All Souls' Day. Part One, Chapter Six: Steel Of Too Hard A Temper.

[ghislainem70]

Title: All Souls' Day. Part One, Chapter Six. Steel Of Too Hard A Temper.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,000
Warnings:  Explicit sex, graphic violence.
Summary:  Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a mysterious terrorist plot.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; all honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.

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Upon achieving the shore of the little harbour of St.-Jean-de-Luz, Mycroft arranged quickly for the purchase of the fast boat. Then they walked through the picturesque streets, stopping to browse shop-windows, stopping for coffee. Blending with the tourists.
Lestrade tried to remember that they were not here on a vacation like all the other happy people. He asked Mycroft about his plans for the night’s rendezvous with the still-anonymous ETA boss.

"I intend," Mycroft said, "to persuade him that I am an idiot."

Lestrade laughed. "That, I’d like to see. Seriously-- I’m not sure you can pull that off, Mycroft."

"If they think I’m an idiot, they won’t be terribly concerned about anything other than parting a fool from his money. This is just the first step on the ladder. I must be able to climb higher. And I can’t do that if they don’t trust me. Immediately."

"How will you get them to trust you? We don’t know how long we have. We have to assume it’s not long."

"Correct. Money opens doors. Even doors to terrorist cells. I’ll make my plans known - I want to buy a hotel, open a nightclub, that sort of thing . . .money-losing ventures, all. They will want to verify my loyalties - I have a backstory prepared."

Lestrade nodded. "A family member killed for the cause?"

"Precisely. An uncle. Well known ETA captain - died in a police skirmish, 20 years ago. Botched kidnapping. They will check. And after they check, they will wonder whether there are better things I can be persuaded to do with my money than spend it on nightclubs and fast boats."

The afternoon sun was waning. Lestrade tried to calmly accept that Mycroft would have to do the rendezvous alone.

"I’ll tail you, then. You did say you weren’t letting me out of your sight. You know, don’t you, that I feel the same," he said.

"But not too close . . .They’ll be looking for that. It won’t work. I’ll be- fine. Quite." The local ETA cell should be child’s play compared, for example, with the Russian mafia back in Liverpool. Lestrade didn’t really know about that particular episode, though. Yet. "Remember, you’re supposed to be a property agent, not my bodyguard. Be careful; but do what you would normally do if you were on a business trip and had a night off on the town," Mycroft said.

Lestrade gave him a long, meaningful look. "You’re not serious."

Mycroft actually blushed, deeply: turning a rather spectacular shade of pink all the way to the roots of his hair. But regardless of his discomfiture, he said with a note of warning: "Perfectly. Within limits."

Here was a boundary that had not been crossed: there had been no time, yet, for it to be crossed. Jealousy. Possessiveness.

Fidelity.

Infidelity.

Lestrade felt a flush of anger.

"It’s working," he said in clipped, quiet tones that Mycroft had not heard before.

"What is?"

"You’re a bloody idiot, Mycroft."

* * *

John and Sherlock did not go to San Sebastian. That pronouncement on Sherlock’s part had, of course, been a ploy. Upon arriving in Paris, they switched trains and took the TGV high-speed train to Bayonne.

"Whoever made up these coins," Sherlock declared " - and I am certain there will be more than just the one - had access to an original Ides of March coin. The truly fine examples are well-documented, and would be easy to find. Like the one that was sold at auction last week. But even a poor copy would be quite rare. There are only seventy-five known exemplars of the Ides of March denarius."

"So . . . .where will we look, then?"

"They are sold by dealers and collectors the world over. We, however, want someone who sells them in Spain, or France. In or near the Basque country, almost certainly. Unlikely to have originated in Ireland, despite the Ulster connection."

"Right. But - "

"But?"

"-what about the internet, eBay, that sort of thing?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Always a possibility, but they won’t have wanted to leave even the hint of an electronic trail. No, short of it having been a family heirloom - which I don’t discount, not enough data - balance of probabilities is that the original coin was bought from a dealer, a modest establishment. And then, too, they needed to make up the DIES IRAE coins. Would they hire someone else to do this, or . . . is it just one individual, supplying the original and then, making up the false coin?"

"D’you mean a counterfeiter? How would they be able to trust him?"

"Indeed, where would we find such a person? There are only two really plausible choices: one is in Bilbao. The other, here. In Bayonne."

* * *

The owner of the coin shop in Bayonne had suffered a stroke some months ago; his fragile, nervous daughter was attempting to run the shop despite, obviously, having little knowledge of coins. She spoke rather good English, though, which was helpful because while Sherlock was conversant in French, John was not.

"He taught everything to my brother," she said to Sherlock by way of excuse when it became clear she was genuinely unfamiliar with several of the coins Sherlock claimed to be interested in, including Marcus Brutus’ famous Ides of March coin, struck to commemorate the assassination of Julius Caesar.

"May we speak to him, then," Sherlock said gently, surprising John with his patience. Ignorance generally brought out the very worst in Sherlock. But despite Sherlock’s care, her eyes brimmed with tears.

John began pulling Sherlock away from the shop. "Sorry to trouble you," he stammered. He never could endure the sight of women’s tears. It reminded him of certain painful family episodes.

"He’s disappeared," she said. "Drugs, you know, and trouble with the police. I suppose he may be dead, now. I tried to find him, when Father . . . But, nothing. Someone had to mind things, and so . . . " She shrugged, gesturing vaguely to the shop. It did not appear that they got much custom.

As they left, Sherlock asked if she knew of the coin shop Hermanos Ayala, in Bilbao. She nodded. "That is very sad, you know," she said, wiping away fresh tears. "Mr. Ayala was an old friend of my father’s. They used to go together, sometimes, to the coin shows. You know, my father was the only one who would associate with him."

Sherlock became very still.

"Why was that?"

"Well, you know there was a scandal. It was many years ago, now. But it is a small community, like a brotherhood, the real coin collectors, like father," she said proudly. "Someone said - well, I don’t really like to speak ill of him now -"

"Please go on," John said, putting his hand on Sherlock’s arm as it appeared he was, after all, losing patience. John had noticed that Sherlock sometimes started rising up on the balls of his feet when impatient, making the man even taller and more imposing-looking than usual.

"Well, my father said some accused Mr. Ayala of - what is the word - a forgery? Selling false coins. My father never believed it; and I don’t believe anything was ever proven."

John realized that, naturally, Sherlock’s instincts had been right. As usual. Now all that mattered was getting out of this sad little shop and leaving this poor woman to her tears.

He tried to signal Sherlock that they should go, but Sherlock remained rooted to the spot.

"You said, ‘was,’" Sherlock declared. "‘Was’ an old friend of your father’s. We’d like to inquire of Mr. Ayala whether he might have some of these coins we’re interested in. Could you help us? We’d like to contact him."

"Oh. I’m sorry. Coins. Yes. Well. As I said, it’s very sad. His shop was robbed just a few days ago, and old Mr. Ayala was -" she pulled her finger across her throat, tear trickling down her pale cheeks.

* * *

Well after dark, Mycroft dropped Lestrade at the end of the block of flashy restaurants and nightclubs where they had lunched earlier. Things were just starting to buzz for the night.

Mycroft was returning to the beachside restaurant, where he would meet the men from the boat. Lestrade would make himself visible in the bar across the street for a few hours. They agreed to rendezvous back at the villa.

"They likely won’t want to take me anywhere the first meeting. If everything goes smoothly, there will be another meeting: a more important one, after this."

"And if it doesn’t?" Lestrade growled.

"At the villa you’ll find my case in the safe. I’ve set the combination as the reverse from my London house, do you remember it?" Lestrade nodded, remembering the night Mycroft’s butler Morris had shown him the combination to Mycroft’s steel cabinet, housing row after row of exotic and highly illegal weaponry. The night that agent Robert Roussel had died in his arms, leaving Lestrade the bloody Day of Wrath coin.

"In the case is intelligence about ETA. I need you to read it now, so you know everything I know."

Lestrade scowled. Mycroft was trying to tell him to sacrifice him if necessary, but to complete the mission. He nodded brusquely, only because he knew Mycroft could not be dissuaded from his plan for tonight’s meeting - and because he had to assume that Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing.

They made no conspicuous display at parting. Lestrade climbed out of the silver Audi as casually as he could, giving Mycroft’s hand the merest brush with his fingertips, then watched Mycroft deliver it to a valet and enter the restaurant.

A man came to greet him at the door, and Mycroft went inside.

* * *

Lestrade headed straight for the bar across the street, where loud music was blaring. He ordered a drink and smoked a cigarette. Everyone smoked in France. He exchanged a few pleasantries in his near-perfect French with men at the bar and surreptitiously watched across the street, where, so far, all seemed quiet. Some pretty girls, tanned from a day at the beach, eyed him appreciatively. He smiled back politely but did not encourage them. He didn’t consider that his cover required him to pretend to be particularly interested in women.

The topic everywhere was the Day of Wrath bombings. Lestrade saw with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, there had been a new bombing within just the past hour: this time, strangely, in Indonesia. There had been an explosion at a remote ecotourism resort. The chilling aftermath had been the kidnaping of a dozen UK tourists by a pack of masked gunmen.

They released a videotape of the beheading of one of the tourists.

They displayed the severed head under a banner proclaiming that the Day of Wrath was near.

Lestrade ordered another drink and knocked it back, hoping no one saw his hand shake.

If Mycroft was right, the men he was meeting with at this very moment were tied, somehow, to this gruesome and pitiless killing, halfway across the world.

* * *

John suppressed a groan of frustration. There was no direct train from Bayonne to Bilbao, and they had to board a bus. The kind, lost lady in the coin shop of Bayonne had produced Senor Ayala’s home address, advising that no one would likely be able to receive them there; a widower, Ayala had for many years lived entirely alone. It was nearly dawn when the bus discharged them near the center in the Old Town.

The house of Senor Ayala was shuttered up and already had the look of desertion that steals upon a house after a death. In a narrow street of romantic old Belle Epoque mansions, the house of Senor Ayala stood alone, surrounded by a gated wall enclosing a garden. It was the work of less than a minute for Sherlock to pick the gate’s ancient lock.

Inside the wall was a trickling old stone fountain, and neglected greenery. The high wall kept the sounds of the Old Town from penetrating here. Scrolled wrought iron balconies looked down over the garden. A grey cat sat blinking at the stone doorstep.

Sherlock led them along the side of the house, where a servant’s door was easily breached. Pushing the door open cautiously, they entered.

Dust motes drifted in the air. There was a distant ticking of a clock. They were in a small room, almost a closet, leading to a tidy kitchen with ancient appliances that did not look to have been replaced since the 1950s. A loud clock chime pealed the hour, deep and solemn. The sound faded away slowly. They were, apparently, quite alone. Except for the grey cat, who had insinuated itself between their legs as they entered and was now following them expectantly.

Sherlock gestured for John to follow, and he did, his hand gripping the new gun that Sherlock had mysteriously provided him. He was glad that MI6 had had the foresight to provide them with something other than their wits to pursue their mission. It was loaded. John could not help fingering it a little nervously. He did not trust any weapon he had not had a chance to fire.

The old house made little creaks and groans as they walked. Sherlock led them through seemingly long-disused rooms furnished with stiff, old-fashioned furniture. But when they came to a snug room lined with glass-doored cabinets, they knew they had found what they came for. The room lacked the stale air of the others; the grey cat leaped onto a chair where, John thought, his master probably had been accustomed to sit. This was the private study of Senor Ayala.

Sherlock easily pried open the lock to the drawers of the old desk here, and they divided the work of paging through the large quantity of papers. There did not seem to be any particular system. Some bore the name of a presumed purchaser or dealer involved in the transaction; others, merely initials or sometimes, numbers. John was mystified.

One piqued Sherlock’s interest, though, and he examined it closely.

"Look, John," he held it up. There was a faint scrawl on the scrap of paper:

EM AR d. x 6 JQB

John scrutinized it. "The original was called Eid Mar in Latin . . . so, ‘EM’?"

Sherlock smiled approvingly. "Precisely. The rest is simple enough, ‘AR d.’ is for silver denarius: silver abbreviated as "AR" for argentum -"

"Latin for silver." Medical school got one quite up on Latin.

"The ‘d’ is for denarius."

"So, six Ides of March coins; but isn’t our coin an alloy, not silver? . . .and what is QCB?"

"You are right: our Day of Wrath coin is not silver. But the original Ides of March coin certainly is. Now recollect, John: these coins were struck by Marcus Brutus."

"Yes, of course, but . . . wouldn’t the initials be, MB, then? And why mention Brutus at all? If you know what the coin is, you don’t - don’t need to refer to Brutus. It goes without saying. Particularly for a coin dealer, I should have thought."

Sherlock began perusing the bookshelves with concentration. "A dealer in ancient coins would necessarily need to be well acquainted with the ancient Romans," he said. Plucking an old volume entitled "Roman Lives" in Spanish, he read out haltingly:

"Marcus Brutus was descended from the . . . famous line . . . . of Lucius Junius Brutus, who . . . drove out the Etruscan kings from Rome and. . . founded the first republic. But that ancient Brutus was of a severe and. . . inflexible nature, like steel of too hard a temper, and having never had his character. . . softened by study and thought, he let himself be so far transported with his. . . rage and hatred against tyrants, that, for conspiring with them, he proceeded to. . . the execution even of . . . his own sons. Marcus Brutus’ father was . . . .assassinated . . .by Pompey the Great, after which Marcus Brutus was . . . .adopted by his. . . uncle, Quintus Servilius Caepio. And he honored his adoptive parent. . . . by taking his name, calling himself Quintus Caepio Brutus.  .

"Quintus Caepio Brutus - QCB. Don’t you see? Our man was using these initials as a kind of password with old Ayala," Sherlock said, frowning. He pocketed the scrap of paper.

"If he struck six of the coins," John said, "that means there were - or are-- six conspirators, each being given one of the coins? One of them was our dead man in Ulster? How will we find the others?"

"We know one was delivered to Ulster. Whether it was intended to go farther, not enough data. I don’t think they would have permitted old Senor Ayala to know where the coins were destined. No, our man QCB would have arranged to take delivery of the Day of Wrath coins - and for the means of having them passed on to the conspirators."

There was a sound in the passage. Sherlock and John froze. For a moment there was silence; then, the distinct sound of a firm, heavy tread. Footsteps.

John drew his gun.

The door to the study, which they had left ajar, swung slowly inward.

"Have the goodness to explain yourselves, senors, or I shall certainly blow out your brains," said the man at the door, who brandished a large, somehow antique-looking pistol that nevertheless had a well-kept look to John’s eye.

"Careful," John warned in a low, calm voice, not lowering his gun. "This is loaded. Stay back."

"I asked you to explain. As you refuse, I shall shoot you, senor, and then your friend, before he can take up your gun."

John calmly aimed at the other man’s head. "Not. Happening," he declared. "I don’t miss. I only have to make one shot. You, on the other hand, have to make two. The odds are against you, and your antique there."

The man shrugged philosophically. "You may be right. It would be interesting to find out, yes?"

"No."

"We had important business with Senor Ayala," Sherlock said in one of his false voices: a smooth, oily sort of tone that suggested a transaction not entirely within the bounds of the law. "Delicate business. We hoped that there were no . . . records of a - compromising nature, remaining for the police to find - now that he is dead. We find that there are none. Our business is concluded. Please let us be on our way; our business is our own, not yours."

The man stepped into the light. He was impeccably turned out in a finely cut brown suit, with an impressive head of silver hair and a silver moustache, and somber grey eyes. The overall effect was one of gravitas. "On the contrary, I think we have much to discuss," he said. "You and your friend are looking for the same thing I am looking for. Perhaps. . . you can help me."

"I doubt that very much," Sherlock snapped. When people pointed weapons at John, Sherlock could be quite difficult.

"Perhaps I can help you, then," the man said equably. He gestured with his free hand toward an empty chair. "Come, gentlemen, I was too hasty. I see you are not common criminals after all. Introductions are in order. I am Roderigo de la Pena. I was Senor Ayala’s solicitor, in life; sadly, he is dead, and I am now his executor." He made a small bow and sat in the chair, keeping his gun trained on John. "Let us put our guns away, and talk reasonably."

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" John said.

"In my coat pocket are my card, my license, and downstairs is my briefcase containing legal papers pertaining to Senor Ayala’s will. I will show you; and then, let us be civilized."

Sherlock approached and patted the man’s coat, extracting the identification and business cards he had described, while the man and John kept their guns trained on each other. Sherlock spent some moments scrutinizing these items under the light of the desk lamp. Finally he nodded, satisfied.

"They are genuine, John. Perhaps a little chat would be illuminating."

The men slowly put down their guns.

"Before that, I hate to insist. I must see your identification as well," Pena said. They dug out their false passports, and Pena looked at them without, apparently, questioning their authenticity.

"Well, Senor Trent, Senor Neale - as I am the executor of Senor Ayala’s will, and as he has no direct heirs, I am the only person who has the right of access to this house. The police have not even come here--- they appear to have decided that Senor Ayala’s death was a common robbery gone wrong; and so, their business is finished. Open-and-shut case. I think you know something of Senor Ayala’s death, yes?"

"No. That is, we were told of it, but hoped, as I said, that no. . . indiscreet papers pertaining to our business with Senor Ayala would be discovered by the police. We found nothing here, and we are satisfied," Sherlock said.

"And the nature of your business with Senor Ayala?"

"Certain coins, which we wanted to - shall we say - have reproduced by Senor Ayala. For collectors only, you understand - persons who wanted a perfect copy to round out their collection. It is not always possible for a collector to lay hands on every coin he wants. Some collectors are happy to have -- an alternative," Sherlock said. "Now, Senor Ayala, for reasons I am sure you appreciate, did not want it known that he would undertake these sorts of commissions; neither, I must say, do we."

Pena nodded. "He was brilliant. But I thought he had given this business up, after the last time."

Sherlock and John did not look at each other.

"He didn’t deliver these coins to you?"

Sherlock shook his head in the negative.

"What were these. . . coins?"

"I don’t care to say. As I said, our business is our own; it has failed, and there does not seem to be anything that you, sir, can do for us. We will be going," Sherlock stood up.

Pena held out his hand. "Then I will tell you what coin it was," he said. "Does the phrase, 'Ides of March,' mean anything to you?"

* * *

Lestrade was growing impatient for the night to come to an end. Several groups of men in twos and threes had entered the restaurant where Mycroft was, but no one had left, yet. It was just past midnight. His anxiety was rising; the meeting was taking longer, he thought, than it should. Mycroft had been inside a little over two hours. The bar was playing loud dance music now.

"You miss your friend," came an insinuating voice in his ear, loud, over the music. He turned to see the Algerian waiter from lunch earlier that day. He smiled invitingly. "He left you all alone tonight, mon ami. But - you don’t have to stay alone," he said, leaving no room for interpretation.

"Ah, listen - thanks, but it’s not like that. Anyway, I’m off soon," Lestrade said firmly.

"Why? The night is just starting. I know a better club, you know?" The man pulled at Lestrade’s arm. He was maybe a little drunk. Lestrade was not.

"Hey, really, I’m not up for anything, all right?" He said even more firmly, getting a little irate.

The Algerian pouted. It did not become him as well as he evidently thought it did. Lestrade winced. "Your friend - he’s not alone. I can show you. You’re better off with me, tonight."

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I saw you watching across the street. He’s not coming back for you tonight. That’s what you thought, isn’t it? You shouldn’t waste the night waiting on him. He has new friends, now. Rich men can always find new friends." The Algerian smiled smugly, obviously hoping to spark jealousy. Lestrade realized that he and Mycroft may possibly not have been as clever as they thought, at lunch. This urchin had spotted that they were lovers.

He relaxed deliberately, and put his hand on the man’s arm. "What did you say your name was?"

"Yussuf."

"Yussuf. I wouldn’t feel right leaving unless I was sure my friend wasn’t coming back. Do you understand? Why do you say my friend isn’t coming back?"

Yussuf nodded. His eyes had a hectic, overexcited look and Lestrade wondered if he was more than drunk. "I work there, during the day; nights, too; but tonight they gave me off; gave us all off," he rambled.

"Can I buy you a drink?" Lestrade asked, smiling down at his new friend, who grinned broadly.

Lestrade got them both fresh drinks. Clearly Yussuf wanted to milk this for all it was worth, and it wouldn’t do Mycroft any good if he made this man suspicious.

"I’m telling you, your friend won’t be coming back tonight. Come with me, I have a place nearby. Or take me away with you," he said boldly. Lestrade groaned inwardly. This was going nowhere; or rather, going exactly where he didn’t want it to go.

"Can you take me there? Across the street? I could . . . maybe see if he’s - occupied for the evening. Then, you can take me to the other club," he said, laying a firmer hand on Yussuf’s arm. Yussuf beamed.

"I can take you, but we have to be very quiet."

"Yes. Right. I don’t want my friend to think I am following him, he would be very angry with me," Lestrade said.

"Follow me," Yussuf said, and led him out the back door of the club. The cold sea air was shockingly fresh and cold after the warm, loud bar. Yussuf led him through narrow alleys until they were, Lestrade thought, behind the restaurant where Mycroft had his rendezvous. Yussuf pulled him up a fragile wooden staircase that led to the upper floor of the nightclub and bar next door, where, apparently, he rented a room. "Just for now, until I find something better. Maybe you will take me back to America with your boss, I work hard," he wheedled, laying back against the mattress on the floor. He smiled seductively.

"Listen, you told me you would take me to see Monsieur Vasco," Lestrade said, getting well and truly irritated now. "And you’ve tricked me. I’m out of here," and he went to leave, but Yussuf stopped him.

"Don’t be like that, sir. Look - look out this window here, tell me what you see."

Lestrade looked out. The little window looked directly into a dirty window across the narrow alleyway, so close that he could stretch out and touch it. And that window looked down into a room full of men. He could see Mycroft. The men appeared to be talking, drinking. Maybe even laughing. Mycroft did not appear to be in any danger. It did not, however, look like the meeting was near its conclusion. He heaved a silent sigh of relief. Time to go back to the villa.

"There are such windows on both sides, high up, you know," Yussuf said. " I see . . . interesting things, sometimes. But Yussuf knows how to keep his mouth shut."

Lestrade looked at him to see if this was some sort of threat, if this Yussuf had seen something he shouldn’t have. But all he saw was a sort of naive bravado, a childish desire to be important to the rich American’s friend. He relented.

"Listen, you’re very kind. I see that you’re right. My friend is engaged for the night. He doesn’t look like he’s leaving any time soon. But I’m not up for any more clubbing, and you’re - well, very nice and all that, don’t think you’re not, but - I really can’t stay."

He thought about reaching for his wallet to give the man some money, but something in the man’s eye, pride, maybe, stopped him. And then thought he saw something dark moving in the alley below. Something stealthy. He strained his eyes to see if he could make out a face, anything, but there was nothing but darkness and a darker smudge, sidling along the alley.

"Stay here, don’t make a sound," Lestrade said harshly, and began the climb back down to the alley, gun drawn.

Below, the raucous thump of music from the bars prevented him from hearing anything.

A police patrol drove by. He froze on the wooden staircase.

He decided to walk naturally as though he was just going back to the bars, with his gun down at his side. But then there was a splintering sound and he had just a second to process what was happening when the fragile old wood of the stair cracked, then gave way.

Lestrade wavered, unbalanced, turning just in time to see the outline of a face he thought he had glimpsed before.

Where?

"What the - " he cried as he instinctively threw his arm up as the man delivered a vicious kick. Lestrade didn’t drop his gun, but his arm was paralyzed by the brutal blow. He switched the gun to his good left hand.

This man was a serious opponent, Lestrade knew immediately. He had a knife, and wielded it with wicked force and precision. Lestrade parried, trying to get in a shot as adrenaline surged and kicked in, bringing everything into the uniquely sharp focus of mortal danger.

Back and forth they battled, desperate grunting and scuffling the only sounds. Finally Lestrade maneuvered the nose of the gun against his assailant’s ribcage. He pulled the trigger. The sound was incredibly loud.

He bent over to search the man. His breath was reduced to a labored wheezing by Lestrade's bullet. Blood, warm and glistening darkly, covered them both and the air filled with the metallic tang of it. Now Lestrade could see the man’s face, and contorted with pain though it was, he knew where he had seen it before.

London.

And that was the last thought he had before something very hard struck the back of his head, and everything went black.

to be continued . . .

Next: Seven: Sic Semper Tyrannus.

Listen to Technology:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nKISfjNlxCg