Magpie: Two for Joy
Chapter 6: T minus 60
Author's note: There is a "missing case" reference in the ACD canon, where Sherlock says "It is a perfectly overpowering impulse, and I have more than once taken advantage of it. In the case of the Darlington Substitution Scandal it was of use to me, and also in the Arnsworth Castle business. A married woman grabs at her baby - an unmarried one reaches for her jewel box. " – Scandal in Bohemia.
The chirp of her phone cut through the dream and she woke up totally disorientated. Once her eyes got open, Ara saw the thin morning light edging around the dark navy curtains of her apartment's bedroom, and she knew she was back in Manhattan. The 24/7 noise of New York City's Lower West Side crept into the room, too. The phone chirped again, and she looked at the digital clock on the bedside table: 07.45. She groaned out loud. Jetlag had kept her awake until nearly four.
She reached for the phone and prayed it wasn't a text from Japan. She'd only just got back from Tokyo yesterday. Her half-asleep brain creaked into gear- it would be nearly ten pm in Tokyo.
07.44 Early sight of tomorrow's long range weather forecast predicts Miharu peak bloom 17 Apr- adjust travel dates accordingly.
Damn global warming. Why she had ever agreed to this commission, Ara would never know. She was on her feet, into slippers and fluffy dressing gown, and then pushed up the thermostat on her way to the kitchen and coffee. The 20th of March was still cold and windy in Manhattan.
Fortified by the first sip of steaming caffeine, she sat down and opened her laptop, dragging up the booking calendar. Four of her other photo shoots would need to be re-arranged. The Imperial Household Agency was, without a doubt, the most irritating officialdom she'd ever encountered. If this wasn't a special request from Mycroft Holmes, she would have told Grand Steward Kazaoka just where to stuff himself. And the fact that the IHA was insisting on a full week in Japan was what really annoyed her. It did not take a week for her to do her work, no matter how exalted the person. Now that she had met Masako (No, have to start getting used to calling her "Your Imperial Highness, Crown Princess" in public or the Grand Steward will have me beheaded), and her daughter, she'd be able to sort the shoot quickly in a way that walked the lines so carefully circumscribed by Mycroft.
He'd explained, "It's certainly the most difficult commission you'll ever do. You must deal with an anxious mother, her reluctant and painfully shy daughter, Imperial protocol as well as the authorities' need to communicate to the Japanese people that progress has been made to deal with Fukushima II reactor disaster."
Ara had sniffed, "You want me to take on something between a rock and a hard place, not to mention an earthquake and tsunami. So how is it in the British interest to get involved in a PR stunt on behalf of the Japanese prime minister? I thought the emperor was supposed to be above politics."
Her mother gave her a slightly scandalised look. They were at the dining table in the South Eaton Place townhouse, where Lady Caroline took up residence whenever she was in London. Arabella was due to leave for New York the next morning; she had a shoot organised for the former supermodel Kendra Spears, now the wife of Prince Rahim Aga Khan in Manhattan in two days' time. She'd been the photographer invited to shoot the couple's private family wedding last September in Switzerland, at Château de Bellerive on the shores of Lake Geneva. The fact that she'd known Kendra for the two years before her marriage helped; she'd got to know her when she was doing work experience at a London Fashion Week shoot, well before she became encumbered with the title of her Highness, the Princess Salwa Aga Khan.
Ara was watching Mycroft, trying to judge his reactions. She decided another poke was necessary. "And why is the Imperial family willing to go along?"
He sipped his wine, and barely smiled at her caustic comment. "Don't assume the agendas are different. The Emperor wants to do his part."
"Why does a thirteen year old girl have to do that for him?"
"Her Imperial Highness the Princess Toshi represents the future. Children play an important part in the cherry blossom festival. And it is time that she was seen in public again; it's been three years. You can do justice to what both politics demands and the wishes of her anxious mother require. I have faith in you."
Now it was her turn to sip her claret thoughtfully. "You flatter only when you're after something. Why does this matter to you? How do you know her mother? I didn't think you were the ninja type to scale the walls of the Imperial Palace in Tokyo."
He rolled his eyes. "The Crown Princess has not always been a member of the Imperial family."
Lady Caroline smiled. "Oh, did you know her before she got married?" There was the slightest hint of tease in her tone of voice, and Ara smirked at the idea of her mother being curious about Mycroft's early dealings with young women.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did, when she was plain Masako Owada, the daughter of a Japanese diplomat who was President of the International Court of Justice."
"Oh, she's like Kate Middleton then, a commoner."
A patrician eyebrow rose. "Not exactly 'common', my dear. Masako is fluent in five languages, including Russian, did a BA at Harvard in economics, magnum cum laude, then studied at Oxford before returning to Japan in 1986 where she was one of only three women that year to pass the diplomatic service exam."
Ara snorted. "What, a sort of female version of you? Meet her on some diplomatic mission then, in a dark corridor?" Ara could never resist poking Mycroft. While Sherlock had been …away, she'd taken up his baton and used it as a stick to rattle the bars of Mycroft's cage as a way of remembering and honouring Sherlock.
"Hardly." He gave her a thin-lipped smile. "To start with, she's nine years older than me. When she was twenty six, the Japanese Foreign Ministry sent her to Oxford where she did post-graduate work with Adam Roberts in International Relations. At Balliol…she was there in my first and second year."
"So, this is a personal request?"
Mycroft wiped his mouth fastidiously, and put his napkin down on the table. Miss Forester appeared like magic and removed their plates, then asked, "Can I tempt you ladies into a light dessert? A lemon posset with a blood orange granita." The housekeeper beamed, she knew that this was a favourite of theirs.
Ara's "yes, please" synchronised with her mother's. Then she smirked and looked back at Mycroft. "Off the pudds again?" and looked pointedly down at his waist line.
He glared a bit, ignoring that question before answering the first. "Yes, it is a personal request. The Crown Princess has had a difficult life since Oxford. She really didn't want to marry him, but after the third time he asked, felt her duty required it. She was afraid of what would happen- with good reason, it seems. The Japanese desire for a male heir became a real pressure cooker for her. There were negative press reports about stress-related illness before she finally got pregnant. They resumed with vigour after she miscarried. She withdrew from the public eye for a while. We lost touch. Everyone hoped things would improve when she had her daughter, but apparently post-natal depression put paid to that. That was superseded by a general anxiety disorder that has kept her in treatment for the past nine years. It was thought that that after her husband's younger brother produced an heir in 2006 the pressure might ease, but it has taken years of treatment before she could face a public engagement again- last year."
Lady Caroline murmured, "Poor thing. Life in a goldfish bowl is so hard."
Mycroft nodded. "She has paid a high price for the sake of duty to the Chrysanthemum Throne, and has to deal with the fact that the Imperial family and most of Japan's citizens believe she has failed in that duty."
"So why on earth am I going to get involved in this soap opera?" Ara didn't hide her suspicions.
"The Imperial Household Agency wanted their official photographer to do a portrait of the two of them- mother and daughter- on a public engagement, but the Crown Princess refused unless she could make her own choice. When she got in touch again with me, well, I could hardly refuse to help her…" He looked down the table again, fixing Ara in his gaze. "…which is why this commission needs to be undertaken by someone who understands these issues. It needs someone with tact and discretion, but who is also able to resist the pressures of the Agency. The break with precedent is hugely significant- an act of rebellion on her part to choose her own photographer. It has to be a female and she has to have world-class credentials as a photographer. So, I thought of you."
Now that eyebrow raised again, as if daring her to disagree with his assessment that she had both the skill and the tact to handle this. She knew she'd been manipulated into a corner. Still, she had some sympathy for the poor woman, which became more apparent when she learned about the brief. A mother suffering from an anxiety disorder was sure to be totally freaked by the idea of her daughter being photographed at the Miharu Takizakura, a one thousand year old weeping cherry tree, considered a national treasure of Japan. While family photos were a traditional feature of the cherry blossom festival, it was the tree's location that would make it hard to bear- a scant twenty seven kilometres from the exclusion zone surrounding the Fukushima Two nuclear power plant destroyed in in the earthquake and tsunami of 2011 and still leaking radiation.
So, Ara agreed to take the commission. Mycroft passed the news on through private back channels, and the formal commission was there waiting for her even before she got back from London to Manhattan on New Year's Eve. That was before she discovered that cherry trees were not programmed to flower to suit anyone's calendar- particularly not this tree, which was the diva of the cherry tree world. To start with, it was huge- over twelve meters tall and the trunk was nearly ten meters in diameter. When she'd read that, she looked at her apartment living room and realised that the trunk was wider in diameter than the length of her living room, and her mind boggled. Apparently, the branches projected over twenty meters from the trunk. Its age and size meant that the flowers could open early or late, could be caught by a frost and damaged. She learned a lot by email- all about the fact that the tree was usually visited by over three hundred thousand visitors in a year, but since the nuclear disaster, numbers had fallen sharply. The IHA liaison official was keen to stress the importance of the photographs- "a demonstration of the resurgence of the Japanese national spirit after our times of trouble- and crucial to the economic recovery of the district."
Bloody propagandists. This little lecture was delivered to her in person. She'd been summoned into the Imperial presence and had to fly to Tokyo four days ago, all expenses paid. Actually, it was more like being interrogated than a reconnaissance trip. Deeply suspicious, the IHA were determined to make sure she realised the "fragility" of the Crown Princess's state of mind; she was told in no uncertain terms that she must reassure the woman that this was not only safe, but a required duty for both the mother and the young girl. The photographs were to be vetted and approved by the Grand Steward, the copyright would be owned by the IHA, and her name as photographer would not be published or credited in any way.
When finally face-to-face, Ara's meeting with Masako was a surprise from start to finish. Over IHA objections, The Crown Princess had required the interview to take place at her home, rather than in the formal reception areas of the Palace, which protocol would have dictated. But first, there was a lengthy security and etiquette meeting that seemed to drag on interminably in the headquarters of the IHA, where a po-faced official attempted to teach her etiquette.
"You are not allowed to touch the Crown Princess. You must give a keirei bow. Allow me to demonstrate- standing like this, lowering your hands on your legs to within two inches of your knees, back held straight at a 45 degree angle, eyes to the floor. Hold for a slow intake and exhale of breath. Practice it here."
Ara's initial resistance to the whole idea was tempered by the realisation that a Japanese person would probably be equally discomforted by instructions in Buckingham Palace about how to curtsy. So she bit her tongue and did what was required. She was relieved when finally escorted out of the IHA building and into a car that took her deeper into the closed precinct where the Imperial family lived.
The second surprise came at Masako's home, a modern building nestled amongst the trees of the Fukiage Gardens that certainly didn't conform to any postcard image of Edo Japan. The low two storey building was a concrete and glass construction that conveyed all that was modern in the Japanese design ethic. And the room into which she was escorted was furnished with an eclectic combination of modern Western and Japanese furniture- minimalist, but mixed with natural textures and a softness that spoke of an international cosmopolitan taste.
The Crown Princess was dressed casually in what Ara's eye recognised as Prada cashmere, her long dark hair worn loose, and a soft, almost shy smile of greeting. Ara started to bow, the way that the IHA Grand Steward had instructed her, but Masako crossed the distance between them and took both of her hands in her own. "Welcome, Lady Arabella. Please, allow me to be English for just a moment. It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure." She stared at the escort, who gave a deep, picture perfect bow and withdrew.
Ara answered her with a smile. "Whatever makes you most comfortable, Your Imperial Highness. Mycroft sends his personal greetings. He wanted me to say that first."
"And you must convey mine back to him- and my gratitude for sending you. I have such fond memories of my time at Oxford. It was so refreshing to speak with him at Balliol, both of us students. He never stood on ceremony then, despite his noble title. You and I must do the same now."
Ara wondered again at how strange all of this must be to a person who had not been born to it.
Masako saw the hesitancy. "Please, if we are to spend our time exchanging formal titles, Lady Arabella Herbert, daughter of the Earl of Pembroke, then there will be little time left for real talk. Please, call me Masako; almost no one does, apart from my husband."
Ara nodded. "Then you must call me Ara; no one but my mother calls me Arabella and that's only when she's angry with me." Before she could say anything more, Masako dropped her left hand, keeping hold of her right and led her down a hallway, to a coat rack of long green coats. "Please, put one of these on, and we will walk in the gardens. Less danger of being overheard chattering like school-girls and offending decorum. I want to hear all about how my friend is doing, and when he is going to make an honest woman of your mother."
Under the cover of the trees, the two women walked arm in arm. Masako explained that all the Imperial family members would wear the same plain, floor length waterproof coats when walking- it kept their privacy, because the grounds staff would mysteriously vanish from view. And it had a security purpose, as well, because no one would know for sure who was under the coat. Inside the walls, the family were safe, and could walk free from the presence of bodyguards. Ara wondered if the house had been bugged by the IHA; clearly Masako was not comfortable talking there.
After a brief exchange of small talk about the weather and Mycroft, her suspicions felt confirmed when the conversation took a direction that the IHA would not have been approved of, if the Grand Steward had been able to overhear anything.
"I am opposed to my daughter being used this way. She has had troubles of her own- pneumonia last year, and had to leave her school because the other students were bullying her. I think that now the Emperor has his grandson, the family think my Aiko is expendable. She isn't. I am determined that she should have a life as free as she can, and to support her in being a normal teenager. Something as simple as her name- we are all required to call her 'Princess Toshi' in public. Well, there are more than enough mannequins in the next generation of princesses willing to play their part in the Imperial soap opera. This commissioned portrait is actually a power game- the Agency wants to assert its authority over us both."
Ara wondered if this was paranoia, or possibly justified. In either case, it made her uncomfortable. "I have no wish to cause offence to you- or to the Imperial family."
Masako nodded. "I'm not blaming you- no, far from it. I just want a way to protect my child. She should not have to face this sort of pressure. It isn't fair. I have to live with the consequences of the choice I made when I got married, but I will not, cannot, allow her to be sacrificed in this way. She is more precious to me than anyone, anything. I would die for her."
Self-consciously, the Crown Princess blushed. "Sorry, a bit melodramatic. But, can you understand my problem? I keep wondering what would Mycroft do, if presented with such a dilemma?"
"I could ask…"
A sad laugh. "No, my dear, you must not, at least not while you are still here in Japan; there is no means of communication from you to him that will not be monitored. And to ask would be to reveal intent, and that I cannot do. I have been thinking that mid to late April might be the right time for both Aiko and me to succumb to a bout of 'flu and be unfit to travel."
The footpath came to a clearing, and there at the edge of the woods was a cherry tree, with fat buds. They stopped to look at it.
Masako pointed to those buds. "I thought we could have the photo taken here, if we were unable to leave Tokyo for the day. But unfortunately, these will be open and gone long before the Takizakura will be in bloom. The heat of Tokyo brings our trees out early. So, it will have to be an illness. I wanted to be honest with you; your trip here may be wasted."
Ara gave her a reassuring smile. "That's a Plan B I am happy to accept, if it is the only way you can avoid the trip. And your honesty is refreshing; if I need to preserve the fiction, then I am happy to take photos of the pair of you here in the garden. But wouldn't that leave the people of Fukushima district without the moral support they deserve? They have been through a horrible experience."
The Crown Princess sighed, her frustration apparent. "If only the Agency had not promised them this; there could have been other ways to show solidarity. I wish there was some way I could reach out to them in their time of need- of course, but this is what the Agency use to put pressure on me and Aiko. It is moral blackmail."
The woman's demeanour darkened, and Ara could see how distressed she was at the whole scenario. As they walked further into the clearing, the younger woman thought she must try to find a way to square this circle. "Perhaps we can find a way that they can benefit, without risking you and your daughter. There might be a win-win. Leave this with me- I'll go back home, and think about a Plan C. There must be a way to satisfy everyone. If Mycroft can't help, I know his younger brother might be able to figure something out- he's more devious. Will you trust me- and them?"
Masako nodded. "What choice do I have? It is the reason why I reached out to an old friend. So I will trust you, too, my new friend. Let me take you back now, and introduce you to Aiko. She is in need of a friend, too."
Ara had been amused to find a young teenager, rather shy, but when coaxed out of her shell, happy enough to talk about her tumblr account and how she wrote fan fiction about Kuroko no Basuke. "It's a great way to learn how to write in foreign languages, and because no one knows who my avatar really is, I am allowed to do it." Then she pouted. "They won't let me use facebook, twitter or snapchat. It's unfair. I like taking photos, but they won't let me put anything on Instagram or pinterest- too "western", not Japanese enough."
Ara's natural rebelliousness came out. "Let's take a selfie together. You can keep it on a USB, and no one will know."
They both got out their phones and took a picture of each other. Then Aiko laughed and said, "let me take one that I wished I was brave enough to send to the Grand Steward." She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. "I'll caption it me in a digital prison."
Ara laughed. "Yep- Prince Harry and William had the same problem when they were teenagers. Still do, in fact, even now they're grown up. You're lucky that you don't have to be heir to the Queen of England. I wish I had a cousin who could take on the burden of the Pembroke earldom. My mum's been good so far in letting me do my own thing, but sooner or later, it's going to get me."
"You have no cousins? How sad." Aiko commiserated. "I wish I had a big sister as cool as you are."
On the plane journey home, Ara realised why Mycroft had sent her to a woman who had once been a commoner, and now bore a title, with a daughter who was at risk of being manipulated by everyone. There had been a message in his choice of Ara- Masako would appreciate the fact that Ara's mother had supported Ara in her decision to pursue her own career, and leave aside for the time being the vexed Pembroke title and all it carried with it. Her mother had made the right choice, and Ara was just plain grateful- and so relieved that there was no royal or imperial family to say otherwise in her case. It changed her view of Mycroft.
Thinking of him now in the freedom of her Manhattan apartment, Ara considered the nightmare that was her diary. Somehow, despite this week's commitments, she still had to find time to get to London and talk to Mycroft and Sherlock about how they could make Masako's photoshoot into a win-win.
I'll think about that tomorrow. Yawning, she smiled as the motto came to mind- her favourite line from the film Gone with the Wind. She'd watched it last year, as preparation for a shoot on Louisiana's Rosedown's plantation. Alexandra Underwood, a former contestant of America's Next Top Model show was getting married at the place, which had once been owned by her grandfather. Photographing former models who now wanted family pictures was always tricky, but she had enjoyed her trip to the Deep South- another side of America from the frenzied hubbub of NYC. That was one of the joys of her profession- it took her everywhere in the world, and gave her the excuse to do research, so when she met her clients, she knew something about them already.
When Ara was onto her third cup of coffee, firing off emails to the clients who were going to have to be re-scheduled, her phone chirped again. Not another bloody message from Tokyo.
She spotted the number as a UK one, but she didn't recognise it. Opening it, she was delighted to read
11.12 Are you available Sat 18 May am/pm for John's wedding? He needs a photographer with a brain uncluttered by cliché. SH
She called up the May appointment page.
Yes! It could be done. She was due in Milan by the Monday afterwards; the Si Sposaitalia Collezioni trade fair was on from the 20th to the 23rd, and she'd agreed to work with Allesandra Rinaudo's PR agency to produce an Instagram and pinterest campaign. She was starting to build her reputation as a portraitist with a quirky, individualist approach. While the catwalk was all about the dresses, the PR company was going for a campaign that featured the audience's reactions. She really did prefer people to fashion, and her skills as a portraitist were developing all the time.
11.16 Yes; I'm available 18/05.
The thought of seeing Sherlock made her smile. It brought back fond memories of the two weeks she'd spent camped at Baker Street, while doing her work experience. She'd learned a lot about him then. Late, after John had gone upstairs to bed, she had asked Sherlock about a lot of things. Ara appreciated the fact that he never patronised her, or treated her like the half-formed person she felt herself to be. His opinion of her mattered, although she would be hard pressed to say exactly why.
He would always be one of her favourite people- and without a doubt her favourite photographic subject. She wondered if she could put together a part of her next exhibition devoted to him. After his return, the limited edition photos from the exhibition had all sold out. And she needed him to think of a way out for both Masako and the Fukushima people; a face-to-face would help.
11.17 Need J+M's agreement tho- don't foist me on a reluctant bride! I'm coming to London next week. Talk then?
The pingback was almost immediate, as if he had been waiting. She was to bring a portfolio of her work to Mary Morstan, who would have final say. But she wasn't to tell her or John the real fee or travel expenses.
11.17 How much should I say?
11.18 They are on a derisory budget. Tell her £500. Mycroft can pay the real cost. SH
She made a decision. This wasn't about the money. She wanted to be there – for Sherlock, if not for John.
11.19 I'll do it for £100 if you will let me take new photos of you separately to add to my 'collection'. I'll explain why when I see you
The reason was simple. Neil Selkirk was curating an exhibition at the Howard Greenberg Gallery in December; she'd been thrilled to be one of the four "up and coming" photographers asked to contribute- and knew it was off the back of her one woman exhibition last year in London and New York*. She still had the Christmas photos of him in the bath, and she'd snuck a few more while he was at Parham, before her mother got him and Mycroft willing to sit across from one another in front of the fire. A study in brotherhood. They had been in the middle of some sort of bantering argument that neither Ara nor her mother could follow, because it was taking place in Serbian, of all things.
Entitled Celebrity = Mediated Reality, Selkirk's exhibition was about what was real and what was a media invention- designed to challenge the viewer to re-think their preconceptions. Sherlock was just the right subject. Ara kept checking her phone. No answer yet to her proposition, and that made her nervous. Had her ambition been too blatant?
A part of her just wanted to be there at the Watson wedding, to give moral support to Sherlock. In their conversation at Parham, she'd caught the ambiguity in his assertion that he was happy for John. And he probably was- just not necessarily happy for himself. In the steamy dark bathroom, she had sensed that he was more than a little uncomfortable about his own feelings on the matter. Ever thus, for Sherlock. It was one of the things she found fascinating about the man. All that brain and talent wrapped around a core so deeply private that she doubted even he knew what he really felt. An enigma wrapped up in a mystery, with no codebook to hand. In real life, very different in person from the cardboard cut-out the media created when recounting his rise, fall and resurrection.
She had gone from the hero worship of her teenage years to a more nuanced understanding of the man. He seemed to have accepted her, from the very beginning, and she wondered how much that had strengthened her resolve about her university choice, and then the career. She was under no illusions about how hard this wedding was going to be on him.
While she waited for Sherlock to make up his mind, Ara started thinking about the portfolio she'd give to Mary. She would have to include some of Sherlock, and the couple of shots she had of John. Those and the crime scene stuff would show her she knew them, and could be trusted. There was a time when she thought John Watson was on her side, too, but that thought wobbled a bit when he didn't reply to the London exhibition invitation. It would be good to show him what he missed.
Ara started thinking about which of the wedding portraits would suit a woman that was obviously respected by both men. Nothing cliché, that was for sure. And she'd have to avoid the ones – usually demanded by the bride's family- of the "glam poses", the stuff that a mother liked to show off to their friends about how "beautiful" their little girl had grown up to be. Somehow, she thought Mary would be a rather different kind of person.
The phone's chirp made her jump.
11.28 Deal SH
She exhaled, and inserted the date into her appointment app.
oOo
Author's Note: (if you have not yet read Ex Files: Exclaim (chapter 52), I suggest you do before tackling this part; and the Ex Files Chapter 50 Exorcism helps, too)
The woman whose name was definitely not Anthea watched Agent Rawlings leave Mycroft's office and shut the door behind him. Only when they were alone again did she dare speak.
"How could he have known? He didn't have the USBs for more than a couple of minutes, did he?"
Mycroft gave her a wan smile that revealed volumes. "He obviously found a way to make a copy. And has deciphered enough of the conversation now by finding a Georgian who speaks Svan."
"How? Even I would struggle to find someone like that living in London."
Mycroft sighed. "Irrelevant now, my dear; what's done is done. We need to keep more than one step ahead of him on this now. And that means I need to know more about his movements earlier today."
The young woman whose real name was Ketevan** Ioseliani pushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder as she leaned over to open the file in front of Mycroft. Photographs of Sherlock walking down the North Thames Pathway extension on the Isle of Dogs were on top.
"He left Barts limping, and disappeared in the vicinity of the Samuda estate for about ninety minutes. We've got two men there undercover now trying to find out if he approached any local dealers, and where he might have gone. There is CCTV on the estate, but no sign of him on it."
Mycroft slid the top photo off, to reveal the picture taken by the drone. It was an odd angle, but even at the height of the camera, Sherlock's distinctive Belstaff betrayed him- and the presence of John Watson beside him on the pavement was also clear. The two men seemed to be arguing, if the doctor's body language could be properly judged at this angle.
She voiced what she thought her boss would be thinking. "It was unfortunate that the Met found the body first; just our luck that the MIT assigned to it was Lestrade's, and that he called Sherlock."
Mycroft sighed again, and this time rubbed his forehead, as if getting a headache. "I am beginning to think that luck is not on our side. What did our team find at Ryder Street?"
"The remains of Simone Dewberry methodically dismembered and put into the sports bag in situ. Our latest comms with her was last night. But she didn't reveal where the meet-up was going to take place. The other body is tentatively identified as her contact, Tamaz Giorgaszi, but we are sending off his fingerprints to Tbilisi to be sure."
Now Mycroft put his hands down on the folder, and she saw his determination in that gesture. "Send a team into Baker Street; look for his stash. His behaviour says he's either using already or soon will. While you're there, find the device that has the files on it. We can't take the risk. If he deciphers them, then he will know enough to start building an identification. And we have to stop him doing that, at all costs."
She nodded. It was the logical thing to do. But she did not want to leave him to think through the horrors of what was happening on his own.
"Sir, we're running out of contacts we can trust. The whole network is being targeted."
"It would appear so. And that has…" he seemed to have to reach for the word. "…consequences. I am beginning to question the security of our arrangement. Either someone is attempting to locate him through our contacts, or…" It was as if Mycroft couldn't or wouldn't voice his fears.
She was the only one with whom he could have this conversation. The only person he trusted enough to share in the secret. It had been so at the beginning of their relationship in 2001, when he had first come to Tbilisi and recruited her as part of the arrangement to deal with a prisoner whose identity would be kept a secret. She'd seen the man whose vocal cords had been removed into his new cell, and then left for London to report that fact to Mycroft Holmes.
"I could go back, sir, to be sure."
That made him look up from the folder in surprise. "No, my dear Keta, I would not, could not risk you. You know far too much now- not just about this, but about everything I do. There are people in Georgia who would find you too tempting a target. Besides, I promised your father I would keep you safe, in exchange for the arrangement."
"But we need proof, sir, that the prisoner's still alive and where he belongs."
"The blood is his, and it's fresh."
She knew as much as he did that those facts did not mean that Fitzroy Ford was still incarcerated in his private cellblock in Gldani prison.
Mycroft shrugged. "The SDS director has assured me that the agreement is intact."
She could hear in his voice the fact that he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "But can you trust the new man? My father has reservations."
Mycroft smiled. "Avtandil always has reservations. It was a shame he retired in 2004."
"It wasn't his choice, sir, as you know."
They both knew well enough. The role of the head of the Georgian security service was never an easy one. Her father had managed to survive the 2002 slander campaign that targeted both him and the head of the National Security Council. Political motivations ran rampant that year, and proved too much for the NSC's Nugzar Sajaia, who committed suicide with his service weapon. Keta's father was made of sterner stuff, and he survived in office for another two years.
2004 had been a terrible year for the British who were interested in keeping a particular prisoner incarcerated in Tbilisi. The special relationship between Mycroft Holmes and the Georgian Security Service had to be re-established through three changes of director in the space of six months. Ketevan realised that in their own way, both of her boss's brothers were high maintenance.
Mycroft was still trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation. "And your father is not always right. Life was easier under Gela Bezhuashvili, it has to be said. At least he gave us five years of stability."
He pushed himself back from the desk and got to his feet. "Perhaps it is time for me to do a little legwork of my own. As Gela's successor, Davit Sujashvili doesn't seem to want to leave Tbilisi, so perhaps I should pay him a visit."
She drew a sharp intake of breath. "Wouldn't that be risky, too?"
He gave her a raised left eyebrow- his way of showing scepticism. Over the years, she had become as adept at reading him as he was of her, so she answered her own question. "They wouldn't dare, is what you're thinking. But, because I am a mere minion, I'd be fair game." She sighed- it was logical.
That made him smile, one of his genuine ones- rare and for that, all the more special. "Not a minion, my dear. Never that, more of a helpmate."
She couldn't help the tinge of blush. "Flattery? How unusual, coming from you."
"I have high standards, which you generally meet. And I will expect the same from you while I am gone. Under no circumstances is Sherlock to suspect anything other than the fact that I am consulting my contacts on the current situation in Libya, and so incommunicado. Go to the trouble of filing a false flight plan. I am beginning to think that little brother picked up some rather deplorably good hacking skills while he was away on his gap year adventures. Now, where are the files I need for my meeting with the Defence Minister?"
She handed over the file, and told him the car was already waiting outside. "I've contacted Miss Forester to remind her that it's white tie this evening. I suggest you go straight home to change, after your meeting. Lady Caroline texted to say she will meet you there."
"Thank you, my dear. What would I do without you?"
She smirked. "You'd be less well prepared, turn up ten minutes late on occasion and probably in the wrong clothes, although still impeccably dressed. You do tend to forget the minor details when having so many of the world's problems on your plate."
Shouldering on his coat and picking up the file, he retorted, "That's why I have you, isn't it?"
Organising Mycroft Holmes was demanding, but rewarding, and the time passed quickly. By seven, his trip was sorted apart from one detail that she would have to do from home. She'd laid the false trail through the services. Since Sherlock had established his own relationship with MI6 through Elizabeth Ffoukes, she could no longer be trusted with the real information. So, the meeting over the border in Tunisia was communicated in the usual form- an exchange of diary data between the PAs of each of the service heads, with the Permanent Secretary at the Cabinet Office.
At seven fifteen, she collected her protection escort – a fresh faced twenty seven year old graduate of Sandhurst- and headed for Piccadilly Circus. Descending to the Bakerloo Line, the woman who was notAnthea chatted to Lucinda Palmer as if they were just ordinary co-workers at some boring office job, and then the pair alighted at Lambeth North. Lucinda was telling her about her date for the evening and some club in Tottenham they'd be going to later.
When they got to the front door of the rather non-descript apartment block at Number 19 Gerridge Street, she sent Lucinda off. "Enough- I can manage a flight of stairs in a secure apartment block on my own. See you tomorrow morning at 7.45. Have fun tonight."
As she walked up the stairs, Ketevan was already prioritising her agenda. It would be half past midnight in Tbilisi, but she knew her father suffered from insomnia, so was probably still awake. Even before fixing herself a supper, she needed to get onto the fake Facebook profile they shared and send a message that to someone else's eyes would be a totally anodyne exchange. Only he, she and Mycroft would be able to decode it.
Once inside the front door, she secured the locks and then saw that the tiny strand of tape under the door handle into the living room was still intact. Ketevan broke the seal and did the usual room visual scan to see that nothing had been disturbed. Satisfied that protocol had been properly followed, she flopped down on the sofa and opened her laptop. Kicking off her shoes, she started to write the message that she would need to encode.
It was never simple. The process involved three levels of encryption, any one of which would have stymied anyone other than the three people who used it. The message would be sent in English, but then translated at the other end into Georgian, which would include the coded elements that then had to be translated into Persian. She poured herself a glass of white wine from the fridge and took in back into the living room, and sipped it while checking where the Georgian translation of the English would carry the coded message.
Now, for the second level of coding- As it would already be Thursday the 21st of March in Georgia, she would need to set the next level of code using the third chapter and twenty first line. The letter that would start the substitution would be keyed to the time of the message being sent- so she'd take the second letter in Persian script used by the book's author, Hakim Abu ʾl-Qasim, a man better known in the West by his penname of Firdowsi. She padded back down the hall past her bedroom to the door into her little study. It was a box room really, too small to be anything but a child's bedroom. She'd lined it with bookshelves, installed a comfy reclining chair and an internet connection- her hideaway. She checked that the long dark hair she'd stretched across the door handle above the latch was still there, and entered the dark room.
"Edzebs raghats?***"
As she registered the fact that there was an unknown man in her study, the floor lamp by the chair snapped on and she blinked into the light that was shining directly into her eyes. Her brain caught up with her ears first, and realised that the baritone was familiar, even though she wasn't used to hearing it in that language. She snapped, "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in my apartment?!"
She reached for the switch by the door and turned the ceiling light on, which revealed the long limbed man lounging in her recliner, wearing a smirk.
"Well isn't it obvious? I'm enjoying your reading collection." He gestured around the shelves lining the walls.
Ketevan willed herself to keep calm, and to keep her eyes on Sherlock. Whatever else she did in his presence, she must not look at that particular space – second bookcase along the right wall, third shelf from the ceiling, seventeenth book in from the left, amidst the poetry books. Under no circumstances could she let him know.
She watched as the smile on his face broadened. He was still avoiding eye contact, so he must be observing her with his peripheral vision.
He drawled, "Oh, he has taught you rather well, hasn't he?"
Offence is the best defence: "Answer my question, Sherlock. How did you get in here?"
"Don't you think I'd be able to find the little unique signs of Mycroft's signature tradecraft? The tape on the door, the hair on the latch? He taught me, too, you know. Well, I say 'taught'. Not intentionally- he'd never do that willingly. It was just a case of observing what he did and then realising why he did it. I was seventeen and I spent a summer at the townhouse. I learned a lot that summer."
She fired her second salvo. "What on earth did you say when I walked in?"
"Oh, we both know the answer to that." He smirked, but kept his eyes on the bookcases. "I haven't had the opportunity to hear a great deal of the language, so apologies for the accent. You could always offer to tutor my pronunciation." He lounged back in the chair and looked at the ceiling.
"I don't know what you are talking about. What I do know is that I am tired; your brother has run me ragged today, and I want time off." Then, as if it had suddenly occurred to her, "How did you find out where I live?"
He snorted. "Don't tell me that you haven't read the file that was on Mycroft's desk when I got back from Serbia. You probably prepared it- that's what you do: pre-digest his information to make it easier for him to swallow. You've read the gory details. You know exactly what I am capable of."
She rolled her eyes. "Am I going to have to call your brother to get you out of here? Maybe I should just recall my escort and have you removed at gunpoint."
He looked at her now, and she could see his eyes properly for the first time.
"Oh, bloody hell- Sherlock! You're high!"
He grinned. "Mmm; yes. Just enough to prepare myself to figure out a thirteen year puzzle. Why my brother chose you as his PA. Needed to focus, so I could figure out which of these is your cipher book."
Her heart sank. But she didn't allow that to change her body language.
Sherlock was in full flow, and didn't seem to notice. "You shouldn't have left your laptop at home. If I can get into Mycroft's, yours is no challenge. And however much you've learned to alter your sentence construction to pass for a native English speaker, one of your Facebook friends seems to have a rather Kartvelian cast to his English. That's your Georgian contact- a relative of yours, I think."
"You're so far gone on cocaine, you're delusional. I'm definitely calling your brother." She turned back to the door.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Ketevan." He was on his feet, moving with feline fluidity, putting his weight onto the door just as she tried to open it.
He was close behind her too close, in her personal space, with an arm either side of her. Oddly, she wasn't frightened. She turned back towards him, to realise his face was much closer to her than she expected. He was making rather more intense eye contact than she expected from him, and for a moment, he held her there with an almost animal magnetism. She could smell his cologne- Penhaligon's Hammam- a heady melange of Turkish rose, musk, sandalwood. The exotic undertones were such a contrast with his brother's scent. Blenheim Bouquet was English aristocracy personified- cool citrus and pine, with a just a hint of lavender. Clean, ordered. The contrast between the two brothers was never more pronounced that at this moment. Too used to seeing him through the prism of Mycroft's fraternal concern, she was for the first time ever, truly aware of Sherlock. A pair grey green eyes held her, his pupils dilated as if by desire. He wet his lips and smiled.
She shook off the sensation, and ran for cover. "What's a ketevan, some Serbian swearword?"
He smiled again, and this time, it was gentler. "Ketevan, the Georgian for Catherine- it's a lovely name- suits you. You should tell your relative that he shouldn't have sent you a greeting on your name day for the past decade. That's what made it easy to deduce you. On the Russian Orthodox calendar, it would have been the 7th of December; in the Catholic calendar, it's the 26th of November. But your name day is the 26th of September when those messages arrived, because you're named after Queen Ketevan, martyred in 1624 on that day- in the modern Georgian calendar."
He doesn't know my surname. She started breathing again. "I am definitely calling your brother. You are off your head. He'll not be amused that you're using again."
"He's already deduced it. But he won't have predicted me being here with you. He tends to think of you as his own private possession. How does it feel to be owned?" Again, he was looking at her with an almost feral pleasure in his gaze.
She narrowed her eyes at him, ducked under his arm and walked further into the room. He might stop her from reaching her phone in the living room, but she wasn't surrendering just yet. This was a test of wits.
He laughed, a full throaty baritone. "So, does he call you Keta or Keti?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about, Sherlock, but I do know it's time to stop playing silly games- just get out of my apartment- NOW!." She put every bit of annoyance and anger she had into that word, in the hope of getting through to him.
"It's no game. I've been thinking about the likely code book. One that you, your relative and Mycroft might legitimately have on your bookshelves. I have an eidetic memory for the contents of Mycroft's bookshelves in the townhouse, but that wouldn't help if it were just up to Mycroft- I'd have no chance of figuring out the particular book- and he knows it. But, with two other parties involved, that narrows the field considerably."
Don't look. She willed herself to be still. She focused on the view outside her second floor window, over the little strip of darkness that was the grass behind the block of flats. Then she decided to try to throw him off the scent and cast a quick glance as she turned, just catching a glimpse of the politics section on the bookcase near the door.
He came closer to her back, and bent to whisper in her ear, "Now who's playing games? Ketevan was martyred not in Georgia, but in Shiraz- that's in Iran. Brings Persian poetry to mind, doesn't it?"
He's fishing. Don't let on.
But any chance of her keeping control was punctured when he followed up, "It's not hard, you know. Books on your shelves and his. You have twenty three poetry books, all in the native languages in which they were written. Interestingly, he has over sixty- and there are twenty duplicates on both your shelves. Only nine in English, but seven in Persian. So, is it Rumi?"
She turned to face him again, studiously avoiding looking at the section of the bookcase that held her poetry collection.
He wrinkled his nose. "No…too sentimental; love poetry? Don't think so- not his style. For the same reason, I'd kick out Hafez. You've got a volume of Nizami Ganjavi, but he doesn't."
She stilled her breathing, concentrating on keeping it slow and steady.
"Maybe Omar Kayyham? The philosophy and mathematics would appeal to Mycroft; but the poetry is rather hackneyed for his intellectual taste."
She realised he was toying with her, provoking her. She forced a calm smile.
The smirk returned. "You've been looking everywhere but the right place, and that tells me everything I need to know." He glanced at that place on the shelf before continuing "Sometimes, what you don't do is just as revealing as what you do."
He walked to the shelf and drew out a fat volume.
"Deducing the right one is easy. There is one author he'd favour, if just for the title alone- 'The Book of Kings', Firdowsi's Shahnameh. Of course, Mycroft knows all sixty thousand couplets by heart. He's such a show-off, never could resist memorising the world's longest epic poem."
She closed her eyes in defeat. Game over.
* covered in Exhibition- an Ex Files Special
** Ketevan (Georgian: ქეთევანი) is a Georgian feminine name derived from Katayoun (Catherine), a female character from the Persian epic Shahnameh. Diminutive forms of the name Ketevan used in Georgia are: Keti, Keta, Ketato, Keto and Ketino.
*** ეძებს რაღაც ? means "Looking for something?" in Georgian.