Fic: Of The Logic Of Magic -Part 4
****
The afternoon sun slanted through the warehouse skylight, dust motes dancing, illuminating the stacks of white plastic buckets, row upon row, each bearing the JM Enterprise logo and neatly labeled with a detailed list of its contents. Amidst the piles, perched on a wooden crate, as if it defying the systematic and logical order, sat an ornate and ancient metal chest. A faint sound emanated from it, the sound of a beating heart, echoing softly in the cavernous silence.
****
“Ah, Mycroft!” Sherlock said with disdain. “I don’t remember inviting you.”
Mycroft smiled coolly. “It’s a matter of national security.”
“Boring.” Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, waving a dismissive hand.
Looking around the room, Mycroft addressed Jack and Will. “I believe you know something of this matter?”
“Where is it?” Jack growled, hand on his pistol.
Mycroft, who had seated himself without being asked, was carefully taking off his black gloves. “That was the question I was going to ask you. Before you and your friend chose to abscond.” He winced and rubbed his shin.
“Chose?” Jack’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You bloody shot at us!”
“Come, come,” Mycroft said calmly. “We meant you no harm, really. Those were merely tranquilizer guns. We were hoping for you to come quietly.”
Jack pulled his sword and took a menacing step towards the dapper man. “So ringing up wasn’t good enough? You decided to collect us like some zoo creatures?”
“You wouldn’t answer your mobile.”
“Wait a minute,” Will interrupted, a steadying hand on Jack’s arm. Turning to Mycroft he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean, “ask us” about it? Don’t you have it?”
“It? What?” John gave a puzzled look at the men.
“The chest. That infernal magic chest they keep babbling about,” Sherlock said in a bored voice from the sofa.
“As a matter of fact, we do not,” Mycroft told Will, with a smug smile at the disbelief on Jack’s face. “As difficult as it may seem for your friend to believe, we are all on the same side.”
“Then who does have it?” Jack was not going to let this go so easily. He brandished his cutlass at Mycroft.
Mycroft moved the point of the sword aside with a finger and sighed. “Mr. Sparrow, you are a leading expert in the field of marine archeology, are you not?”
Jack frowned. “What if I am?”
“Then you have heard of the Black Swan project?”
Sherlock sat up, suddenly no longer bored.
“Black Swan. Code name of the latest discovery of Janus Marine Enterprises.”
“Janus Marine?” Will furrowed his brow. “I have heard that name before.”
“You would have, working at the museum. They’ve had an ongoing dispute with Janus over their last salvaged wreck.”
“Janus had been cooperating closely with the Ministry of Defence on the project,” Mycroft added. “At first, all activities at the site were conducted in accordance with protocols agreed with MOD and Royal Navy officials.”
“What happened?” Will asked.
“Janus sought, and was granted, a judicial order in US courts, granting it possession and control of the site.” Mycroft sighed. “Before it could be appealed, Janus salvagers managed to recover a vast treasure of silver and gold, and shipped it to the port of Gibraltar, which is a free port. From there they chartered a plane and had it secretly flown to the United States. We believe the treasure to be at an undisclosed location, probably somewhere near Janus’ headquarters in Florida.”
“And the chest?”
“No doubt with the rest of the treasure.”
“Modern day pirates,” Sherlock said. “You should be quite familiar with them.” He gave Jack a pointed look.
Jack glared back and sheathed his sword. Turning to Mycroft, he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. “Then how do you explain this,” he asked, brandishing it under his nose.
The envelope was standard government issue, the contents inside on departmental letterhead. Mycroft’s department.
Dear Mr. Sparrow,
It has come to my attention that a certain item of interest to you and your partner has recently been discovered during a deep-sea exploration. I am sure you realize the significance of this find, and the consequences of it falling into the wrong hands. You will be contacted, at a discreet location and time, to make arrangements for its return, in exchange for a certain map in your possession.
Mycroft Holmes
Mycroft read the letter aloud and then studied the missive. “It’s a forgery, that is not my signature.” Sniffing, he folded it and handed it back to Jack. “When did you receive it?” he asked.
“Two days ago. It was delivered by hand to the museum.”
“Then that explains this.”
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew another envelope, and handed to Jack. The familiar logo of the museum was stamped on the envelope.
There was no salutation. The message was short and to the point, scrawled across a single sheet of museum letterhead.
The chest is no use to you. If you value your life, return it intact. I’ll be in touch.
J. Sparrow
“That’s not my writing. I have a better hand than that!” Jack protested.
Sherlock, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, swooped down on both men, eagerly taking the two letters and moving over to the window to examine them more closely in the light.
“You won’t find any fingerprints,” Mycroft said, “There’s nothing to go on.”
Sherlock ignored his brother, poring over the letters carefully with his hand lens. After several minutes he threw them both down on the table in disgust.
“Nothing. There is no way to extract any useful information after all the handling they’ve been through. Like letting a herd of cattle run through a crime scene.”
“We can assume that they were sent by the same person,” Mycroft offered. “Undoubtedly to put us at odds with one another.”
“But why?” Sherlock sank back on the couch. “Why send them in the first place? If the culprit has the chest, why announce it to you?”
****
The afternoon sun slanted through the warehouse skylight, dust motes dancing, illuminating the stacks of white plastic buckets, row upon row, each bearing the JM Enterprise logo and neatly labeled with a detailed list of its contents. Amidst the piles, perched on a wooden crate, as if it defying the systematic and logical order, sat an ornate and ancient metal chest. A faint sound emanated from it, the sound of a beating heart, echoing softly in the cavernous silence.
****
“Ah, Mycroft!” Sherlock said with disdain. “I don’t remember inviting you.”
Mycroft smiled coolly. “It’s a matter of national security.”
“Boring.” Sherlock flopped back on the sofa, waving a dismissive hand.
Looking around the room, Mycroft addressed Jack and Will. “I believe you know something of this matter?”
“Where is it?” Jack growled, hand on his pistol.
Mycroft, who had seated himself without being asked, was carefully taking off his black gloves. “That was the question I was going to ask you. Before you and your friend chose to abscond.” He winced and rubbed his shin.
“Chose?” Jack’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You bloody shot at us!”
“Come, come,” Mycroft said calmly. “We meant you no harm, really. Those were merely tranquilizer guns. We were hoping for you to come quietly.”
Jack pulled his sword and took a menacing step towards the dapper man. “So ringing up wasn’t good enough? You decided to collect us like some zoo creatures?”
“You wouldn’t answer your mobile.”
“Wait a minute,” Will interrupted, a steadying hand on Jack’s arm. Turning to Mycroft he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean, “ask us” about it? Don’t you have it?”
“It? What?” John gave a puzzled look at the men.
“The chest. That infernal magic chest they keep babbling about,” Sherlock said in a bored voice from the sofa.
“As a matter of fact, we do not,” Mycroft told Will, with a smug smile at the disbelief on Jack’s face. “As difficult as it may seem for your friend to believe, we are all on the same side.”
“Then who does have it?” Jack was not going to let this go so easily. He brandished his cutlass at Mycroft.
Mycroft moved the point of the sword aside with a finger and sighed. “Mr. Sparrow, you are a leading expert in the field of marine archeology, are you not?”
Jack frowned. “What if I am?”
“Then you have heard of the Black Swan project?”
Sherlock sat up, suddenly no longer bored.
“Black Swan. Code name of the latest discovery of Janus Marine Enterprises.”
“Janus Marine?” Will furrowed his brow. “I have heard that name before.”
“You would have, working at the museum. They’ve had an ongoing dispute with Janus over their last salvaged wreck.”
“Janus had been cooperating closely with the Ministry of Defence on the project,” Mycroft added. “At first, all activities at the site were conducted in accordance with protocols agreed with MOD and Royal Navy officials.”
“What happened?” Will asked.
“Janus sought, and was granted, a judicial order in US courts, granting it possession and control of the site.” Mycroft sighed. “Before it could be appealed, Janus salvagers managed to recover a vast treasure of silver and gold, and shipped it to the port of Gibraltar, which is a free port. From there they chartered a plane and had it secretly flown to the United States. We believe the treasure to be at an undisclosed location, probably somewhere near Janus’ headquarters in Florida.”
“And the chest?”
“No doubt with the rest of the treasure.”
“Modern day pirates,” Sherlock said. “You should be quite familiar with them.” He gave Jack a pointed look.
Jack glared back and sheathed his sword. Turning to Mycroft, he pulled an envelope from his coat pocket. “Then how do you explain this,” he asked, brandishing it under his nose.
The envelope was standard government issue, the contents inside on departmental letterhead. Mycroft’s department.
Dear Mr. Sparrow,
It has come to my attention that a certain item of interest to you and your partner has recently been discovered during a deep-sea exploration. I am sure you realize the significance of this find, and the consequences of it falling into the wrong hands. You will be contacted, at a discreet location and time, to make arrangements for its return, in exchange for a certain map in your possession.
Mycroft Holmes
Mycroft read the letter aloud and then studied the missive. “It’s a forgery, that is not my signature.” Sniffing, he folded it and handed it back to Jack. “When did you receive it?” he asked.
“Two days ago. It was delivered by hand to the museum.”
“Then that explains this.”
He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew another envelope, and handed to Jack. The familiar logo of the museum was stamped on the envelope.
There was no salutation. The message was short and to the point, scrawled across a single sheet of museum letterhead.
The chest is no use to you. If you value your life, return it intact. I’ll be in touch.
J. Sparrow
“That’s not my writing. I have a better hand than that!” Jack protested.
Sherlock, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, swooped down on both men, eagerly taking the two letters and moving over to the window to examine them more closely in the light.
“You won’t find any fingerprints,” Mycroft said, “There’s nothing to go on.”
Sherlock ignored his brother, poring over the letters carefully with his hand lens. After several minutes he threw them both down on the table in disgust.
“Nothing. There is no way to extract any useful information after all the handling they’ve been through. Like letting a herd of cattle run through a crime scene.”
“We can assume that they were sent by the same person,” Mycroft offered. “Undoubtedly to put us at odds with one another.”
“But why?” Sherlock sank back on the couch. “Why send them in the first place? If the culprit has the chest, why announce it to you?”
****