CHAPTER 5: KEYWORD
Giulia takes the suicidal note and plunges it into her pocket before following her flatmates.
"Wait!" she exclaims, stopping on the last flight of stairs. The two men come to a grinding halt at the bottom of the staircase and look up at her.
John raises a brow. "Is something wrong?"
"It doesn't make any sense. We're going to a newsroom during its rush hour just because he deduced she played the part of a journalist when she wasn't on duty as a spy?" She points at Sherlock, then shakes her head. "It could simply be an unfounded conjecture."
Sherlock exhales loudly and turns an icy glare at her.
"No, it's a logical consequence. She was working for the MI6 together with her sister. They used to play the same person in the presence of the terrorists but also acted alternatively the part of a journalist since they were both very keen on writing. For the record, you were the one to notice that by analysing the perfect use of grammar in her note. Congrats." He flashes the fakest smile at her before going on.
"Here's what we can infer from that: Cathy Baaral, apparently a promising reporter, must have been hired by an editorial office that never suspected that she wasn't just one person but was impersonated by both the real Cathy and her twin sister. The two of them presumably wrote several articles for the newspaper, and every time their feature stories went to print, the Secret Service could extract sensitive data from the text. It was their way of communicating with the intelligence without using any kind of technology that could be bugged by their fellow terrorists."
"So, you're saying that while one of them was staying with the group, the other used her downtime from secret agent work to go to the newsroom and write about the information they had collected?" Giulia strives to piece it all together. She has lived with Sherlock long enough to know that his brain runs at full speed most of the time, and it is almost impossible to keep up with it. But she is determined to understand what is going on anyway.,
"Precisely. I thought I had been clear. That's why we're going to the nearest newsroom to the flat where the twins lived. They would never wander pointlessly around the city, especially considering the risk of being spotted and recognised as two different people. There's no reason they should have chosen any other different place, farther away."
"Alright, but why hide in an editorial office? It's always full of people; everyone goes everywhere," Giulia protests.
"Maybe she counts exactly on that: too much chaos, nobody pays attention," John suggests.
"Not to mention that the Secret Service knows they used the job at the newspaper as a covert. Now that she has nowhere to turn to, she might wait there for an extraction or a rescue mission," Sherlock clarifies, stealing a nervous look at his watch. Giulia is so stubborn. Why can't they just leave already? John never questions him like this.
"But with a mole in the system, an operation by the MI6 is unlikely, for their hands are tied." Giulia's voice trails off as an idea slowly worms its way into her mind.
"We are her rescue mission, aren't we?"
"Yep. Can we go now?" Sherlock shows signs of impatience.
She doesn't move but places her hands on her hip, frowning at him.
"Why aren't we calling the police?"
"We don't need them," he replies curtly.
"But they were the ones who phoned you about the case in the first place," she objects. She stands by the impression that she had of the detective when they met for the first time: sometimes, he does behave like a child.
"She has a point." John nods, earning a stern look from Sherlock, who climbs up a few steps and nails Giulia with a steely glare.
"Listen, I don't get on too well with the Scotland Yard staff, and if I can avoid collaborating with them, I'll do it willingly."
She comes down some steps until her eyes are at the same level as Sherlock's.
"I thought you worked for them as a consulting detective."
"I do not work for them," he spits out through gritted teeth. "I don't work for anyone. My job qualification means the police consult me: it doesn't work the other way round," he roars. He descends the stairs and opens the front door just to find himself face-to-face with Greg Lestrade. The D.I.'s arm is mid-air: he was about to knock.
Giulia slips discreetly by Sherlock's side, stands on her tiptoes, and whispers in his ear, "I hope he didn't hear you."
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock exclaims furiously, looking at the D.I. and the officers waiting in a police car pulled up to the kerb in front of 221B.
Lestrade gives him an annoyed look and replies with an ironic smile, "Nice to see you, too, again."
Sherlock forces his way out of the door, shoving him. "I hope this isn't another of your pretended drug busts."
The inspector glowers at his rudeness but retorts serenely, "Not this time. I contacted John."
The detective's head whips towards his friend, the shadow of betrayal clouding his eyes. "You? You told him to come?"
John tilts his head guiltily. "It wasn't an official invitation."
"He simply texted me back. Unlike you. Do you know how many times I've tried to communicate with you tonight?" Lestrade questions.
"At least three," Sherlock recalls, mentally counting all the texts he had received (and ignored) in the last fifteen minutes.
"Yeah, and you never answered."
Sherlock keeps his fiery eyes fixed on John. "Did you really call the police?"
"I simply told him where we were going. You talked about terrorists; it's dangerous, we might need backup."
"Wait, what? I thought you excluded that the victim could be a terrorist," Lestrade intervenes, dazed, and Sherlock sighs, exasperated.
"That's ridiculous, by the way. This isn't backup; those are guard dogs. Have I been placed under house arrest?"
The inspector takes some steps forward menacingly until he is just a few inches away from the detective and barks at him, "Not yet."
"Enough," John chimes in. "There's a woman on the run and a bunch of terrorists are tracking her down as we speak."
Holmes nods and turns on his heels. "Well, then. Off we go."
"Sherlock, you can't go on your own. This case concerns the police," Lestrade cries out angrily.
Sherlock turns his head to look directly into his eyes.
"Far more than that, Inspector. It concerns England, possibly another country. Do international relations fall within your division?"
Greg grimaces but doesn't utter a sound. Holmes smiles smugly.
"As I thought. Have a good evening." And he walks in the middle of the road to hail a cab.
"Wait, Sherlock, I'm coming with you," Lestrade shouts and catches up with him. Before the detective has time to protest, he adds, "I want to understand what's going on, for once. This is my job, and I won't allow you to go rogue."
"Fine. But we're not going there in a police car."
Greg seems about to explode. "Stop behaving like a toddler and start reasoning—"
"I'm not having a tantrum," Sherlock interrupts him, rolling his eyes. "A police car with flashing lights would draw attention, making the whole neighbourhood aware of her position. Do you want to have her killed?"
"Who?"
Sherlock shoots him an eloquent look.
"The real Cathy Baaral."
After getting in the cab, Lestrade speaks tartly, "Sherlock, I need answers now. Why are we going to a newsroom? What's the story about a terrorist group? And who is this, by the way?" He points at the woman seated next to him.
"I'm Giulia, their new flatmate. Nice to meet you." She smiles and stretches her hand out in the crowded cabin, and Lestrade shakes it with a confused look.
"I wasn't expecting that, but I suppose this is a conversation for another time. Back to my first question: why are we going to the address John texted me?"
"We need to get to Cathy before they do," Holmes laconically replies.
"They? I'm done guessing," Lestrade breathes out, before adding in a pleading tone, "Sherlock, an explanation, please."
The detective quickly summarises his deductions, concluding five minutes later with, "Starting from the note the dead twin left for her sister, I deduced they used to work alternately for a newspaper. That's where we are going right now."
Greg is gaping so much that his jaw looks like it could fall down at any moment.
"So, that note was addressed to her sibling?"
"No, she wrote a passionate letter for her lover and romantically hid it under her cold, dead foot," Holmes ironically replies. "Of course, it was for her sister—an expert secret agent, the only person who could find it. Besides me," he says pridefully.
Lestrade massages his forehead. "Let me understand: we are now heading to the newsroom that the sisters used as a front, hoping to find either Cathy or some kind of hidden message pointing to her hideout. But how exactly? She's an excellently trained agent and is hiding from expert killers. She could have simply disappeared."
Sherlock snaps back, "No, you've just said it: she is excellently trained, she knows what to do."
"Then why hasn't she tried to contact the Secret Service yet?" Greg protests.
"There is a mole in the MI6," Giulia answers promptly. "She can't communicate with them since she wouldn't know whether she is speaking with her rescuer or the mole that will get her killed. She cannot risk disclosing vital information on her whereabouts."
Sherlock casts a furtive glance at her. She is quite perceptive once she has enough information to work with. That is... good, useful, he reluctantly admits to himself.
The cab pulls over in front of a modern building, and they get off. Sherlock looks up at the offices, then turns to Greg.
"Here is where we part ways."
"What are you talking about? I came all this way because I want to accomplish it with you."
"No, you came along because you needed answers, and you got them. Now you have better things to do," Sherlock replies, signalling the cabbie to wait.
"Better than saving a life?"
"How about saving a thousand?"
Lestrade scratches his head, more confused than ever. "I'm not following you."
Sherlock puts his hands on Greg's shoulders and searches his eyes for signs of intelligent life.
"Think, Inspector: you found all those plans in the dead woman's apartment, and we now know that a terrorist group killed a suspected traitor of the cell and is chasing after a secret agent of the MI6 who must possess some crucial information. What does it suggest to you?"
Greg flinches when a sudden thought crosses his mind like a shooting star.
"Imminent terrorist attack."
"You are in a dazzling form, Lestrade." Sherlock flashes him a crooked smile, then becomes serious again. "Contact Scotland Yard: do everything in your power to protect this city."
The D.I. stares into his face, trying to read his emotions and possible fears, but he only finds cold determination. He nods briefly and goes back to the cab.
Before closing the door, he looks at them and paternally says, "Be careful, you three."
"How are we going to get in and look for her? Just waltzing in and saying, Good evening! Has anyone seen Cathy Baaral (assuming that she used that name here) or her twin sister around recently?" Giulia asks sarcastically.
"I have a better plan." Sherlock shows them two badges and gives one to John. On the one he kept, there is a familiar name (literally): Mycroft Holmes. THE CABINET OFFICE. On the badge John is now holding, it is printed: Gregory Lestrade. SCOTLAND YARD.
"I'll take my brother's. At least, I can keep my last name," he says, marching towards the glass door of the editorial office.
John stamps his feet.
"Sherlock, we can't do that again. You remember what happened when we broke into Baskerville, don't you?"
Holmes stops and retorts, "We don't have a choice."
"Sorry to interrupt your domestic quarrel, but who am I supposed to be in this little recital?" Giulia chimes in.
"Hold on a second, I should have one for you too." Sherlock pulls a business card out of the inner pocket of his coat and hands it to her. It is plain and classic, with a female name written in the middle. There is an emblem at the top right corner: a globe with a sword and a scale. The word below is unmistakable: INTERPOL.
She opens her eyes wide, astounded. "How can you possibly have something like that?"
"I have an international reputation." Sherlock shrugs, shrugging off the tiny detail that he pickpocketed an international police officer.
They step in and flash their badges at the front desk. A man in a dark suit welcomes them and checks their credentials.
"Good evening. My name is Mycroft Holmes, from The Cabinet Office. I am joined by a Scotland Yard officer and an agent from Interpol to make an inspection," Sherlock pronounces formally, gesturing at his friends.
The clerk throws a glance at them and replies kindly, "I can see that, sir. May I ask what the problem is?"
"Most of the details are classified. Although, I can say that, according to several pending investigations, we need to search this building."
The employee immediately turns pale but tries to keep control of the situation, suggesting tactfully, "I understand, sir. Should we set a date?"
Sherlock shakes his head and walks down the hall, stifling an arrogant smirk.
"It won't be necessary. I think that right now would be lovely."
John catches up with him before reaching the stairs and whispers peevishly, "I'm fairly sure that your brother will kill us or have us deported after this stunt."
Sherlock mumbles in response, "He came to me first because he wanted me to solve this case, and that's exactly what I intend to do. He'll pass over our theatrical entrance."
They spread out and start looking everywhere, eagerly hoping to find even the slightest sign of Cathy's presence. They search every office, every corner. They randomly flip through documents, looking for clues.
After twenty minutes of useless research, Giulia gets bored and sinks into an armchair, leafing through a copy of the morning paper. She finds a pencil on a desk and starts solving the crossword puzzle.
A few minutes later, Sherlock notices her and inquires sternly, "What are you doing?"
She doesn't even lift her eyes from the page and answers in an apathetic tone, "I'm fed up. She is not here. I told you: this is the wrong place to hide."
He flares his nostrils. They haven't been able to find even the faintest trace of Cathy. He abhors being wrong. Luckily, it happens very rarely.
"You could help, anyway."
"I tried; I got bored. This, on the contrary, is very intriguing." She taps the point of the pencil on the crossword. "I've almost completed it, but I'm stuck on this definition. It's about weapons, I think. Would you help me?" She flashes puppy eyes at him.
"Why don't you ask John? He was a soldier, after all."
"He was an Army doctor," she specifies.
"Does it make any difference?"
"Whatever. He isn't within sight. Please," she begs, showing him the paper.
"You're so nagging," he complains but takes the newspaper from her. After all, he would never pass up a chance to show off his massive general knowledge.
He reads the definition aloud, "Short large-bored musket with flared muzzle. The answer is Blunderbuss," he states as if it was primary school stuff.
She shoots him an impressed look. "I've never heard of it."
He hands back the paper with one of his haughty comments. "Just like 70% of the British population, probably. The author of this puzzle must be keen on weapons, though," he mutters distractedly.
She glances at the name written above the crossword.
"Jumelle Survécue: strange name. Sounds French to me."
Sherlock freezes and narrows his eyes. "What did you say?"
"I've just read the author's name."
He snatches both the newspaper and pencil from her hands. She scowls at his utter lack of manners and stares as he notes at the bottom of the page only the letters inside the numbered boxes of the puzzle. When he is done, he widens his eyes and holds his breath for a second.
"I know where she is."