Chapter Fifteen: "In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order." ~ C.G. Jung

The skies are soggy grey by late morning Tuesday, but I'm not going to stay home because of a little rain. I don't have a big, fancy, sexy umbrella like Mycroft's - yet! - but I've got my little polka-dot compact one, and it will do. I'm waiting for the dot of half-past eleven to go out the door, because I know that is when the car will be there to pick me up and take me to the airport where they are going to be loading Steen's body.

This is as much of a funeral as I am going to attend for him, so I've dressed somberly. The bruise on my shoulder has all but faded away, only a few yellowish marks remain, so I can pretty much wear whatever I like again. The most appropriate outfit I could come up with is a black leather skirt that's not too mini, black go-go boots, and a blouse in rich aubergine. My trench coat is beige, no help for it, but otherwise the outfit works, I think. I check my handbag to make sure that I have fresh handkerchiefs, and both my phones. Lestrade still hasn't called, damn it. I really want to know what is coded in that book, and why my friend had to die for it.

At exactly half past the hour, I hear car tyres swooshing on the wet cobbles. I open the door, and wrinkle my nose. The black saloon - it's a Jaguar, I never really noticed before - is driven by that brunette again. She's probably Mycroft's main personal assistant, and I just need to get over how her attitude toward me makes me feel; it's not like it should matter to me.

I sprint to the car, dodging rain-drops, and let myself into the back seat. Ms. Bitchy-Dress drives off like the car is still empty. Whatever. I busy myself with sending texts to Sara that she won't respond to, and looking out of the window at the foggy, wet city.

We don't head to any airport that is familiar to me, but to some sort of military installation well out of town, surrounded by official-looking fencing and a gate-house where my driver has to show her I.D. to a uniformed guard before we are admitted. Driving through a maze of plain, unmarked buildings, we finally reach an airstrip where a fair-sized cargo plane is being loaded from several lorries; she parks beside one of them, then looks at me in the rearview expectantly. I get out.

It's not raining any less here than in the city, so I pop open my brolly and make my way toward the plane, watching the two men who are unloading crates and wheeling them into the belly of the airplane. I don't doubt that Steen's casket is on one of those lorries, so I just have to wait here until they get to it. I station myself on the other side of the loading ramp from where the lorries are parked, to see yet be out of the way.

It's very odd how this feels like a very proper thing to do, to witness his casket being loaded onto an airplane. It's important, but I really can't distill the reason why it's important into a single concept. As I'm musing on this, and waiting, I realize that I'm not standing here alone anymore.

I shift my brolly over to see Mycroft standing to my right, sheltering under the black roof of his umbrella. He gives me a little nod, and I reply softly, "Hey."

Well, what do you know? And, of course, I immediately wonder if he's faking it or sincerely means it, being here. How am I supposed to tell? And, honestly, does it matter which it is?

He takes a silver cigarette case out of an inner pocket of the dark grey suit under his over-coat, flips it open, and offers it toward me. I pull out a cigarette, murmuring a thanks, and he extracts one nimbly with his lips before replacing the case in his hand with a sleek silver lighter. We both puff away in silence, waiting.

Finally, just about the last thing, I think, a packing crate that is unmistakably casket-shaped is unloaded. The men carefully heft it down from the deck of the lorry and onto a low cart, slowly wheeling it toward the plane's loading ramp. At a gesture from Mycroft, they halt a few feet away.

We stand there in silence. There's no script for this; I don't want to or feel the need to make a big scene, but I can't deny the tears running down my face, either. I toss the butt of my cig down under my heel.

"Good-bye," I whisper. "You were a good big brother. I wish we could've had longer."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I give a nod to Mycroft, and he waves a hand to send the casket rolling into the belly of the airplane. The loaders bang the doors closed and fasten them, whilst Mycroft takes me by my elbow and pulls me off the runway proper, so we will be clear if it should take off; I notice that he's moved us further away from where the two black cars are waiting with their drivers, and he's placed us so our umbrellas are toward them, our backs to the steady breeze and chill rain.

I dry my eyes and regain my composure; Mycroft looks out over the airstrip at the green hills in the distance. He seems lost in thought for a while, finishing off his cigarette with a last, hard draw and, after contemplating the butt a moment, tossing it down into a puddle. He looks over at me, probably wondering if I've gotten myself back together again, and I nod in answer to the unasked question.

Mycroft takes a deep breath. "It seems that yet again I owe you an apology. I should have warned you before taking you to the morgue. That was ... not thoughtful." He sighs and looks down. "I'm not usually so careless," he adds pensively. "I seem to be making a habit of offending you."

I shrug. "Collisions are a byproduct of proximity."

He looks at me keenly, then gazes at the mist-shrouded green hills again. "Well, then, perhaps the cure is less proximity."

"Or a willingness to tolerate collision. Mycroft, I'm just hurting, I'm not devastated."

He gives me a guarded look and says bluntly, "You've been acting devastated."

"If you think this is emotional devastation, then you've led a pretty sheltered life!" bursts out of me, and then I realize that he probably has. He's probably spent his whole life avoiding emotional intensity, his own and everyone else's. No wonder he is terrible at dealing with it.

But it's not just him. I look down at my shiny black boots, standing in a puddle on the shiny black tarmac. "But you're not entirely wrong. I think loss does hit me harder than most." I tap the puddle with the toe of my boot, making small splashes. "Dylan Thomas wrote, 'After the first death, there is no other.' That line means a lot of things, but to me it means that every loss is experienced as a re-play of the first one. I lost my mother, horribly, when I was seven, you see, so..." I let my voice trail off, still looking at the black puddles.

There's a long pause, then he says gently, "Given that, I would deduce that you might react to each subsequent death from the perspective of a frightened child, then."

I nod, and chance a look up at him. "Not bad, but I would add, that's the place I *start* from, not where I stay. Only someone completely lacking in insight stays down in their initial grief. It eases in layers." I bite my lip and ask uncertainly, "Does that make sense?"

"Not really," he admits. "But I've never experienced the loss of anyone I cared for."

I can only stare. He's middle-aged, and never yet had anyone he cared about die on him? "You're like...a virgin?" I blurt out incredulously.

Mycroft blinks and seems a little appalled. "That's one way to put it, I suppose. A rather odd way, though ..."

I give him a rueful smile. "Well, consider the source." A thought strikes me. "You almost lost Sherlock earlier this summer, didn't you? That must have been really hard, coming so close."

He is silent, but the look in his eyes says more than enough. There is a long pause, then he admits, "That was when things began to go a bit ... pear-shaped for me. And since then, all sorts of other situations have conspired as well."

"But didn't it get a whole lot better just the other day?"

"Alas, that has proven but a false dawn," he pronounces with sardonic drama, and anchors his free hand in a trouser pocket. The steady breeze begins to throw up little gusts now, rattling the bright polka-dot nylon of my brolly and throwing rain against my bare knees.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask with just a little knowing smile.

He answers with a look that clearly says, You are most certainly joking.

"No, I really mean it," I insist.

"I believe you are on leave for another five days, are you not?"

"What did I just tell you about initial grief and subsequent perspective? I'm not where I was Sunday." I silently add, And I'm not completely miffed at you anymore. I give him a cheerful smile. "I believe I should be fit for duty, say, tomorrow evening? Wednesday?" Which is when he is scheduled to see Xander; yes, I'm testing him, and no, I can't help it. I am one jealous bitch, that's for sure.

He contemplates the puddles on the tarmac for a moment, then asks, "Are you certain?" The frown between his brows says that I'd better be.

I nod, "Yes, I'm sure. I promise I won't go whiffling about, changing my mind on you."

"Very well, then, tomorrow evening. Half past eight -"

Inside, I shout, Yes! I win! Ha!

"- but unfortunately subject to change as circumstances arise -"

I shrug nonchalantly. "I don't have plans to go anywhere tomorrow night. Stop by when you -ack!"

A blast of wind gusts across the airstrip, and catches under my little compact umbrella canopy, turning the whole thing inside-out. I battle with it for a minute, half-closing it so I can get the delicate aluminum ribs straightened out again, cursing softly as the wind tousles my hair around and splatters cold drizzle down my neck. It stops suddenly, and I see that Mycroft has shifted his umbrella over so that I'm shielded against the wind and rain as I'm getting my own brolly back together.

Just as I've gotten it to rights again, he reaches over and fusses with my hair, tucking the messy wisps back behind my ear - then, he deliberately runs a slow fingertip around the sensitive curve of my ear, sending shivers down my spine. The gesture isn't tender; it's exquisite torture, and as I shudder with the sensation, his lips twitch into a small ghost of a smile. Our eyes are locked for a moment; if he were anyone else, I would be expecting him to kiss me, the erotic tension is so intense - but not him. Not out here. I pop my little brolly back up and sidle away.

He gestures toward the cars, and we turn and slowly walk toward them. There is a question burning at the tip of my tongue right now; he's probably not going to tell me a damn thing, but I have to try. With anyone else, I would lead in with a lot of preamble and preparation, but with him I think it might be better just to jump in.

"Mycroft, why did you want my hair cut like this? I saw the photo that the stylist was working from, she showed it to me. Who is the woman in the photo?"

Walking beside me, his face doesn't change expression at all, but he draws in a deeper breath, and he lifts his chin. The question makes him feel defensive, then. There is a long pause, and I decide that he's probably not going to answer it, when he remarks. "A whim, really. I don't often indulge my whims. This one seemed harmless enough."

"It is harmless. I was just curious ..."

He huffs softly at me, just as we reach the cars. "You and your curiosity!" But the way he shakes his head doesn't seem to to be entirely disapproving.

He opens the door of the black Jaguar for me, and I climb in without another word; I just give him a smile, which he doesn't return. That's okay, because he's looking at me and not through me now; it's enough.

Ms Bitchy-Dress delivers me back to my blue door in Knightsbridge, and I dash from the car to the overhang again. The rain seems headed to turn into a light mist, and the grey skies are getting lighter.

I have just settled in on the sofa with a nice cup of tea and some calming reading when my new phone rings. I dig it out of my handbag and see that it's the Inspector ringing me. My stomach surges with excitement that there might be news on the investigation.

"Hello, Inspector Lestrade! Have you got something? Is it good?"

Lestrade laughs, probably at the undisguised enthusiasm in my voice. "Yes, it's good all right. Sherlock figured out why people have been after that book!"

"What was the cipher? What did it say?"

"Sorry, but I can't tell you anything more over the phone..."

Eagerly, I ask, "Do you want to meet someplace to talk? Should I come to the station?"

"Well, I happen to be on my way to the hospital to talk with Sherlock and pick up the book, as we have another window of opportunity today, you know? I could pick you up on my way there."

I hesitate. I would really like to stay in the middle of this thing, to find out first-hand what is going on, but I really, really don't want to face Sherlock again. I have a feeling he will be just as cutting to me as he was yesterday, and every moment I spend around him is asking for more trouble for Mycroft.

"No, thank you very much. One dose of Sherlock is all I can take for now. I'll talk to him if it's really necessary for solving the case, but otherwise, I'd rather just get my information through you later, okay?"

"Well, I was hoping you would come, in case he has more questions for you," Lestrade sounds amused. "But don't feel bad, you wouldn't be the first person that Sherlock has scared off."

I refrain from hotly denying that I am scared of Sherlock, largely because I know that anytime I have the urge to hotly deny something, it invariably turns out to be true. It galls me that Lestrade might think I'm a coward, though. "Listen, why don't I go ahead and meet you in the lobby of the hospital? It's not far from here, I'll take a cab."

"Let me pick you up, and you can wait in the lobby if you don't want to go up. There's no reason for you to take a cab."

Yes there is, I think, I need to shake my followers before I get to the hospital! "I'm feeling independent today, Inspector. Tell you what, I'll meet you at the hospital lobby, but you can drive me back home afterward. Okay?"

Lestrade sighs. "Okay, meet me at the hospital in forty-five minutes. You remember which one?"

I assure him that I do, and when we hang up I immediately call my favorite driver. He's available, and I arrange a pickup at my door here a few minutes from now, and for him to squire my old phone around town again for me after we shake my followers and he drops me someplace near the hospital. I don't even have time to change, really, so I just freshen my hair and makeup, and quickly gulp down some of my tea.

The D.I. is already in the lobby waiting for me when I arrive. "Are you coming up?" he asks.

I surprise myself by shaking my head; I guess I'm not as concerned about Lestrade's reaction as I thought. "I'm sorry, not unless it is absolutely necessary."

Lestrade just shrugs, though. "Okay. Just, sit tight down here, and I'll talk to you when I'm done upstairs."

I choose a seat that is well out of the way of any CCTV camera - no sense in taking any chances - and pull out my e-reader to pass the time. I'm still chewing my way through more Pushkin and my Russian is improving as a result, although I suspect that my accent is atrocious.

A few minutes later, my phone rings; it's Lestrade.

"Miss Talbot, can you come up here, please? We need more information, and there are only fifteen minutes left on the clock. You know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes, I know what you mean," I sigh. "I'll be right there."

Jamming my reader back in my bag, I swallow a spike of fear as I stride for the lifts. The shiny steel doors are gaping open, a small herd of people filing in, and I am able to slide in amongst them quickly. Someone has already pushed the button for the seventh floor, so all I have to do is concentrate on not freaking out, and watching the series of little lights above the door as they go bing-bing-bing with each floor.

I hop out at seven, rather rudely pushing several people aside to get out more quickly, but panic does that to a person, I guess. I walk quickly down the bright hall toward the room we were at yesterday. God, I don't want to do this! But I don't want Lestrade to think I'm a complete wimp, either.

I have a deja vu as I walk in- it's just like the scene from yesterday, sans John Watson. There's Sherlock in the hospital gown in bed and hooked up to an IV, and the D.I. standing at the foot of bed, looking at his watch.

Sherlock fastens his intense, pale gaze on me, and immediately launches into his questions.

"What was the exact phrase that Evan McCutcheon used when you asked him who the Pigman was?"

" 'On yavlyayetsya pakhan,' " I answer promptly. I'm not going to offer to translate, in fact I'm not going to offer a damned thing.

He mouths the words silently, and nods, as if he expected it. "Yes. And what did the language of the men who attacked you on the stairs sound like?"

I stop and think about that. Yesterday, when I related all this to Sherlock, I just said that they had spoken a foreign language that sounded familiar. Rolling it around in my head right now, I blurt out, "Rumi - I mean, Persian. It sounded a little like Old Persian, but I only read it, so I'm not absolutely certain ..."

"Farsi," he says, and looks pleased with himself. He turns to Lestrade. "You see? It fits, it all fits. Now we just have to locate the codebook."

Codebook? I look over at Lestrade, but I'm not going to ask any obvious questions here, I'll wait until I can talk to the D.I. privately.

"*We* are not going to be locating anything, Sherlock. I'm turning all of this over to SO15. This never was an official investigation, and you have never been officially on the case." Lestrade frowns, and glances at his watch.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Then I shall continue to not be on it, officially. You'll have a hard time deciphering the equations even if you do find the codebook."

Lestrade spreads his hands wide. "Not my problem. I'm on homicide, not terrorism. If we can tie this in with the murder of Miss Talbot's friend, then we will, but otherwise this case will be landing on other desks than mine. I've done all I can, and probably more than I should." Lestrade gives an involuntary glance at his watch again.

"Oh, I don't think you need to worry about my brother's ire, Inspector. If he finds out, I do believe there are angels who will intercede on your behalf." Sherlock gives me a tight-lipped little smile, and I really would like to punch him, right in that handsome nose. How does he know?

Instead, I turn to Lestrade. "Are we done?" I ask impatiently.

The D.I. nods, and holds out his hand to Sherlock, who opens a drawer in the bedside stand to pull out the tattered Russian paperback and give it to the cop. Lestrade turns the book spine-up, and peers into the bottom edge. "Did you put it back in here?" he asks.

Sherlock nods. "Yes, although I didn't bother to re-seal the opening. Of course, I took the liberty of making a copy, so if you should happen to lose it ..." he gives the D.I. a smile that's only slightly smug, and they exchange a look that tells me they've trod that ground before. Lestrade regards the younger man patiently, and pockets the book in his overcoat. I wonder what the hell that exchange was all about, and I'm about to ask, when I become aware that a pair of fierce blue eyes are turned on me once more. His eyes are narrowed, lip slightly curled, and I can tell Sherlock is about to vent some of his disappointment at Mycroft in my direction.

That's it, I am simply not going to take any more of this. I don't care what the deal is about my hair, or anything else. I just want out of here. Before Sherlock has a chance to say a word to me, I put my hand, palm-out, toward him. "Talk to the hand. I'm gone!" And I turn tail and run.

It's not my proudest moment, but I'm not going to be the target for his shit with his brother, and my gut is telling me he had a whole pile of it aimed and ready. There might have been some real useful insight or information about solving Steen's murder in there as well, but I'm pretty sure that he can tell that to Lestrade just as well. In fact, he may have made up that stuff about needing to know what McCutcheon and the others said in order to get me to come up in person, so he could have a go at me.

Well, I'm in no hurry now, so I take the stairs down to the main lobby and take a seat to wait for the D.I. He doesn't take long to come down and find me, searching the room with a worried expression.

"There you are! I was afraid that you had bolted from the building as well."

"No, I just wanted to get away, before he started in on me."

"I know Sherlock can be hard to take sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm -"

"You and Dr. Watson keep saying that, and I keep not believing you." I shrug. "Whatever. So, what did he tell you? What's the deal with that damned book?"

Lestrade looks around us at the people thronging around, and it's almost comic how surreptitious he is, except that I know he is for real. "Not here! We need to go someplace a little less public ..."

"Well, you could take me out for lunch," I suggest causally but with a winning smile. "I love Thai food, and I haven't had any in ages."

I know that I'm sending him confusing signals, but he's just going to have to deal with it. I want all the information I can get from him, and a restaurant will facilitate that; he'll be far more relaxed and unguarded. I'll only stoop to flirting if absolutely necessary.

It doesn't prove necessary, fortunately, and Lestrade seems like he is able to take my change of attitude in stride without putting too much stock in it. We end up in a quiet corner of a shabby restaurant over platters of pad thai and panang curry, and the D.I. recounts for me what he has gleaned from his consulting detective.

"First of all, there is no cipher, no code, nothing like that. There was a micro-card embedded in the spine of the book!"

I'm dumbfounded. So that's what Sherlock and the D.I. were talking about. "What? How?"

Lestrade pulls the book out of his pocket, and turns it toward me, so I can see the spine. "See how the spine isn't creased, even though the thing has been read to death?" He turns it so I can see the spine edge-on. "Didn't you notice that the glue on the binding was extremely thick? Well, neither did I, so don't feel bad. Sherlock did, of course. He said that the Soviet-era bindings on cheap paperbacks used a hard glue that was laid in very thickly, thick enough for a small hot knife to make a pocket in, and insert a micro-card." He points to the bottom of the book's spine. "See the hole?"

I take the book from him, and carefully examine the tiny slot that has been cut into to bottom of the book's spine. Just inside the pocket, I can see something flat and dark grey...I reach in with my fingernails as tweezers and pull out a tiny rectangle, hardly bigger than my pinky-nail. It looks just like the micro-card in my phone.

I hold it up to my eye, and tell the D.I., "I really want to know why Steen had to die over this tiny little thing."

Lestrade sighs. "I wish we knew how the book came into your friend's hands, it would really help in putting it together," he says. He's looking a little nervous at my handling the micro-card, so I reinsert it and hand him book. He pockets it again. "The nearest we can figure is that a 'bratva' with a branch here in London has teamed up with a very innovative chemist, or even an entire laboratory someplace; the lab is developing novel compounds, and the 'bratva' is selling them off to the highest bidder."

"What kind of chemical compounds?" My nose is sniffly already, but I spoon some more curry over my rice anyway. Might as well get all the water-works running.

"Mostly designer drugs; there's a huge market for club drugs that are slight chemical tweaks from the versions that are controlled substances. They can be sold legally, or at least the dealers can't be effectively prosecuted, and the effects are novel enough to attract thrill-seekers -"

I swallow a mouth full of fiery curry and reach for my tea. "Yeah, but some of those novel effects are sheer hell in the comedown! The trip is sometimes definitely NOT worth the afters ... or, so I've heard ..." I finish with a lame smile at Lestrade's frown and take another bite of curry, and change the subject. "Mmmm, this one is good. Do you want to try some?"

Lestrade shakes his head, looking a little disturbed, then takes up his own fork with a sigh and moves on. "It's not just designer drugs that this lab is putting out, though. They seem to have access as well to bio-terrorism technology, and they're not squeamish about putting together some really nasty stuff and offering it for sale."

"Okay, but what does this lab have to do with the micro-card, and Steen? Put it all together for me, please, I'm not Sherlock!"

Lestrade leans forward and speaks even more quietly. "The micro-card contains the laboratory notes-baisically, it's a chemist's recipe book! Sherlock says it has detailed formulas and procedures for synthesizing half a dozen substances; from the descriptions given in the lab notes, some are recreational, and some are extremely lethal, potentially on a large scale."

I think about that for a minute. "Soooo, then, the middle-eastern guys who we aren't supposed to be profiling because that would be racist and we can't do that but we do anyway because sometimes they really are terrorist-sympathizers," pausing to take a breath, I grin at Lestrade, "Those guys, the ones who were after Steen, might have been after the micro-card for the extremely lethal formulas? And that's why this affair is going to be referred to SO15?"

He nods. "It's a possibility that we can't ignore. It'll be up to the counter-terrorism unit to deal with it, at least that part. The drug trafficking will come under the jurisdiction of the NCA, and I don't know how they're going to divide it up, and I don't really care. I wish we could tie in your friend's murder, it would make a tighter case, but we don't even have a body anymore for further examination." He looks at me intently, probably judging my reaction. "Did you know that? Did you know your friend's remains were appropriated this morning?"

I look down at my teacup. "Yes, I knew that, I was there when they loaded him this morning. I said goodbye."

There's a long silence. Lestrade leans on his elbows, and watches me drink my tea. "Miss Talbot, potentially solid evidence has been snatched away before we're done with it, and we both know who is responsible! This means we almost have no case. I was hoping to have Sherlock take a look when he's released at the end of the week, but with nothing for him to examine, there's very little chance that we will be able to apprehend anyone. Doesn't that bother you?"

My god, it hadn't occurred to me - how could I be so stupid! Mycroft wasn't just giving Steen a respectful send-off, he was ensuring that there couldn't be an investigation. I close my eyes, feeling a plume of anger rise through my belly, and at the same time, seeing why he did it.

"I should think you would be furious at him ..." Lestrade continues, but I'm not going to join him in Mycroft-bashing.

"Of course it bothers me, of course I'm angry! But I also understand that Mr. Holmes truly believes that an investigation would endanger ... important people. I don't understand WHY he believes that, but if he does, then what he did makes perfect sense."

"So, you're okay with this?" the D.I. can't believe it.

"Well, I don't have much of a bloody choice, now, do I?!" I get out a hanky to press against my leaky eyes again. Between the curry and the grief, my eye makeup is taking a serious pounding right now. I draw in a deep and shaky breath. "Besides, it looks like this thing is a lot bigger than just Steen's death. There are potentially many more lives at stake, aren't there?"

Lestrade looks sober and nods. "At worst, yes. There is one formulation on there that Sherlock said could wipe out millions of people, if the synthesis actually works ..."

"My god, what is it?" I ask, but Lestrade shakes his head, and I huff at him impatiently. "What, do you not want me to be worrying my pretty little head about such matters?"`

"No, but you are a civilian, and already too involved in this. If you need to know more, you'll have to ask Mr. Holmes to get you the clearances."

Hrumph. "Can you at least satisfy my curiosity about one or two things?"

"Depends on what they are."

"For one thing, Steen thought it was tremendously important for me to get the book to the Pigman - you thought that might be Mad Sacha? Why would it be so important that he be given the book, and the micro-card?"

Lestrade picks at his plate, chasing a pad thai noodle around the edge and thinking. Finally, he shrugs. "It's likely that Sacha Doreshchenko is the boss of a gang that is a rival and enemy to the the one who is selling the chemical formulas." He smiles mirthlessly. "Russian organized crime isn't really very organized, at least not outside of Russia. It's made up of lots of small gangs, loosely bound by temporary alliances, and with a tendency to fight pretty viciously over turf. They also specialize in various enterprises, maybe in an attempt to reduce competition and fighting. Sacha's group is heavily invested in transportation, which is one of the industries worst hit by terrorist activities - he hates terrorists, won't deal with them at all. Rumor has it that he has actually foiled some attempts on his own -"

"Ha, so this Mad Sacha is a good bad guy?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "No, he's as much a baddie as any of them. His business interests just happen to occasionally line up with the public good."

I think for a moment. "But, what difference could it make if this gang had the formulas instead of someone else? It just doesn't add up ..."

I let the comment dangle there for a good, long time, but the D.I. shows no sign of picking it up. "You aren't going to answer that, are you?"

He smiles an infuriatingly attractive smile. "Nope."

I give him one right back. "Well, I suppose I could just go and ask him, huh? I bet Evan McCutcheon knows how to find this 'pakhan' Sacha Doreshchenko -"

Lestrade cuts me off. "I hope you're joking, I really do. Trust me, you do not want to have anything to do with Mad Sacha. I've met him; he's a smooth operator on the surface, but under that, he is completely unstable. Dangerous. Those people would eat someone like you alive."

I sigh. Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence. "Okay, then, how about this: Sherlock mentioned a codebook? What codebook?"

"Whoever recorded the laboratory notes on the micro-card encoded the actual formulas, so the information on the thing is essentially useless unless you have the key, which would be contained in a codebook of some kind. It might have been the Russians' way of making sure they got their money, you know - pay us for the information, now pay us more so you can actually use the information. Or, the lab where the information originated might have been safeguarding their material. We don't know yet."

"Who has the codebook?"

The D.I. wipes his mouth and crumples his serviette beside the empty plate. "No idea. Not yet, anyway. We'll have to see what SO15 can dig up. Now," he places his palms down on the table firmly, "Miss Talbot, are we done with our meeting here, or was there some more information you were hoping to cajole out of me?" He says it with the merest hint of a smile.

I blush, and look down to hide the embarrassed grin that spreads across my face. I need to stop underestimating people.

The rain stopped while we were in the restaurant, and as we leave I see that the sun is cautiously peeping out, so I have Lestrade drop me off at the park near my flat; thanks to Sherlock, he knows I live in Knightsbridge, but there's no need to show him my front door, or to show my watchers whom I've been traipsing around the city with. I sincerely thank him for lunch, and for giving me what information he could.

"Don't mention it - really, don't mention it. To anyone, okay?" he says. "The less you say, the better. You've done the right thing, now you need to just try to forget about it, right?"

"Right. Thanks again. And, if you find out anything about Steen, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"Sure thing," he replies, but the look he gives me says there won't be anything.

"One last thing, Inspector, please?" He looks over at me with an exaggerated What-now? expression. "There hasn't been any progress on the escort murder cases, has there? You've pretty much given up on finding out who killed Calypso and Regina and Tanya, haven't you?"

The D.I.' s face falls a little, and he sighs. "The cases are still open and we're working on it, but the truth is, Miss Talbot, most murders go unsolved ... we do our best, but that's the reality."

The reality for people like me, you mean. What do a few more dead prostitutes matter? But I just give him an understanding nod. "That's what I've been told. I just wanted to know. Thanks."