldn't have been dead very long. Seeing him this close up, John realised it was the thug he'd met at Sean's funeral service: the man's dark hair and unshaven features looked barely any worse. Apart from all the blood, of course.
Still balanced on the edge of sarcophagus, his hands liberally coated in the sticky ichor of the recently deceased, John was quietly thankful there had been no other witnesses to this remarkably gory mess, and that he would be able to summon the authorities without the fuss of a screaming audience. Fumbling for his handkerchief, John stood, his blood stained fingers dangling in the air.
It was right about then that the two American tourists walked in. John smiled. It just wasn't his day.
###
Still smiling, Cate waited until the two men were close enough that she actually had a chance to do anything. Seeing her students running down towards the other doors, the taller of the two men made to charge past Cate in their pursuit. As he was almost level with her, she pivoted, grabbed his leading wrist and, with a twist of her hips, sent him flying to the floor. Since he had already being moving swiftly, the man landed with quite a satisfying thud. Standing straight, Cate looked as surprised as the second man, who took it upon himself to place hands upon her person. Since her right hand was virtually useless, Cate realised it would be only seconds before she was rendered hors de combat, so made no resistance as she was shoved, face first and quite hard, against the wall. Her lip stung and she tasted blood.
As the first man regained his feet, Cate realised she was now really deep in this … whatever it was … but the corridor was empty and the doors at the far end had stopped swinging. Erik and Medina had escaped.
###
It had been almost three hours since the last question. She had been in this chilly little interrogation room alone, without any interference from anyone, or even the offer of a cup of tea; and was bored, cold and hungry. Her bandaged hand throbbed and her lip was swollen. Other than that, she hadn't been mistreated in the slightest, not even shouted at, a fact that Cate found quite surprising. Looking around the glassed-in room which reflected only the room itself and nothing beyond, she wondered if Mycroft knew about this yet. She wrinkled her nose. Of course he would know about this. He had probably known about it within five minutes of her being brought in for questioning. This meant he was leaving her here to stew. Fair enough. It was what she would have done had the situation been reversed.
The door opened, and two men walked in; one she didn't recognise, the other was Mycroft. Walking over, he held out her coat without comment, his face entirely lacking in expression as he placed it carefully around her shoulders. Wincing a little as her fingers throbbed, Cate stood, waiting. Without a word, he opened the door for her, his hand carefully placed in the small of her back as he escorted her along several glass-walled corridors and down into an underground car-park. The Jaguar was waiting and Cate slid inside. Traffic was light and within a very short space of time, Mycroft was closing their front door behind them.
Walking directly into the drawing-room. He poured a malt for himself and an armagnac for her. Taking the glasses and Cate's elbow, he propelled her into the kitchen where he sat her on a stool, putting the glass in her good hand. Downing his own drink in one, Mycroft put his glass down and picked up her bandaged arm, carefully undoing all of Kwan's immaculate work. Neither of them had uttered a single word.
Gently lifting Cate's fingers, Mycroft's face hardened as he inspected her swollen and bruised knuckles, vivid lines of purple, red and black extending up to her wrist.
"X-ray, I think," he murmured.
Lifting her fingers in the air, Cate wiggled them slowly. "Nothing's broken," she said. "I have no need of an x-ray."
Mycroft looked at her: his expression chilly. "It was not a suggestion."
"I believe we've had this conversation before," Cate replied. "I didn't need an x-ray then, and I don't need one now, although I appreciate your concern."
"Drink up," he said, flatly. "We're off to the Hanley for another x-ray."
It was clear he wasn't about to let this go. Sighing, Cate slid her hand gingerly into her sleeve. Mycroft's fingers moved gently to tilt her jaw, holding her face to get a good look at the split in her lip. "That will be painful for a while," he observed.
Cate thought he was taking this entire thing incredibly well. She had imagined all sorts of dire fallout once they had arrived home, but Mycroft appeared to be rising above it all. The least she could do was allow him his x-ray.
The same doctor – Lanier – organised the radiography.
"Back again?" he smiled. "Thought you were going to give up the … whatever it was you were doing to cause this sort of damage?"
Smiling, Cate shrugged. "This is a whole new sort of damage."
"What have you been doing this time?" Lanier asked, turning her wrist very carefully and instructing her to move each finger in a certain way.
Aware Mycroft was standing right behind her, Cate sighed. He wasn't going to like this.
"I punched my way through a plank of wood," she said. "Hapkido."
"Dangerous things, planks," Lanier mused as he manipulated her wrist up and down. "Does this hurt at all?"
"Not really," Cate made a face, "although there is a feeling of something pulling up here," she ran fingertips up the length of her forearm.
"Hyperextended ligaments," he nodded. "Don't think there's a break, but let's wait for the x-rays to be sure." He stepped out to fetch the films.
"And how did you injure your mouth?" Mycroft's voice was curiously controlled.
"I … must have …" Cate faltered as her husband's eyes fixed on hers. Mycroft lifted a single eyebrow. He knew she was a hopeless liar in any case, but she couldn't pretend worth a damn with him.
Cate was resigned. "I got into a fight with the two MI5 men sent to pick up Medina and Erik," she said, simply. "I put one on the floor but the other would have been too much for me with only one hand, so I let him grab me and I hit the wall." Cate paused. "Well, my lip hit the wall," she added.
"You put a security services operative down?" Mycroft asked mildly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
"I don't think he was expecting any interference," Cate said, candidly. "I doubt I'd have got anywhere near him if he'd expected trouble." Sucking her swollen lip, Cate made a face. "Ow."
"Do you remember which of the operatives was responsible for your injury?" he asked, an odd tone in his voice. Cate looked at him. Mycroft sounded very calm, but it hadn't been a calm question.
"Wouldn't have a clue," she lied, knowing he would be aware of the lie, and also why she had said it. His mouth compressed.
"Are you injured anywhere else?" Mycroft's eyes were dark again.
"No," Cate said. "I earned my red belt," she added with a grin.
"By causing severe damage to your hand?" Mycroft didn't share her delight.
"Oh no," she grinned harder, "I did that the first time I tried it, but I managed it perfectly well the second time, with my other hand." As soon as the words left her mouth, Cate closed her eyes, knowing she was fifteen different kinds of an idiot.
"You damaged one hand and then made a second attempt with the other?" Mycroft's voice had dropped to a very quiet level. To her ears, he sounded almost angry.
"I did." Cate began to feel angry herself under this interrogation. "I told you what I was doing before I started and you seemed fine with it then."
"That was before you started hurting yourself," his voice was still incredibly soft.
"Mycroft, I am a grown woman," Cate was irritated. "I can decide what, or what not to do without constant reference to your preferences."
About to reply, Mycroft stopped short as Lanier returned with the films.
"Nothing broken this time, either," he observed, "so only ligament and soft-tissue damage to deal with," the doctor smiled briefly. "We'll have you fixed up in a jiffy."
By the time they returned home from the Hanley, Cate was beginning to feel very tired. Her hand ached, her face was sore, a joyous little headache was just beginning to make itself at home, and she was hungry. Heading towards the kitchen to start dinner, Mycroft diverted her into the drawing-room. He led her to a sofa. Clearly he wanted to talk, so she sat, waiting.
"What do you think you are doing?" Mycroft leaned against the high back of a chair, his arms folded. He stared at her.
"Think about doing what?" Cate was unclear exactly which part of 'what' he meant.
"Cate," Mycroft leaned towards her to emphasise his point." You are in trouble with MI5. This is serious."
"There are two scared young people out there who are caught between their reality and your reality," Cate frowned. "They came to me for help and I felt I should give it, so I did."
"Regardless of the situation this puts you in?" he was incredulous.
"In case it's escaped your notice," Cate paused meaningfully, "sometimes I do things without considering my position, because I happen to think it's the right thing to do."
"Not in this instance," Mycroft shook his head. "And have you thought of where this leaves me?"
Cate really hadn't, but wondered how bad it could possibly be for him.
"You," she observed, "can take care of yourself. Those two don't have a clue."
"As apparently, neither do you!" Mycroft barked, suddenly angry. Standing, he walked to the mantle, resting a hand against its Georgian elegance. He took a deep breath. "Have you any concept at all of the mess you've created through your interference?"
"I have created time for better thought," Cate stood. She was not about to be scolded like a child. "Time for these two to think through their options and to choose, as adults, what they want, and not," she snapped, "whatever actions you will permit."
"You walk a dangerous line, Cate," Mycroft's voice was ominous. "I cannot let you do this."
"Cannot?" Inhaling slowly, her eyes widened in indignation. "Cannot?"
"In any problem," he spoke slowly, "there are always three key considerations." Staring into his wife's face, Mycroft wanted to make sure she understood the gravity and magnitude of the situation. "That which may be thought; that which may be said, and that which may be done," he continued, articulating his words with a chill precision bordering upon the pedantic. "It's known as the Trivium Protocol, and every single international accord relies upon all sides cohering to its rules." Looking down, Mycroft paused. "You are risking the protocol in this instance."
"I am not one of your sides," Cate muttered, angrily. "I am an adult and no rules apply unless I first consent to them," she paused. "I will not be bullied into doing what you say."
"You'll follow these rules," Mycroft said. "Or there'll be consequences."
Her skin tingling in shock, Cate paused. Had he just threatened her? She scanned his face, his eyes, for an indication, but Mycroft was impenetrable and distant. Cate could not recall seeing him like this before. He was so cold; like ice.
"I will not bow to ultimatums," she ground out, her jaw stiff with opposition. "Or your particular brand of intimidation."
"In this matter, you will do as I say," Mycroft stared her down. "There will be no argument about this, Cate," he added.
"No argument?" she demanded, stunned. "You'll have no argument from me?" Cate was breathless with astonishment, her anger rising like lava from deep inside.
"You are in no position to offer an argument, and you will have no further involvement in this situation." His voice was as hard as his expression.
"I will do as I think best," she struggled to maintain a level tone.
"This conversation is concluded," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows. "There will be no further discussion of the matter."
"Or what?" she demanded, stepping in front of him. "You'll put me in gaol? Have me locked away like some recalcitrant?" Cate was so angry, she wanted to throw something. "You dare tell me you'll have no discussion!"
Mycroft's expression was stony, his eyes narrowed and unfriendly. He was also silent. Her heart thumping in her chest, Cate strove for an even breath. He was utterly serious. He was not going to let her speak. The situation was beyond belief.
"I'm going to bed," Cate knew she had to calm her thoughts. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight," she said, walking away from him without another word.
Watching her leave the room, Mycroft supressed the urge to wrap her in his arms and hold her until logic and common sense prevailed, but he dare not risk her involvement. Or her life.