Chapter Four

The Mysterious Lodge

Somewhere in Surrey is an abandoned hunting lodge whose age none can guess. It lies close to the land, serving as a trellis for local ivy. From time to time, local humans—usually teenagers and occasionally amorous adults—light up its windows to better their festivities. If anyone had passed the lodge on this evening and seen the windows illuminated, she would guess that such a party was going on inside.

But she would be wrong. Inside the lodge sat two men, one tall and dark, one short and fair. The tall man was looking around as if he already knew the place well. He would sigh from time to time with impatience, and then he would drum his fingers on his chair. The shorter man was trying hard to maintain his patience. The only clear signs of his unrest were his eyes and his lip, which he bit once in a while.

He turned to the taller man and said, "You're sure this is the one?"

"Yes," said the tall man contemptuously.

"It's just—it's been a while. You're sure he knows this is the one?"

"It was his idea. Please stop asking these stupid questions."

All right, all right! No need to get…You don't know why he wanted to meet?"

"He refused to discuss it over the phone. It has something to do with international affairs."

"Told you that much, did he?"

"I surmised."

The tall man pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. This made the other man frown, shake his head, and scoff in disgust.

"What are you so glum for?"

"You were supposed to quit. You told me you quit, in fact."

"I did. At the moment."

"That's not how—"

"John, I cannot express the banality of this conversation and its effect on my patience."

"Oh, well I could certainly express how waiting in this damp, moldy lodge is—"

"Shut up, he's here," muttered the other, standing up.

"How can you possibly-?" The other man gave him a look as if he had asked an obvious question.

The door of the lodge opened. A third man entered, this one slight and balding. He was carrying a black umbrella.

"John, good to see you again," he said to the fair man. He grimaced slightly as he turned to the tall man. "Sherlock."

"Brother," said Sherlock Holmes.

"I assume that neither of you is wired for sound?"

"Need you ask?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," said Mycroft Holmes. "This matter is of the utmost delicacy."

"What's going on, Mycroft?" asked John Watson.

"I can't tell you everything. What you need to know is this. A series of murders occurred yesterday in the United States which immediately attracted the attention of—well, of people in my line of work. There were three murders in quick succession. One of an employee of the Pentagon, two of people who were apparently civilian."

"What, 'apparently'?" asked John.

"Secret agents, no doubt," said Sherlock.

"Oh, the most secretive imaginable," said Mycroft. "All three of them were important agents of a covert section of an American intelligence network. All three carried sensitive information which is lost, as far as we know. All three were currently engaged in an operation closely tied to the security of the entire globe."

"What was it?" asked Sherlock.

"I'm not permitted to tell you."

"No, you've got to tell me or I can't begin to solve this case."

"I'm not calling you in to do espionage, Sherlock, I'm calling you in to find a killer. We can handle the rest."

"Can you? As beautifully as you've handled things up to now?"

"This was not our problem until now. This was supposed to be an American problem."

"But now it's not, for some reason, and you need me. If you want my cooperation, then I need to know what's going on."

"Are you saying that you would glibly throw away your chance to defend the safety of every human being—"

"Spare me the rhetoric, you're not that kind of politician. I want more information or I'm not taking this case."

"But you are interested?"

"I'm interested, because for some reason you've taken an interest in the inner workings of an American intelligence agency. For all you've said so far, this is an inside job. You don't even know whether it is, because you don't know who the killer is. But you don't care. It's important enough to you that, even if the Americans are stealing from each other—FBI versus CIA, or whatever—you still want in. I want to know why."

Mycroft sighed regretfully and looked at his impeccably shiny shoes. "I was hoping this would be easier. Very well, then. We believe that the Americans have access to technology which would revolutionize warfare."

"That's nothing new."

"I wasn't finished," said Mycroft, rather touchily. "We believe they have acquired a device which would allow them to transport objects of indefinite mass across distances of indefinite length."

"So, what, an anti-gravity machine?"

"In no time at all," said Mycroft.

"Wait!" said John. "You mean to tell me the Americans have—have teleportation? Star Trek, that kind of thing?"

"Oh, it's hardly a teleporter. From what we can tell, it's more of a shortcut. Something which enables them to connect two spatial points otherwise greatly separated. You might say that it creates a portal, if you are given to the language of science fiction."

"So, military technology is out and everyone is scrabbling for it," said Sherlock. "That's the grand secret you had to keep from me."

"No, Sherlock," said John. "This is—this is huge! This means they could take a whole army and move it into enemy territory, blow the enemies away, and take them back to the home front in no time at all. It wouldn't be a war at all, it would be a massacre."

"I'm relieved to see that one of you appreciates the gravity of the consequences of this machine's being put to use. Will you take the case?"

"Hunt down a common spy and retrieve some files for you?" said Sherlock, making a face as if he had tasted a lemon while looking at a dirty picture.

"This is no common spy. He's killed three agents whom we believed to be very difficult to kill. And he's done it using a weapon unknown to any of us. Or anyone we've consulted."

Sherlock squinted. "Slightly more interesting."

Mycroft went on. "Flesh peeled from the face, all the cuts irradiating from a central point which pierced the brain. Whatever pierced the brain caused the peeling the moment it made impact. And it scrambled the brains of the victims."

Sherlock didn't say anything. He seemed to be thinking hard. John supposed that he was searching his vast memory for any reports of similar injuries. He seemed mildly intrigued, but John knew that he was just as interested in disproving Mycroft's statement that the weapon was unknown.

"Sherlock. I've already told you more than I am permitted to. I must know whether you will take this case."

"Sherlock, this could help a lot of people."

"I'll take the case." Both Mycroft and John relaxed. "If I am allowed to read the information which I recover."

"That is not mine to decide," said Mycroft.

"Don't pretend, Mycroft. You are the British government, you can give yourself permission."

"This is out of my hands, Sherlock," said Mycroft. And for the first time that either John or Sherlock could remember, Mycroft Holmes sounded not only desperate but afraid. "There are forces at work in this matter which nobody, not even I, can control. There are groups whose power I could not make plain to you given all the time we have, and all of them are focusing their efforts on this incident. I need you to take this case."

Again, Sherlock didn't say anything. But this time, he was not searching his memory. He was searching the face of his brother.

"When do we leave?" he asked.