CHAPTER 6: RACE AGAINST TIME
"I know where she is," Sherlock repeats louder. He brings his fingers up to his temples and screws his eyes shut, trying to draw a route on a mental map of London. His eyes snap open as he shouts, "John!"
He rushes down the stairs and lands on the ground floor, crying out again, "John, hurry up. We need to go."
Running along the hall, he almost stumbles against his friend.
"Yeah, I couldn't agree more," John replies and shoots a side glance at the clerk marching to them. He is flanked by two security guards; the welcoming, friendly look has disappeared from his face.
"These people are not who they say they are." He points an accusatory finger at the three of them.
"We showed you our badges: they are authentic," Sherlock rebuts testily.
"They are, actually; they simply don't belong to you. I have just talked with Scotland Yard: the real D.I. Lestrade was in his office just now," the clerk replies.
"Had you contacted The Cabinet Office, they would have confirmed my story," Sherlock grumbles, irritated, knowing that in such an emergency his brother would play along with his inappropriate (and quite illegal) break-in. "Why must everyone always call Scotland Yard?"
"Look at him: he is so disoriented and panicked," Giulia whispers, nodding at the clerk, then she speaks up, addressing him directly, "How long have you been working here?"
He looks bewildered for an instant. "Six months, but I don't see why it should be relevant."
"Oh, it is. Six months, new clothes, a rewarding job," she points out, turning to Sherlock. "Did you really think he would put everything at risk and take on the responsibility of calling The Cabinet? I wouldn't get in touch with it even if I were the Prime Minister."
Sherlock raises a brow at her observations and for a fleeting moment, an impressed look darts into his eyes.
The clerk yells, vexed, "I'm calling the police."
"No, thanks." Sherlock shakes his head. "I never get in a police car."
He springs forward, and leaps to the doorway, immediately followed by his accomplices. He nimbly leads John and Giulia along streets and alleys, running as fast as possible while they look over their shoulders and prick up their ears. When they are sure that no one from the editorial office is following them, they stop at a corner of a darkened road to catch their breath.
"Christ, I told you: it never works when we sneak into off-limit buildings," John bursts out, gasping for air.
"Sherlock, what exactly do you know?" Giulia asks breathlessly, thinking back to his epiphany inside the editorial office.
"Everything we need is right here." Sherlock flicks the page of the newspaper he took from the newsroom. He walks in the middle of the street, looking in both directions for a cab.
"A crossword puzzle? This is not the time for games," John complains.
"This isn't a game, John. This is her hiding place. Her life is at stake."
Both John and Giulia look at him with blank expressions. He glances at their vacant faces and specifies, "The author of the puzzle," as if it was a thorough explanation.
"The French girl?" Giulia asks, confused.
"She is not French. That's the point," the detective replies, waving his hand at an approaching taxi.
"I surrender," John exclaims, raising his hands.
"This crossword puzzle was created by Miss Jumelle Survécue, a woman with an impressive knowledge of firearms and weapons. It would seem perfectly normal, except that this person doesn't exist. This is a made-up name." Sherlock struggles to keep his friends at the same pace as his lightning brain.
"Is it just a coincidence that it sounds French, then?" Giulia inquires.
"Coincidences are fairy tales we tell ourselves when we don't want to see inevitable connections around us. These are indeed French words. Not a name, though, but a translation," he explains, opening the taxi door. "Jumelle Survécue in English means Surviving Twin."
The detective gives the driver the address he wrote down at the bottom of the page while unravelling the clue hidden in the puzzle, and John groans, "I can't believe you were playing crosswords while I was looking everywhere and searching the whole building."
"It was Giulia," Sherlock childishly protests.
She rolls up her eyes and tries to retrace his deductions.
"So, you translated the author's name from French and understood that only Cathy Baaral could have created that clever little game, right?"
"Correct. I thought she could hide inside the editorial office since that was her only connection to the Secret Service, but I was wrong: she is cleverer than that. She avoided the mole and didn't write an article, but she still tried to communicate with the MI6 through the newspaper. Everything became clear when you read that French alias. A crossword puzzle… I should have thought about that sooner," he says in a self-loathing tone, resting his back against the seat.
Giulia stares at him and leans her chin on the palm of her head, signalling her eagerness to hear the rest of the explanation. A corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk at her boundless curiosity and stubbornness, so he recounts, "I should have remembered a detail from the crime scene. In the twins' flat, there was a manifest of D-Day; I noticed it the moment I walked in. There is a fascinating story about that event. Some days before the Normandy landings, The Daily Telegraph published a series of crosswords containing, among their answers, secret codewords for the operation—such as Neptune, Mulberry and Overlord. Someone thought it could be an act of espionage, but after interrogating the Telegraph crossword compiler, the entire story was simply disregarded as a fortuity."
"But you realised it wasn't just a random case this time," Giulia murmurs.
"It's fairly easy when you piece everything together: she is a secret agent who's fond of history and war actions (plainly obvious given the choice of posters in her flat). She needed to reveal her coordinates without letting her enemies know and came up with a crossword puzzle. The most logical assumption was that she must have hidden in it all the information."
"How did you find the concealed address in the puzzle?"
"I simply used the letters that you had put into the numbered boxes while completing the puzzle: they formed a street address. The most important things are always there for all to see, but hardly anyone observes them," he asserts philosophically.
"All very fascinating, but where we are going now exactly?" John intervenes, annoyed.
"To a construction site in the southern part of the city." He doesn't add further details, he knows John is a man of action; he cares little about elaborate explanations, especially when his friend's deductions make him look like an idiot.
"Are you sure this time? Because I'd rather not disguise myself as a labourer," John jests.
The cab makes a sharp turn, and the newspaper glides on Sherlock's lap, landing on Giulia's knees. She gets a glimpse of the folded page of the crossword and frowns at it. Realising that in the rush of their escape, she accidentally kept the pencil from the editorial office, she fishes it from her pocket and starts circling the first letter of every definition, turning paler after each sign.
"Sherlock?" She calls with a trembling voice. "We're heading in the wrong direction."
The taxi driver turns his head to her and replies, "No, Miss. I can assure you, this is the shortest way to get to the address you gave me."
Sherlock takes a quick look out of the window and nods. "He's right. We'll get there in ten minutes."
"No, I mean that we're going to the wrong part of the city. The main show will be somewhere else."
She slowly shows them the definitions of the puzzle, pointing at the letters she has just circled and transcribed at the top of the page.
"The most important things are always there for all to see, but hardly anyone observes them, right?" she quotes Sherlock's previous words.
The letters form this writing: BOMB / TONIGHT / AT / PALESTINIAN / MISSION
"Dear God, a bomb. We need to warn Lestrade, Scotland Yard, firefighters, every law enforcement agency," John exclaims frantically. He would swear to hear alarm bells sounding furiously inside his skull—a remnant of his past in Afghanistan when dealing with bombs was a daily concern.
"Why don't we alert cavalry, too?" Sherlock sarcastically asks, typing on his phone.
John glowers at him. "This is no time for jokes."
"Calm down. I'm informing Lestrade right now; there is nothing more we can do. This isn't our priority at the moment."
"What do you mean this is not our priority? All that matters now is that a bloody bomb is about to explode," John hisses.
"Yes, on the other side of the city," Sherlock specifies, furrowing a brow. "That's the odd thing. I don't understand: why would the terrorists choose the Palestinian mission in the UK? There are several important embassies in London. Why that particular building?"
"Precisely because it's not an embassy," Giulia replies.
"Pardon?" He shoots her a puzzled look. It was a rhetorical question. He wasn't expecting an answer from either of them.
"What is Cathy's nationality?" she inquires, seemingly off-topic.
"No idea. It wasn't in the missing person report."
"British," John confidently says.
Sherlock raises his brows. "You impress me, John. How can you know?"
"While rummaging through documents at the editorial office, I found the CVs of all of their employees. Cathy's CV was there too, but it didn't contain significant information. However, I remember her form, and I'm sure she is British."
"You found her CV? Why didn't you say that before?" Holmes grumbles.
"Oh, let me think. Maybe because while I was reading it, a madman shouted my name and then made me rush out of the office and run across the city like a burglar. When could I have told you?" He barks.
"It doesn't matter now," Giulia cuts them short. "She's British: this is fundamental. It means that the terrorists were recruiting British citizens. They were probably looking specifically for them."
"Why would it be relevant?" John stares at her with a confused expression.
"Because they don't want to carry out a simple terrorist attack; they intend to provoke a diplomatic incident, possibly worse," she states, as fear and concern flash in her eyes.
"But that doesn't justify their choice of target," Sherlock argues.
"I think it does. The situation is delicate: the UK has never acknowledged Palestine as an independent State. An intentional attack accomplished by British citizens (there might be others in the terrorist cell, besides Cathy) could make tensions flare up between these two countries. Since the Palestinian mission is not officially an embassy, diplomatic relations with Palestine are of a different kind, and a bombing against that target may cause many more casualties than we can imagine. International relations between Palestine and the UK would deteriorate in no time, and we can't exclude the possibility of war," she explains extensively.
"How do you know this stuff?" John looks amazed.
"Because I'm doing a PhD in International Relations, even though you never asked." She grimaces with disapproval.
"We need to stop all that from happening," Watson affirms.
"Very heroic. Unfortunately, it is not our problem now," Sherlock reiterates flatly.
The doctor shuffles in his seat and turns to look him dead in the eyes.
"Are you kidding me? There will be fatalities, for God's sake. Why do you never? This is typical of you."
Sherlock glares at him. "How can it still come as a shock to you, then?"
"You're right. I shouldn't be surprised at all. I wonder why we're still discussing." John surrenders without taking his eyes off him.
"Because beyond your unflattering opinion of me, you don't seem to understand that we are here for a reason. We need to find Cathy Baraal and save her life. That's all that matters now," Sherlock replies drily.
They exchange a glance, putting their discord aside. There is no time for that.
At that moment, the cab pulls over next to what looks like an abandoned construction site. They quickly hop off and look around. The structure of the unfinished building is squat and sunken, in sharp contrast to the surrounding tall blocks of flats. There is a small park on the east side of the construction—the only dab of colour against the gloomy buildings that rise to the starry sky.
They walk past beams and blocks of cement scattered everywhere. Sherlock struts towards the entrance of the abandoned building, but John calls after him. "Wait, she shouldn't come with us. It might be dangerous," he protests, hinting at Giulia.
Sherlock spins around with a sarcastic look. "Sure. Why don't we leave her alone in a dark yard in the middle of the night? Safest place in the world."
Giulia glances from one man to the other. "I think we're past the point of safety concerns now. I'm in."
As they enter the building, Sherlock whispers, "Keep your eyes peeled. She must be close."
Suddenly, they hear the distinctive click of the safety of a semi-automatic weapon behind them. Nobody moves, but Sherlock perceives the cold pressure of a muzzle against the nape of his neck.
"Any last words?" A voice asks behind him.
He takes a deep breath and smirks. "D-Day."