Warning: Suicidal ideation, references to terrorist activities.
Chapter Twenty Four
It seemed to take a little time, persuading Rosie's husband, Jim, to relinquish his car to two strange men from 'down South', even though one of them was Arthur's future brother-in-law but, in the end, Rosie said, 'Just hand over t' keys, ya plonker,' and that seemed to do the trick. She cut the mobile phone connection and smiled at her sister.
'You take 'em to my 'ouse, sis. If Jim gets stroppy again, jus' tell 'im there'll be no rumpy-pumpy for a month if 'e dunt co-operate.'
John Watson nearly choked on his tea but Sherlock just smiled, and held the door open for Josie to precede him out into the night air. John hastily knocked back the last of his beverage and followed the other two, leaving Rosie to take two mugs of tea upstairs for herself and her mother. Father would have to come and get his own.
It was only a short, brisk walk to Rosie's house, where she had left her husband baby-sitting their two boys when she got the summons from Josie, earlier in the evening, to come and meet Sherlock and John. On arrival at the modest three bedroom social housing semi, the two men waited on the pavement, next to the car, while Josie went inside for the keys. She re-emerged mere moments later.
Sherlock held out his hand for the keys but she marched straight past, unlocked the vehicle and got into the driving seat.
'Get in, then,' she said, though the open car door.
'You can't come with us, Josie,' John said.
'Try and stop me!' she replied. 'Get in, John. You're wasting time!'
Sherlock opened the front passenger door and slid gracefully into the seat, then adjusted the position to accommodate his long legs. John stood on the pavement, looking concerned.
'Dr Watson, I never 'ad you pegged for a sexist pig,' Josie exclaimed.
'I'm not a sexist pig!' John retorted, indignantly.
'Then ge' in t' bloody car and let's get gone,' Josie snapped.
John huffed but opened the rear door and got in, behind the driver. He barely had time to close the door before Josie took off, burning rubber as she powered down the road.
'This will be very dangerous,' John protested, still stinging from being called sexist and a pig. He tried to make eye contact with Sherlock, in the rear view mirror, looking for a show of solidarity, but his friend seemed to find the whole issue highly amusing. He was grinning like a loon.
'I don't intend to come in wi' ya,' Josie explained. 'But I know t' way there and I also know how to get into t' place wi'out going to t' front door. It's a very popular spot for courting couples, round 'ere, so there are ways and means of gaining access that I could never explain, I can only show ya.'
She drove on in silence, going south on the A6018 then turning left onto Stocks Lane, which then became Mottram Old Road as they left the town street lighting behind and drove, though the dark, up onto the moor. In less than ten minutes, Josie pulled off the road into a little wooded area.
'Welcome to Stalybridge's version of Lovers' Leap, gentlemen,' Josie announced, 'or as we call it Shaggers' Alley.'
John nearly choked again but Sherlock gave a rumbling chuckle.
The young woman pointed to a path that led into the woods.
'Follow that path. It will take you to a hole in t' fence. Once you get through t' fence, it's up to you where you go bu' y' will be able to see t' main building from there. There are a lot o' little cottages dotted around, where t' more independent inmates used t' live. They might be keeping 'im in one o' those, though I doubt it 'cos they're not secure. The main building is very secure – locks on every door. You might need to break a few to ge' in.'
Sherlock turned to their driver and escort, with a look of admiration.
'Thank you for that information and for bringing us here. Now, stay in the car, Josie. A helicopter will be landing somewhere near. If anyone challenges you, tell them you're waiting for me. If they tell you to go home, best do as they say, because they are Special Ops and can act outside the law so you don't want to antagonise them, OK?'
'OK,' she agreed.
The two men went to get out of the vehicle but Josie put a hand on Sherlock's arm. He looked at her, again.
'You take care, both of you, but please get my brother back for me.'
'We'll do our best,' Sherlock replied and jumped from the car, slammed the door and followed John's retreating back into the woods.
ooOoo
Sitting in the darkened Observation Room, Mycroft watched his protégé play cat and mouse with Marcus Frayne. He was full of admiration for Anthea. She was an accomplished operative, both in the field and behind the scenes. He hoped that, one day, she might achieve high office in his department, perhaps even become his replacement when the time came to hand over the keys to the main office.
She was more than capable but he wondered if she had ambition in that direction. He was well aware of the difficulties of maintaining a work-life balance, in this line of work in particular, even for a man. It was harder still for a woman, with the biological clock ticking away, but he knew that he would do everything in his power to ensure that she climbed as high in the service as she wished, even though he would be sorry to lose her as his PA.
His mind was wandering. He pulled himself back to the present. And his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Delaney.
'Sir, we have received intel from your brother's assistant that Alpha Beta may be being held in a mothballed psychiatric hospital, just outside Stalybridge. I don't know what evidence this is based upon but, being aware of your brother's ability to deduce facts from a bare minimum of clues, I have ordered a discrete assault on the compound.'
'Very well, Delaney. I don't need to remind you that utmost caution must be exercised. We do not want any civilian casualties. Therefore, I do not sanction Extreme Prejudice. They will go in quietly and take prisoners. If this turns into a pitched battle, I will hold the commanding officer personally responsible, is that clear?'
'Quite clear, sir. I will pass on your instructions, to the letter.'
'Have we any idea of the size of the opposing force?'
'None, sir, but they will scan with heat sensitive cameras before landing, to try to make an estimation.'
'And, also, is my brother on the ground, there?'
'I did tell them not to go, sir, but I suspect they intend to do so.'
It was nothing less than Mycroft expected but it did mean that he now had three Persons of Importance to worry about, rather than just one.
'Very well. Keep me informed, please.' Mycroft cut the connection and turned his attention back to the interrogation.
Frayne was asking for a deal. That meant he was willing to spill the beans. Good. Because they really could not spare the time for a protracted interview.
They already suspected that Combat 18 were responsible for the snatch, which confirmed a few rumours that had been flying around the Intelligence Services that the group was staging a comeback, having been virtually wiped out by a number of high profile convictions in the mid-00s. But Mycroft needed to know who was behind this revival. Who was calling the shots? And who had the nerve to attack him personally?
'Agreed,' Mycroft said, into the microphone on the table, in front of him.
'Agreed,' Anthea repeated.
ooOoo
Arthur lay on the bed, in the stinking room, curled into the foetal position, hugging his knees. He had no idea how long he had been back in his bed and no memory of how he got there, not that he actually cared a hoot about either of those things. His whole body felt heavy, listless, burdened. His heart actually ached. He had heard the term, heartache. He had even used it a time or two in his life but he had never imagined that it could be a genuine phenomenon. Now he knew it was.
He felt physically sick but was no longer retching. His abdominals ached from all the use they had been put to in that particular pursuit. But his stomach felt empty now, just as did his chest. His aching heart was just a big hollow mass, within his ribcage.
He thought if he could just cry out, scream, shout or even wail, it might dispel some of the pain but he lacked the energy required to perform such a task. The little voice, still telling him that none of this was true and that he should keep the faith – never give up, never give in – seemed to be mocking him now, duping him even further, playing him for a fool. He had never felt so low, so desperate, so used, so abused, so exploited, so corrupted.
He thought he might actually prefer death to this feeling of utter degradation. Yes, complete oblivion seemed a most attractive proposition. If someone had put a gun to his head, he would have welcomed the bullet.
ooOoo
'I was approached, several months ago,' Frayne began, 'by a representative of the paramilitary organisation, Combat 18, and asked to advise on a rendition operation. I told them that I do not consult. If they wanted me to plan and carry out the operation, I would consider it but I did not make plans for others to perform – because they rarely do it satisfactorily and I do so hate sloppy work.
I heard no more from them, directly, but I was aware that there was a fair degree of internecine strife within that particular group, following the termination of the former head man, as the various candidates for the vacant post challenged one another, like a bunch of rutting stags.
One individual seemed to be rising to the top and I was watching his progress with interest when, just last week, I was contacted and asked to plan and execute the rendition. The target, I was told, was a representative of the main rival to the Rising Star and that he was to be held hostage, his safe return being dependant on the rival candidate ceding all claims to power to my client.
I was told where the target might be found. I observed him, planned the operation, told the client what I needed – which he supplied – and I carried out the contract on Monday. I then laid a decoy trail – my final act of the operation - and left the country, so as not to be around when the shit hit the fan…because I thought it might be a bit messy.
And that, Miss Smith, is all I can tell you.' he concluded.
'Ask him to name his client', Mycroft instructed.
'And the name of your client, Mr Frayne?' Anthea enquired.
'I'm sorry, Miss Smith. I have told you the name of the organisation. I'm afraid that's as up close and personal as I'm prepared to go.'
'Explain my interest,' Mycroft said.
'You wondered, earlier, why my superior should be interested in your little escapade,' Anthea remarked. 'I am authorised to tell you that your client misled you as to the significance of your target.'
'Really?' Frayne replied, looking a little disappointed, as though honesty and honour should go hand in hand with terrorism. 'How very uncivilised of him.'
'Your target, Mr Frayne, was not a member of a rival faction. He is a Person of Importance to a high ranking Government official. We believe that he is to be used to try to broker some sort of deal with the British Government. And, as you well know, the British Government does not make deals with hostage takers. We never pay ransoms. So the likelihood is that your target will, eventually, be terminated, once his captors realise his lack of exchange value.'
'Which is why I requested immunity from prosecution,' Frayne reminded her, with an infuriatingly smug smile. 'I have the utmost respect for Mr Holmes but if it becomes known that I do not protect the identity of my clients, no one will employ me and I will lose my livelihood. So, sorry, but no can do.'
'Tell him the whole truth,' Mycroft hissed, though gritted teeth.
'I am authorised to tell you that the high ranking government official in question is Mr Holmes, himself,' Anthea declared.
The smile froze on Marcus Frayne's lips. It was clear to all who saw it that this was news to him and not welcome news, either. He seemed a bit lost for words, at first, but then he recovered.
'Miss Smith, I hope you believe me when I say that I am shocked and appalled by your disclosure. As I just stated, I have the utmost respect for Mr Holmes and would not wish to be the cause of any distress to either him or his Person of Importance.'
He looked around, discomforted for the first time since the interview began. He seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of what to do next and then he came to a decision.
'The new kid on the block is an audacious man and I have to admit that I do admire that quality in a person, but anyone who would go against Mr Holmes in this manner shows a dangerous degree of recklessness, in my opinion, and I shudder to think what kind of mayhem an extremist organisation run by such a man might wreak in the civilised world.
So, for that reason alone – because I believe unleashing a force of great destructive power on my own community would be foolish in the extreme – I will give you the identity of my client.'
Mycroft sat forward, as though by doing so he might somehow hear the name that Frayne was about to utter all the sooner.
'His name is Colonel Sebastian Moran.'
'That's impossible!' Mycroft barked.
To Anthea's credit, she gave no outward sign of the explosion that had just occurred in her ear.
'Are you absolutely sure, Mr Frayne?'
Frayne looked hurt.
'I am quite sure, Miss Smith.'
'It was our understanding that Colonel Moran was terminated, as part of a dismantling operation, five years ago.'
'He was…erm… severely compromised five years ago but he survived and recovered. And he has been working his way back up the career ladder, moving from one organisation to another along the way, and now he's set his sights on the top spot in Combat 18. So, he's very much alive, I assure you.'
Mycroft sat back in his chair – almost slumped, if truth be told. Moran had been Sherlock's final target, in his three-year-long mission to dismantle Moriarty's international criminal empire. He was so sure that he had eliminated that final cog. But he had clearly made an error.
And now, that error was about to reveal itself to Mycroft's brother, in the most perilous of circumstances. And Mycroft had no idea how the shock of that revelation might compromise his sibling's ability to safeguard himself and those around him. Sherlock was walking, blind, into a minefield.
Mycroft pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Agent Delaney's number, frantically.
ooOoo
I'm away for three days, folks, but I will be back, bashing the keys, on my return.