CHAPTER 27: FAIL-SAFE

AUGUST 2015

London

The lift to the top floor was aggravatingly slow. Then again, it was designed for freight, not guests. But Sally Donovan's prerogative was discretion. She had come neither by front entrance nor daylight, and she would leave just the same.

When the lift doors at last opened, it was only to reveal her boss leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, waiting for her.

'I didn't think you were coming,' she said, stepping out of the lift.

'I arranged the whole thing,' he replied. 'You thought I wouldn't come?'

She shifted the black satchel she carried from one hand to the other to adjust her tight-fitting suit jacket. 'Too many bodies, I thought.'

'I'm not missing this.'

The lift had opened to a long hallway that turned a corner to a shorter one where, evidently, the resident lift arrived across from a single door leading to the floor's sole flat. Donovan mentally corrected herself: not flat; penthouse. She knew, in the abstract, that Mycroft Holmes was a wealthy man. The reality of it was humbling. Suddenly, she could feel the hole wearing away in her stockings, right under her left toe. Before Lestrade could knock, she squeezed in the question:

'Where does his money even come from?'

Lestrade laughed shortly. 'Pretty sure he made a deal with the devil.'

As it turned out, Lestrade didn't need to knock after all. He knew the key code, which he entered, and pressed a thumbprint to a small black square. Well, isn't he special? Donovan thought wryly. With a gentle click, the door unlocked. Lestrade pushed it open and held it, waiting for her to pass through.

The whole of her own flat, she surmised, would have fit comfortably inside the entryway of this one, which she at first mistook for a sitting room, what with the fireplace, sofa, and minbar set into the far wall. But no, it was mostly a room for hanging coats. Lestrade passed through it without mention of its extravagance and led her down the hallway and into a much larger, exquisitely furnished space. Its modern, sleek design was in no way suggestive of lack of expense, and from the rugs to the drapes to the slowly rotating crystal globe of the planet beside the ceiling-height, dark-wood bookshelves stacked with leather-bound multi-volume editions of books about who-the-hell-know-what, Donovan couldn't help but make the comparison between Mycroft's and Sherlock's living spaces, and she was startled to know which one she preferred visiting.

The man himself was waiting for them there. Lestrade had prepared her to see Mycroft in slippers and his dressing gown, and to have Anthea—Donovan still wasn't sure what to make of the woman—at his elbow. Instead, dressed in a suit, Mycroft Holmes sat in an armchair by the gently crackling fireplace (fire? in August?), brandy in hand, and he smiled blithely as they entered. Anthea was nowhere to be seen.

'You're looking remarkably put together,' said Lestrade, taking a seat without invitation, leaving Donovan standing in the middle of the room feeling the fool. She put her hands in her pockets and lifted her chin a little, determined to be unbothered.

'I have guests,' Mycroft answered him, but his eyes were on Donovan. 'Please.' He gestured to the adjacent sofa. 'I don't believe we've had the pleasure, despite moving in the same circles.'

'And the same hospitals,' she retorted, turning to sit. She set the satchel at her feet.

'How's the elbow?'

'Swings like a door on a hinge. How's the … brain?'

Lestrade gawped but Mycroft only simpered. 'Still puts words in order. Sometimes the right order.' The smile grew. 'Sometimes the right words.'

'Honestly, Mycroft, your recovery has been remarkable,' said Lestrade. 'If I didn't know better, I would never suspect . . .'

'That I was poisoned? Thank you. Brain . . . trouble . . . is not a good look on me. Now. Sergeant.' He set his glass on the table and hands in his lap, awaiting her.

Technically, she supposed, she had called this meeting, although she felt distinctly the inferior to both of them. No matter. She had every right to be here, to ask her questions, and given all the hell she'd been through to this point, she certainly had a right to some straight answers.

'I want to show you a composite sketch,' she said, reaching into the satchel and pulling out a single sheet of paper. 'I want you to tell me you recognise the man on this page.'

Mycroft took the paper, lifted his eyebrows to widen his eyes and tilted his head back, looking down his nose at the page. Then, he shook his head. 'Apologies,' he said, and Donovan felt her heart—and all her theories—sink like a stone. But rather than pass the paper back, Mycroft simply reached for an inside pocket of his suitcoat and withdrew a pair of spectacles, which he perched on the end of his nose. He looked again.

This time, his eyes came up slowly, regarding her. 'You have seen this man?'

'Personally, no. But I believe he and I have had a direct encounter. And I'm not the only one. That sketch was created based on interviews with two people who have seen him.'

'Your Mr Dryers and Mr Anderson, if I'm not mistaken,' said Mycroft. 'Ann . . .' His brow furrowed, and for the first time in their conversation, he seemed to be struggling for the words. He touched his mouth with a finger.

'She told you of our conversation in the War Room,' Lestrade supplied.

'Naturally.'

'Where is she?' Lestrade looked stupidly around the room.

'Off making . . . arrangements.'

Donovan resisted the urge to sneer but couldn't stop herself from saying, 'So you already know about this character, I'm guessing. And didn't bother to fill the rest of us in. Typical. So like a Holmes.'

Mycroft smiled blithely. 'It may amuse you to learn, Ms Donovan, that my thinking has limits. The details given me did not inevitably lead me to think, aha, here is the man.' He indicated the page. 'This particular detail, though, is … illuminating.'

'Who is he?' she asked, trying not to sound too eager.

'You have a theory, I'm sure.'

'Maybe I do, maybe I don't. What does it matter? You know, and I'm here for answers.'

But Mycroft seemed to have his own objective. 'I'd very much like to hear it.'

She huffed loudly out her nose. 'Fine.' She threw up her hands in a gesture of surrender. 'Fine, you want to know what I think? I think he's you. Well, one of you. You—whoever you are—in your ivory tower playing games with other men's lives. You who have your little watchlists and protocols and manipulate everyone like little pawns on your chessboards in the name of "the greater good." So yeah. I think he's one of yours.'

'Go on.'

For a moment, she was flummoxed by his lack of reaction, but also lack of denial. She looked at Lestrade, who was just as nonplussed as she. Next she knew, she was on her feet, pacing.

'Okay. So. If we're going down that road, here's what I think. I think you and your people have your fingers in a lot of pies, and you have for quite some time. One of those pies was James Moriarty, yeah? You knew about him long before 2011. Maybe as long as you've known about Sherlock, am I right? My guess is that Moriarty was on a watchlist since he was very young, and you've known all that time that he was dangerous, like, really dangerous, but for some reason didn't do anything about it. Maybe you couldn't. Maybe he was too clever, even for you. Hell, I mean, Sherlock was cleverer than the lot of you.

'So between 1993 and 1996,' she continued, now on a roll, 'Moriarty is on a killing spree, and at least one of your people knew it. The old man certainly did. He knew Tony Pitts covered it up. In fact, my guess is that Pitts was ordered to cover it up—by you. Your people. The old man included. Why? I'm still working that out. And why does Pitts agree? Maybe he was paid handsomely for going sour, maybe he was blackmailed. Point is, I think that Pitts started out as a decent copper and only got corrupt later down the line. What it boiled down to, though, was half a dozen men—at least—going to prison for crimes they didn't commit, just as many murderers walking free, and an equal number of murdered men: Toms, Dicks, and Harrys.

'And the secret was kept. For nearly twenty years, it was kept, until this man, this old man without a name . . . what? Has a crisis of conscience? He goes rogue. He shows up to the hospital where you were on death's doorstep but not yet dead, and he goes back to basecamp and tells his buddies that you're are dead. He knows you're alive, but he tells them that you're dead. Curious. But they all believe it. They believe it was Irene Adler who did it. So this man has some clout, clearly. They have no reason to distrust him. Then he spends a considerable amount of energy covertly placing clues that lead me to a flat once occupied by both Sherlock and Moriarty—at different times, of course—and which contains a mountain of evidence that Moriarty was a homicidal madman. A serial killer in the extreme. He even gave me the bloody key. How he got it, why he's kept it? Search me.

'The only question I care about anymore is why. Why does he want me to know? Why does this all need to come to light, and why now? Pitts is dead. Moriarty is dead. Hell, everyone thinks that you are dead. But who isn't? Sherlock Holmes. He's still alive and kicking, somewhere in the world. So my conclusion . . .'

She hesitated. The connections were still tenuous in her mind, like magnets that wanted to click together but were still a little too far apart, and all they could do is wobble.

'My conclusion,' she said, sighing out, 'isn't that this old man wants Sherlock dead. That's old news, but it's not his news. He's not trying to frame Sherlock for Moriarty's dastardly deeds. He's not trying to exonerate him in the eyes of those other ivory tower lords, either. No. He much as told me he wants Sherlock to live, and to succeed in tearing down Moriarty's network. He's happy to let him alone to do it. Instead, what he really wants . . . He means to do . . .'

'Yes,' Mycroft prompted, nodding his head.

'He means to expose them,' she said. She looked excitedly to Lestrade, who was staring at her in wonder. He hadn't quite got there himself yet, but he was close. 'If he's trying to destroy anyone—anything—it's himself. His people. Your people.'

Mycroft lifted a chin. 'Sgt Donovan, how is it they have not made you a DI yet?'

'Pardon?'

'I believe you are right. Precisely right. Had I known the face of the man earlier, I would have reached this conclusion myself before now. But yes. You are right. He's a turncoat. Hm. I thought I was the only one.'

She was almost trembling with excitement. 'Well? Who is he!'

'He's the man who recruited me. Many years ago. Hm. I wonder if, even then, he had some inkling that I was not altogether . . . devoted to Their cause.' He folded his hands in his lap, staring up at the ceiling with mild interest.

'They created Moriarty,' he continued sombrely. 'Before I ever joined them. They created a monster. Yes, they had been watching him, like they watched Sherlock, and for the same reasons, though perhaps not closely enough. It was Sherlock who spotted him for the young killer he was. They didn't see that. It was years before the name Carl Powers was added to his file. But they did see other troubling signs, and thought they could control him.' He frowned. 'And I don't mean restrain him.'

'You mean . . . as a weapon?'

'Yes.'

'What kind of weapon?'

'An illustrative example, then. Ian Gow.'

Lestrade visibly flinched. Donovan mined her memory; she seemed to remember the name but couldn't surface any details.

'Impossible,' said Lestrade.

'One would think so.'

'Impossible. I know that story; every copper does. That was the IRA! That was, what, 1990? Moriarty would have been only—'

'Fifteen years old,' said Mycroft, 'still living in Northern Ireland, one year after his first kill. Look closely. The assassination became his signature: Semtex. Not that he got his own hands dirty, mind. Throughout the subsequent investigation, blame was pinned on the IRA and even the CIA, but no arrests were ever made, and Moriarty remained perfectly cloaked as an orchestrator. But the truth was, it was Them, the Big Boys Upstairs, who set those wheels in motion, and put it into the mind of the young James Moriarty to take out an MP whom They deemed dangerous. They didn't like Gow's Northern Ireland policies, and They didn't like that he had the ear of the Prime Minister. They wanted him taken out, and they found a way to do it. Manipulative. Surgical. A tool they can use to eliminate undesirables, even ones in high places. Gow wasn't the only one.'

'Did Moriarty know he was being used like this?'

'The Big Boys Upstairs never thought so, but I doubt very much he was ignorant. Another one of their mistakes. You see, Moriarty was never interested in politics. He cared little which side got the better of the other. What he loved was chaos. Death and destruction, confusion and calamity, those were his passions. So he never could be used as the tool They wanted him to be. He had a mind of his own.'

'You knew all this?' said Donovan, aghast.

'I pieced it together,' Mycroft answered, 'over time. It was not told to me, if that is what you are insinuating. To be truthful, sergeant, I am piecing things together even as I speak to you now. Sherlock and I are alike in that respect—we work best when we have a sounding board for our ideas. Thank you, you're doing nicely.'

'So these people, these "Big Boys," as you call them,' Lestrade said, throwing air quotes around the words, 'lost control of him.'

'And lost track.'

'And now they're trying to . . . cover it up?'

'They have covered it up. Do keep up, Greg.'

'And this old codger is trying to expose it,' said Donovan. 'Expose them.'

'Because . . .' said Mycroft, urging her onward with a circling hand.

'Because . . . they are dangerous. They have become a threat to peace and order.'

Lestrade started nodding vigorously. 'Of course they have. Look what's happened in the aftermath, the terror that's been unleashed in this city. At the very least, look what they've done to Sherlock! What they're still doing to him. And he's probably not the only one.'

'Power corrupts,' said Mycroft, 'and They have a lot of it. Too much. And because They're invisible, They're untouchable.'

Donovan shook her head, a little dazed, as the full weight of what he was saying settled on her. 'And what, I'm supposed to bring them into the light?' she said. 'Me.'

Mycroft seemed impatient with her scepticism. 'Of course you. Though clever and devoted to a just cause, these qualities do not distinguish you, particularly among your particular social circle of friends.' He nodded to Lestrade and included others. 'You do have one particular feature, however, that sets you apart from the others and uniquely qualifies you for the task. You, Sgt Donovan, have never been on any list. You're rather a blind spot, in that way.'

Lestrade looked at her, eyebrows pinched, and she imagined he was wondering the same thing she was: what about Lestrade?

'What am I supposed to do?' she asked.

'You've been given, it seems, all the tools you require,' said Mycroft. 'So yes. You. Expose Moriarty fully as the villain he was, and you expose Them. Bring his crimes under the harshest light possible, and there will be no more shadows in which They can hide. Sgt Donovan, Their power comes from Their secrecy, so be assured: They wither in sunlight.'

Lestrade sat forward anxiously. 'But won't that expose you, too? You're one of them. Or were.'

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. 'I'm a dead man. Remember? Dead men fear nothing.'

Donovan was starving by the time she entered the Cinnamon Club, an Indian restaurant Dryers had picked out after finally wrangling her into agreeing that quick bites from a café on the way to or from work and late nights watching Silent Witness together while Dryers confiscated her phone so she couldn't do any work did not exactly constitute a date. When she stepped inside and saw all the white-cloth covered tables, fresh flowers arranged in vases beside empty wine glasses, and a veritable two-story library on three walls, she knew she was grossly under-dressed.

Having arrived first, he rose to greet her, kissed her on the cheek, and pulled out her chair.

'I already ordered us a wine,' he said, once they were both settled.

'Red or white?'

'White. Italian. Please don't ask me to pronounce it.'

They weren't really wine people, either of them. Their home was in a pub with a couple of lagers and a basket of chips between them. So when the wine came, they smiled at each other like they were sharing in a joke, and then when the server appeared, they pointed to the words on the menu rather than pronounce them, and Donovan laughed when Dryers asked what moutabal was because she didn't know either.

They both adhered to the rule not to talk shop until the food was out and both had tucked in.

'Now then,' said Dryers meaningfully, scooping up some lamb chutney with a garlic and coriander naan. 'Your meeting with the Wizard of Oz. Did it go well?'

'Hm,' said Donovan around a mouthful. She swallowed. 'Very enlightening.'

'Good, good. And did you find out who the . . . Wicked Witch of the West is? Or the Good Witch of the North? Sorry, is this bloke a goodie or a baddie?'

She shook her head. 'That analogy isn't going to work.' She took a sip from her wine glass. 'It's complicated. But yes, I did find out who he is. That, and a whole lot more.' Looking down at her plate, she reflected on the hours-long meeting and all that had been said between her, Lestrade, and Mycroft Holmes. 'A whole lot,' she repeated.

'And?'

Donovan pierced her lips and cast a quick glance around at the other patrons, as if to detect any spies. 'He gave me names.'

'Okay . . .'

'A list of them.'

'What for?'

'So that when I join all the dots and have the whole picture, I can, you know.' She made stabbing gesture with her fork.

'What does that mean?'

'That, my friend, is the problem. I don't know. I mean, Jesus, Tom, these people are as powerful as Greek gods, just as manipulative, and just as untouchable. What am I supposed to do, arrest them? Even with all the proof at my fingertips that they've done what the Wizard says they've done, I don't know how that translates into actually taking these people off of . . . Mount Olympus or whatever.'

Dryers chewed his rice thoughtfully. 'Well, I think you're already halfway there.'

'How's that?'

'You've identified the source of their power: they're invisible. Shine the light on them, let people see their names and faces.'

'That's what the Wizard says,' she said gloomily, still not convinced it was so simple, especially when she had no idea how to shine a light, and she said so. How did one issue an arrest warrant with no crime? 'But how, Tom?'

His simple mind concocted a simple answer. 'You know, tell the story. Tell it so well that we all see them for who they are, exactly who, and the people will turn on them. No one can withstand that kind of scrutiny.'

'Tell the story,' repeated Donovan with cynicism.

'People love stories. So what you really need,' he said, 'is a damn good storyteller.'

Day by day, hour to hour, Bill Murray lived in perpetual fear.

Contrarily, Sebastian Moran was in a gleeful state. As they sped their way to Serbia, he repeatedly pulled out his phone to stare at the photos that had been sent to him, and grinned, his smile slanted like a knife and his eyes wide and manic.

It was over. Murray had done all he could to warn them—like he had tried to warn the copper about the explosion—but one way or another, a bomb was set to detonate, and Sherlock and John had been captured anyway. Their phone would have been taken from them, and he just prayed to God that there was no evidence on it linking them to their spy.

Not dead yet, he kept telling himself.

But he didn't know what he could do to save them, short of killing Moran himself. He had thought about it almost daily since returning to his service. But he feared failing in the attempt. Moran was stronger and deadlier than he, and always surrounded by his ex-military lot who would take him out the moment he drew a weapon. He knew it. But he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He was thinking about it now.

Entering the residence of one of his A.G.R.A. cronies in northern Slovenia, less than a day's drive from Belgrade, Murray thought about it again. Moran was facing away from him, his head rising above the back seat of a leather chair as he faced the hearth with its cracking fire. One arm hung over the armrest, gently swirling a glass of vodka. He'd been drinking all night, and Murray thought about how simple it might be, with a length of clothesline, to slip it over his head, quick as you please, and yank, holding fast until Moran's feet stopped kicking. Or to pull the pistol from the around his back and not even blink as he pulled the trigger at point-blank range. Yet his whole body filled with horror at the thought. He had done some bad things, some truly unforgiveable things. But to kill a man so viciously with his own two hands? It hardly mattered that the man was a monster. The terrible memory of Daz garrotting Sam Jefferies in the van resurfaced, a murder that felt like it had taken hours, even if in reality it has lasted only a few minutes. He couldn't abide the thought for more than a second. He could not truly imagine doing something like that himself.

'Stop hovering, Murray, and sit your arse down.'

He controlled his jump to the shoulders. How long had he been lingering, fantasising this man's death? Cravenly, he advanced further into the room where Moran had been in solitude for over an hour.

'Are you my man?'

'Yes,' said Murray. It was almost a robotic response now, so often Moran asked it of him, ever since returning to him, practically on hands and knees. But his story was convincing: He had told Moran that his wife and he were through, she had kicked him out, and he had nothing, not a penny, and he needed money. He had nowhere else to turn, and he would do anything, anything at all, to win himself back into the good graces of Colonel Moran, Moriarty's true successor. Moran made him swear fealty, but every day, sometimes twice a day, he would ask: Are you my man. Without fail, Murray answered yes.

So he knew the question that would come on its heels. Sure enough:

'Is Bellfield?'

The same answer was required. 'Yes, sir, he is.'

When they had left British soil, Moran had pulled Murray aside. 'Bellfield. I want you to keep an eye on him.'

At first, Murray had believed Moran's suspicions were restricted only to Bellfield. But then he noticed how Bellfield watched another man in their company, one called Payne, and how Payne watched Murray. Murray understood perfectly: Moran did not trust the unadulterated loyalty of any of them. So he had organised them into groups of three, each assigned to watch one other and report any acts of subterfuge, and none of them were supposed to be aware that he himself was being watched. But Murray knew. Perhaps that was the advantage of being a genuine spy: paranoia.

'You missing home, Murray?' asked Moran next, his words slurring ever so slightly. 'Your pretty wife, your bouncing babes?'

His wife was not pretty, and his children were hardly babes. But Moran tortured him with remembering them, making him ache and wish for a glass of vodka all his own. God, how he wanted a drink. To drown in. But he needed his wits and continued the line of denial he had established. 'They're best off without me,' he said, not wanting to talk about his family. 'I was a rubbish husband.'

Moran snorted, evidently finding this humorous. 'But a terrific crook.' He raised his glass. 'Cheers to that, eh? We all find our calling in life.' He drank.

Murray hoped that that was it, that he could rise and leave. He waited for the moment to lull long enough to excuse himself. But Moran, it seemed, was in a loquacious mood.

'Tomorrow, Bill. It'll be over. I'll do what Moriarty always meant for me to do. I'll kill Sherlock Holmes.'

Murray carefully controlled his expression. 'And Watson?'

A small smile spread across Moran's thin lips and his eyes lifted from his glass to regard Murray with an air of teasing. 'You want a go with him?'

Murray blanched. 'That's not what I—'

'Dunno, mate, you might like it.' He winked, then started to giggle. 'He's gonna piss himself when he sees you, innit? When he puts it all together about how you've been a Moriarty man all along. He's gonna shit his pants.' He laughed some more, then he let out a long, foul-breathed sigh. 'That's my Johnny boy. His whole sorry-arse life is just one fuckin' joke, innit?' He rubbed high up his inner thigh, near the groin, like scratching an itch. 'I could use a good laugh.'

'I'm gonna get some shut-eye,' said Murray, trying to rise.

'You—' Moran forestalled him. 'You never did meet him, did you?'

'Watson?'

'James Moriarty.' He said the name with relish and drank again from the glass.

'No, I never knew him.'

'Pity, that. The man was a genius. Fucking beautiful genius, he was. A mastermind. One look at you, and'—he snapped the fingers of his non-drink hand—'he knew every string you're made of and how to play you, like a fucking guitar. So I'm in Afghanistan, right? Two thousand and six in the year of our Lord, and me in the Royal Marines, a colonel and the best sniper in my regiment, and a dozen regiments beside. A career man, as they say. God, I was young then. What age were you, Bill? When you joined up?'

'Just twenty,' he said.

'You know why I joined?'

Murray shook his head.

'No? You can't tell just be looking at me? Studying this face, reading my body language, listening to the way I talk? Because he did. March of 2006, just outside Camp Bastion, that's where he found me. Said he'd been looking for a man like me, and I says to him, "Now what kind of man would that be?" And I swear to God, he looks me right in the eyes and says, "The kind of man who has the fire of vengeance in his heart and a target in his sight, but the wrong weapon in his hands." I was amazed. I thought he said what he said because I was a sniper, but no. He knew more than that. He knew about Alec, my older brother, who had raised me after both our drug-fuckin'-addict parents died. Alec had joined the Royal Marines in 1988 and was killed in Iraq during the Gulf War. So what did I do? Followed in his footsteps, of course, not because I was loyal to Queen and Country or even because I was proud of Alec for dying a war hero. I signed up to get revenge on the bastards who had killed him.'

'The Iraqis?' said Murray.

'The fucking Royal Marines, you dimwit. That was the plan, anyway. Infiltrate and destroy from within. But I had to rise up the ranks, hone my skills, be a sleeper agent, as it were. And I kept waiting, waiting, waiting until I knew the iron was hot enough to strike. I just didn't have the vision. James Moriarty, though. Damn, did that man have vision. He was omniscient, and he made me powerful.' He gestured to his full body. 'Me. I took as many with me as I could. Moriarty taught me that.'

Murray didn't know what to say. So this was the man they had all whispered about. The traitor, the turncoat, the one he had mistaken John Watson for. He felt sick to his stomach. He had been wrong, so very, very wrong. And his sins had returned upon his own head tenfold.

'Tomorrow,' said Moran, 'when we get to Serbia and find Kovač, you'll see me take the throne and crown. You'll be my witness. Right? You'll testify to the world that it was at my hand that Sherlock Holmes met his end.'

'Yes sir,' he said quietly.

' 'Cause you're my man.'

'I'm your man.'

'Good. Then, then, we'll figure out what to do with Watson.'

Moran and his men, twelve strong (unless one took proper measure of Bill Murray), reached Belgrade, Serbia, the next day while the sun still burnt hot in the sky. But Kovač was not answering his mobile as they neared the rendezvous point: the entrance to the city's sewer system. A door was propped open with a small brass coin.

It was the stench that alerted them first to the fact that something had gone very wrong. Murray knew that putrid odour well: cadaverine and putrescine, breakdown of amino acids as a body entered decomposition. It was like rotting fish, but a hell of a lot worse. Moran sent two men ahead, but they didn't go far. At the foot of a series of stone steps lay the bodies of five men. Among them, they discovered, was Kovač himself. Conspicuously absent were the bodies of Holmes and Watson.

Moran flew into a rage. He kicked the body of Kovač, over and over again, shouting, cursing, so loudly that Murray was sure his voice could be heard in the street above. His men backed away in a widening ring. Then, positively shaking with ire, Moran pulled out his mobile and began texting. It was only by happenstance that Murray, still on the bottommost step and covering his nose, could see what he typed:

Where are you!

While he waited, he paced, pulling his hair with balled fists, breathing so hard Murray thought he might hyperventilate. Then, a buzz as he received a texted reply.

Kovač can't come to the phone
right now, on account of his
being dead.

Moran roared and returned to kicking the corpses at his feet.

Alive! Sherlock and John had escaped! They had outwitted, outlasted, and killed their captors, and they were still out there, alive. Thank God, thank God! Murray thought fervently, even as he realised that those photos sent to Moran's phone had been—

'Staged,' one man whispered to his fellow, just under his breath, but in that cavernous room, the word echoed clearly. 'They fooled us.'

When Moran whipped around to face his man, Murray saw the danger in the microsecond before it happened. Already a powder keg, Moran heard the observation, however innocuous or accurate, as an insult. Before anyone could even gasp, his gun was in his hand and his finger was on the trigger. An ear-splitting explosion, and the man was down, joining the corpses already laid out. Murray tensed, fighting the instinct to run.

'I am no fool!' he cried.

For added measure, he aimed the pistol again and took out another of his own men, and suddenly they were ten. No one else dared move, lest his anger fall to them. Murray trembled, grateful to be out of eyeline.

Then Moran whirled toward him. But Murray may as well have been a pillar of stone, as Moran sped past him, returning up the stairs, but not without barking over his shoulder his orders:

'Out! Now! I know where they're going, exactly where. Someone, get me Magnussen on the phone, now.'

They sent him to grab food: sandwiches, beers, whatever he could grab from a roadside shop. It was his first opportunity to pull out his phone and send a text.

He had not risked it before, when he had believed Sherlock and John captured and their phone in Kovač's possession. Nor had they found it during a search for the bodies, so surely it was still with Sherlock, and he could chance it, and warn them.

But he still had to be cautious.

I'm shopping. Want me to
pick anything up for you?

It was the code Sherlock had taught him to ask if it was safe to send less discreet messages. His heart pounded as he stood in the short refrigeration aisle on the pretext of choosing a brand of beers. Come on, he thought urgently. Answer, answer.

The delay was maddening. He couldn't stand there forever. Slowly, he opened the fridge door, one eye still on his screen. He shifted the pre-packaged sandwiches and pulled out a six pack of who-knows-what. Still nothing. Glancing to the entrance, he half expected to see one of Moran's men walking through it on orders to see what was taking him so long. No one was coming yet. Maybe he could buy this, claim a need for the loo, and slip away. Maybe . . .

The phone lit up:

Beer would be lovely.

He almost cried with relief. Beer meant it was safe to talk. Wine would mean to hold off for an hour, champagne a day, and nothing for me thanks was a sign to cease communication until further notice. He turned his body to face a corner, hiding himself from the front entrance and frantically continued texting. Now that he knew he was in contact, he forewent any code, making a mental note to delete all outgoing texts the moment he was done.

Mate, I thought you were
dead meat. We found the
bodies and he went
ballistic. He knows where
you're going next, so you
CANNOT go.

He deleted his texts and headed for the cashier, a pretty young thing. He had a fistful of cash in his pocket and hoped he counted it right; he didn't speak a lick of the local tongue.

While being rung up, his phone buzzed in his pocket. His eyes flicked to the entrance. Still clear. He slipped it out of his pocket and read the text by his hip.

Where is he going?

Shit, were they really going to prolong this conversation? His thumb moved quickly.

Barcelona

What's in Barcelona?

He froze. That . . . that wasn't the kind of question Holmes would ask. Holmes would know what was in Barcelona. Maybe . . . maybe the phone had been compromised. Maybe this wasn't Sherlock Holmes.

He had been given one more code for if he suspected such a thing.

Oh you know. So tell me,
who did it, in the end?

'Murray!'

He dropped the mobile back into his pocket even as his head snapped around. Bellfield stood at the entrance, looking impatient.

'Stop eyeing the local candy, and let's get a move on.'

'Just finishing up,' he murmured. The girl behind the counter took his money and gave him some change, and he took his shopping and left.

Back at the car, he passed the beers through the window, the walked around the rear of the car to find his place on the other side.

His phone buzzed again. He slowed, heart pounding. The reply had come. He needed to read it. More importantly, he needed to read it.

Inside the car, they were passing around the beers. No one's eye was on him. Moran was in another vehicle altogether. It was now or never.

He went for the phone and read:

PP BR D

Murray stared in unwilling comprehension as Holmes' words floated back to him: 'My answers will be exact, down to the letter, I assure you. Anything less than that, you will know the mobile has been compromised. If you see that, it is imperative that all communication cease, do you understand?'

The code was wrong.

Cursing behind his teeth, he deleted his texts and made his sullen way back inside the car, wondering what the hell had happened to Holmes and Watson, and for that matter, who the hell he had been texting.

'Shit shit shit,' Lestrade said to himself, hitting himself lightly in the centre of the forehead with Sherlock's mobile. How could he have been such an idiot? How many times had Sherlock warned him: triple check the code before you send it! Not D, but W, and not BR, just B!

Professor Plum in the Ballroom (not Billiard Room!) with the Wrench (not Dagger!). For the love of Christ! Murray would spot the error, and that was that, end of communication. No more contact with their spy. And worse, no more intelligence to feed to Sherlock.

They should just fire his arse.

He fretted in his car, parked outside the building where he was meant to have a debriefing with Chief Superintendent Gregson in fifteen minutes. He would give anything to understand what Sherlock and John were enduring. Why had Murray thought them dead? Holy hell, what was happening out there? First, Sherlock calls Molly to tell her that the mobile is busted, and only a few days on, Murray thinks they're dead? And headed to Barcelona?

The fourth linchpin. That was it. That's where they were headed.

He shook his head and turned the engine on his car back on. Gregson would just have to wait. Right now, his priority was to talk to Mycroft, and figure out whether there was any way to warn them that Moran was on their heels.

Kill him. Kill him.

They were only hours away from Barcelona. It was eleven at night, and they had stopped at a pub, or whatever the French equivalent of a pub was. Un pub, maybe. Murray had taken some French in school, in another life. Little good it was doing him now.

Moran and his most trusted (if there was such a thing) men were sitting in a circle in the corner. Murray was at the bar, alone, staring at the cutting board where the barkeep had been slicing lemons.

Grab the kitchen knife, and just do it. Stab the living hell out of him.

How many had he had to drink already? Idiot. He had promised himself he would keep a clear head. Now he couldn't keep his thoughts ordered. They swam between wondering about his kids to regretting his time in the service to trying to remember whether France still had the death penalty. Or would they extradite him back to England? British citizen and all. But no, he was on French soil. Of course, none of these things mattered. If Moran didn't kill him in the attempt, the other men certainly would.

Don't matter none. Kill him anyway. For the sake of John Watson.

The barkeep returned to this station, and the knife was removed to the sink.

Later that night, they were too tipsy—or straight-up plastered—to drive, Murray included. They would disperse and sleep it off, then rendezvous in the morning. But before leaving the pub, Murray queued for the loo. It was on his way back to the common room, holding himself up with the wall in the darkened corridor, that he slowed when he heard Moran's voice from just around the corner, out of sight.

'Are you my man?'

It was Payne's slightly slurred voice that answered.

'Yessir. One hundred percent.' Then, anticipating Moran's next question, he continued, 'Dunno 'bout Murray though, ssssir.'

Murray froze.

But Moran chuckled, deep and dark. 'Fuck Murray. I'm not worried about Murray.'

'Sir?'

'You wanna know something about Murray?' Moran's consonants smeared together, greased with alcohol. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. 'He's my fffail-safe.'

'Come again?'

'He's not loyal to me. Or to Irene, or anyone else for that matter. Just himself.' He snorted. 'He thinks sticking close to me is a matter of self-preservation. And he's right. If he runs again, I'll kill him. S'not loyalty. S'not devotion. At's bloody cowardice's what that is. That's why I've made him my fail-safe.'

'Wassat, sir?'

'My fuckin' fail-safe. This thing goes sideways? I use Murray and take them aaaaall out.'

He made a noise like an explosion, then dissolved into laughter.