All Souls' Day. Part Two. Chapter One. The Ghosts of Sandakan.
Title: All Souls' Day. Part Two, Chapter One. The Ghosts of Sandakan.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,500
Warnings: graphic violence, explicit sex (entire work), reference to war atrocities
Summary: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a terrorist conspiracy called the "Day of Wrath."
All Souls' Day. Part Two
Chapter One. The Ghosts of Sandakan.
August 1941. The Headquarters of the British North Borneo Chartered Company, London.
"No defence!"
"No defence. In fact: scorched earth. Everything is to be sacrificed. Leave the Japs nothing but ashes."
"Scorched earth! What about the locals: you know, civil servants and such? Surely -- "
"Well, Governor Smith's a Company man, must do as he's told. Poor blighters. They're to be abandoned, then, if the worst happens. Churchill says he can't spare the troops or air support: not for Borneo. Well, perhaps we shall be fortunate. The Japanese aren't there yet. Perhaps they never shall be! Brandy?"
"Thanks, I believe I will."
* * *
Late November 1941. Sandakan, North Borneo. Capital of the British North Borneo Chartered Company.
Private Memorandum of Lieutenant-General Arthur E. Percival, General Officer Commanding, Malaya Command.
"Completed 2-day tour to assess the adequacy of defence preparations. Nobody can pretend that this is a satisfactory situation -- we have left them absolutely defenceless here. . . .
"The best I could do was to tell them of the arrival of HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, due at Singapore in a few days . . ."
9 December 1941. The War Room. London.
12:04: from HMS Repulse: Enemy aircraft bombing.
12:40: Emergency. Have been struck by a torpedo on port side Repulse hit by 1 torpedo. Send destroyers.
13:20: from HMS Vampire: HMS Repulse sunk.
13:21: from HMS Electra: HMS Prince of Wales sunk.
9 December 1941. 10 Downing Street.*
Churchill was opening his dispatch boxes. It was very late, and he was in bed, frowning under the pool of light from the bedside table. The telephone rang.
"What is it?" Churchill growled.
‘Prime Minister -- " He recognized the strangled voice of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound. Admiral Pound gave a sort of cough and gulp, and at first Churchill could not hear quite clearly.
"Prime Minister, I have to report to you that the Prince of Wales and the Repulse have both been sunk by the Japanese- Vice Admiral Tom Phillips is drowned."
Churchill put the telephone down. In all the war, he had never received a more direct shock.
Now there were no British or American ships in the Indian Ocean or the Pacific.
Except the American survivors of Pearl Harbor, who were hastening back to California.
Over this vast expanse of waters, Japan was supreme, and everywhere Britain was weak and naked.
* * *
19 January 1942. Sandakan, North Borneo.
Last entry in the Official Log of Superintendent of Police for Sandakan, by Captain Ranjit Singh, acting Chief of Police:
The Japanese have landed. Superintendent of Police Thomas Cornwall was recruited for the defense of the southern airfield. An asset deemed more valuable than Sandakan. I have command now.
The few British troops here are utterly inadequate in the face of enemy numbers. Our people are being shot, bayoneted, burned, and worse. I pray my wife is safe in the mountains by now.
It is fortunate that our Headquarters, a former counting-house for the cocoa plantations, is solidly built. We have secured it as a last refuge. There are more than one hundred here. I have just twenty guns. I hear them coming now.
Mid-1943, Sandakan, North Borneo. A POW Camp.
(In 1942, the Japanese established a POW camp at Sandakan for prisoner labor.)
Entry in Prison Commandant's Log:
Prisoner: Ranjit Singh. Age: 45. [In league with resistance; caught by kempei-tai (secret police) in radio communication with prisoners. A former British civil servant in Police service. Enemy sympathiser and conspirator.]
February 15, 1945. Sandakan Death March, North Borneo.
After discovering that the POWs were in communication with local resistance, prisoners were force marched from Sandakan to Ranau over some of the toughest and most remote jungle terrain on the planet.
Half died of exhaustion, starvation or illness during the death march. Those that could not keep up were executed. The half that made it to Ranau, died there.
Of 2,400 prisoners of war held by the Japanese at Sandakan, only six survived.
Ranjit Singh was not one of the six.
4 April, 1946. Rabaul, Papau New Guinea.
Captain Hoshijima Susumu, commandant of the Sandakan POW camp, is hanged for war crime atrocities in the Sandakan death marches.
* * *
2 November. All Souls' Day. Ascot Racecourse, Berkshire, England.
Sanjay "Sammy" Singh gazed at the photograph of his revered grandfather Ranjit Singh: red-turbaned, black-bearded, proud and stern, wearing his dress police uniform. Like all those in distant colonial backwaters in the twilight of the Empire, it was gaudy, with an excess of brass buttons and braid.
He remembered his own father's garments: no more than filthy rags, usually; and his own childhood garb, no better.
Sammy Singh now had a uniform, of sorts: crisply tailored bespoke suits, shirts and ties, the finest Bond Street could provide. Although some in in the service went in for Hong Kong tailors, he himself was loathe to perpetruate even the faintest of Asian connections. His scrupulously maintained standards required his entire wardrobe be supplied only by firms possessing a Royal Warrant.
He kissed his grandfather's photograph reverently and replaced it in the little Smythson portfolio he always carried.
He brought out a second photograph. This was a small -- but none the less impressive --- colonial-style mansion, walled and surrounded by lush palms. This was once his grandfather's house. It had been rebuilt, after the war. During the post-war boom, it was said that for a time, the largest concentration of millionaires in the world was to be found in Sandakan. The house was now a luxurious eco-hotel.
* * *
Singh consulted his watch. It was nearly time. He ignored the twinge of concern that so far, Agent Rennett had failed to neutralize Mycroft Holmes. Even his new partner, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestade of Scotland Yard, had evaded them. These failures would be addressed.
But neither was there any sign that Mycroft had penetrated Singh's plans. Aguirre had sent him a brief signal at the correct time.
No matter what Mycroft Holmes did now, the Day of Wrath was here.
In a week, nearly all of the younger Royals would be seated, watching the Coral Ascot hurdle races, directly above this spot.
He checked the secret compartment one last time. It had ducting that angled in several directions. This would be very useful. There would be no escape. He spoke into his headset. "All clear here. Meet me at the Royal Enclosure and we'll give it one last pass, shall we? Can't be too careful."
"Yes, sir. I'll be right up."
* * *
2 November. AREVA Private Hospital for Nuclear Medicine and Research. Somewhere near Cherbourg, France.
Sherlock told his captors succienctly what he had learned from in Willencourt, before he himself was shot and lost consciousness.
"They -- the Day of Wrath terrorists -- plan to smuggle canisters filled with radioactive particulates into airports and train stations around the world -- disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. Each canister would be enough, probably, to kill or seriously damage hundreds of people."
"Where? How many? When?"
"I don't know where, and I don't know when. Soon, I should say. But even assuming you can intercept all oxygen canisters - an impossible task -- another problem is that these terrorists have developed a black market source for radioactive waste."
"What do you mean by 'black market'?"
"Oh, come now. Not everything gets disposed of according to IAEA regulations. China, Russia, probably even France, everyone has some dirty little radioactive waste -- and nowhere safe to put it. And with enough help from the right sort of people -- for example, a nuclear physicist --- all sorts of interesting projects can be launched. Radioacive gas. Dirty bombs. They've gotten their hands on a plutonium core, apparently military grade -- like the one at Los Alamos, 1945. You know, the "demon core" experiments. I certainly hope you've got that locked up tight. Got it from the Russian black market, I'd say."
The men looked at him with astonishment. "Plutonium core? There was no plutonium core."
"Well, I didn't dream it. Ask Dr. Echavarria. John was holding it ---"
"Echavarria's dead. Maybe you killed him."
"I? I was shot, I was unconscious, for God's sake."
"Maybe you took the -- what did you call it -- 'demon core'."
"Don't be absurd. Where would I hide it? And I was unconscious. You know this. Look, if it wasn't for --" he was about to mention his brother's name, and stopped. Because so far, his name had not come up.
* * *
"I won't say anything more until you tell me everything about John Watson's condition -- he has radiation poisoning -- acute -- part of his chart is locked -- I suppose you are letting him -- just--" his voice shook and broke, "--die, is that it?"
"Mr. Holmes, your accusations are quite delusional. Doctor Watson is receiving the very best of care. This facility has state-of-the-art capabilities for treatment of acute radiation syndrome. His prognosis is -- well, we are doing everything that can be done."
"Then let me see his tests. Let me see his chart. His entire chart. NOW." Sherlock was making no effort to modulate his tone of voice; however, the French being undisputed masters of sneering disdain, his own brand of contempt appeared to be having little effect.
The hospital administrator, a distinguished silver-haired aristocrat, shook his head. "I'm sure you can appreciate, Mr. Holmes, that apart from every other consideration, we have our privacy regulations. You have no -- how may I put it --- legal relations -- with Doctor Watson. You are -- what did you say here," he consulted a folder "--- 'flatmates'? Here we say, colocotaire, cohabitant --- such persons have no rights of access to a patient's medical records."
Sherlock groaned in frustration. In Scotland, at Moy Castle*, he had as much as proposed --- well, certainly he had meant it to be a commitment. A lifetime commitment. Months later John had said, casually enough, that "he didn't need a piece of paper" to prove anything about their bond. After that, neither of them had done anything more about it -- such as registering as civil partners -- nor in truth felt a need to.
Now he recalled that Mycroft had admonished him to be more responsible; more adult about the matter, and sent him packets of the necessary forms. These were presently buried under a pile of Italian forensic journals in 221b.
Now, he was being treated like a stranger to John Watson, when he was most needed.
"Well, surely -- he can simply sign -- what would you say, a directive for me to access his records," Sherlock said, changing tactics as he was consumed with peculiar feeling that anyone else might identify as a sinking heart. He was alreadly nearly numb from his struggle with the wave of panicked loss that had overtaken him, knowing John was stricken. But part of his mind was ticking away at the problem. Until he discovered the solution, he would have to try to appear to be reasonable.
"I am afraid not. This is not an ordinary facility. Doctor Watson is not an ordinary patient. There are many questions about your actions in Willencourt -- and how Doctor Watson came to be exposed to radiation at such levels."
"What are you saying? Please try to be clear."
There was a discreet buzzing and the aristocratic administrator waved at the door. The dark-suited man who had been sitting outside Sherlock's hospital room entered and began hauling Sherlock by his good arm out the door. There were three other men with him. None of them smiled.
"Yes. To be clear: Mr. Holmes, privacy is no longer the issue. This is now a matter of state security. As are Doctor Watson's records. As Doctor Watson is not presently in any condition to answer questions, and as you have now apparently recovered from your surgery, I believe that answers to these questions are expected . . . from you. I would say bonne chance, Monsieur, but --" the administrator gave a peculiarly Gallic shrug and shut the door firmly after Sherlock as he was dragged, howling, down the sterile corridor.
* * *
Sherlock began telling them everything, all over again. He was surrounded by four French agents who questioned him in turn, impatiently, sceptically. Sherlock knew that the sooner he satisfied them, the sooner he could get to John. This clarified and purified his fragmented thoughts, devastated by the tidal wave that kept rolling over him, over and over, as he understood that John might very well die.
Not yet. Not yet. There’s time.
"Like I said before, you need to listen to me carefully. They have canisters. Disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. When, where, how many - I have no idea. Soon. And they have a plutonium core. You lot must be up on your nuclear history around here. Don’t waste time with me - ask Aguirre. He was there, he is your mastermind. And Dr. Echavarri. They have black market connections, he said. They said they were taking it on the TGV train, London to Calais. Echavarri’s in on the entire plot. These terrorists have been very busy indeed and are rather omnivorous in their nuclear tastes. Haven’t you interrogated them?"
"We would rather hear from you."
"Look, I was shot, remember? I was unconscious. You’re wasting time."
"Dr. Echavarri’s dead. We think you killed him. And we didn’t find Aguirre. Are you quite sure you saw him?"
"I? I told you -- I didn’t kill Echavarri - look, you do have ballistics here, yes? I never fired my gun at him: do your forensics. And Aguirre was there - he was talking to John, John was . . .he was holding the case. The case with the plutonium core. Look, I need to see John."
He remembered John clutching the case containing the demon core. Perhaps there had been a struggle: perhaps John had been forced to shoot Echavarri, or Aguirre. Or both.
Insufficient data.
"Tell us again about this plutonium core."
Sherlock could not conceal his astonishment. "You mean you don’t have Aguirre? You don’t have the plutonium case?"
"We don’t have any such things, Mr. Holmes. Nothing like that was found in Willencourt. Did you hide it? What about Doctor Watson? Did he take it?"
He realised again that not once since he had been in this facility had he heard his brother’s name. No one had mentioned Mycroft. Nor Lestrade.
And now it was clear that Aguirre had not been captured, if they were telling the truth.
And also telling the truth about the fact that no one knew where the plutonium core was.
It followed that somehow, Mycroft had taken the demon core himself.
Or, Aguirre had.
* * *
"Look," Sherlock said seriously, "Don’t you think you’d better consider the probability that Aguirre has escaped? He was definitely there, in Willencourt. Why would I lie? And if he’s escaped, he’s taken the plutonium. I assume you know the damage it can do. But that’s not the least of your worries."
Two of the men fled the room. The remaining two were frantically working their mobiles.
"Not . . . the least of our worries?" One of them said. "You will please explain that remark, monsieur."
Sherlock folded his arms, and felt a sharp stabbing from his shoulder wound as a result. This only served to bring back painful thoughts of John, of John’s own shoulder wound from Afghanistan. He shivered.
"I’m not telling you anything more until you give me unlimited access to Doctor Watson, let me see his files. His complete files. And - permission to administer treatments. It’s not so much to ask, really."
"Believe me when I say, monsieur, that you will tell us what you meant by that remark. And you are not in a position to make conditions."
"If you think you can just make me talk," Sherlock sneered, "I think you’ll find that rather a daunting undertaking. At any rate I imagine you’ll find out what I mean soon enough - but you’ll have lost any time advantage you might have gained. Let’s say --- you could make me talk. That might take forty-eight hours, seventy-two hours, I’ll give you that, for the sake of argument. Unlikely, but still, that is an eternity, isn’t it? When you’re talking about a nuclear threat.
"Give me what I want-- you’ll know what you want within the hour."
* * *
Half an hour later, Sherlock was incandescent with rage and had to be forcibly restrained from breaking John’s doctor’s neck with his good arm.
"It’s experimental, a very promising new drug, Mr. Holmes!"
"It isn’t working, you moron!" Sherlock roared. "Look at his white cell count! Your drug is a failure! You’ve been using John Watson as a - as a - guinea pig - I’ll see you in hell if he doesn’t come through this, I swear it!"
The doctor shrank back, muttering over the chart notes. "I thought -" he said feebly.
"Don’t. Think." Sherlock snarled, tearing though John's chart. "Ever. Again. Take me to your laboratory."
A dose of Prussian blue capsules, then, obviously was the place to start. Acute exposure to ionizing radiation triggering apoptotic cell death of hematopoietic stem and progenitor cells, leaving the victim highly susceptible to infection and hemorrhage. A cocktail of cytokines . . . stem cell factor, Flt-3 ligand, thrombopoietin and interleukin-3 . . .granulocyte-macrophage colony-stimulating factor used off-label to speed neutrophil recovery and stimulate residual hematopoiesis ---
He scribbled a note out and thrust it at the doctor. "Get me all of it. Exactly what I’ve written there. All of it, do you understand? If you don’t have it here, have it brought. I don’t care if you have to fly it in."
The intelligence agents were fuming. "Now Mr. Holmes, let’s stay on target, if you please? You were going to tell us about our 'bigger problem.'"
"Yes. A much bigger problem." Sherlock was running, nearly flying down the hallways to the laboratory now, and the agents sped after him. Sherlock was assembling materials, pouring liquids into beakers, and staring at John’s blood samples under an electron microscope.
"Do you know how Doctor Watson came to be contaminated?" He snapped at the doctor, who had returned meekly bearing the items Sherlock had ordered.
The doctor nodded cautiously. "Cesium-137. Cesium choride. Highly radioactive. Easily fragmented. Distinctive blue glow. Byproduct of nuclear fission of uranium. He had a quantity of Cesium-137 on his skin, in his hair and in his garments. Doctor Watson - inhaled a small amount as well."
Sherlock’s brain was already mapping out the likely strength of exposure, the volume inhaled, the probable consequences, mentally adjusting John's treatment.
"John Watson handled the body of one of the terrorists. That man had radiation burns on his skin. I knew it could not have been from handling the plutonium core - he would never have opened that case -- and if he had, it would have killed him, within hours. That man had been traveling more than just a few hours, from the signs on his garments and his shoes. Before he was shot, that man was ill; yes, but not that ill. Ill from a source that would give him burns on his skin. A number of sources come to mind, but Cesium-137 is one of the most readily obtainable - primarily from third-world medical facilities; also, if one has the right connections, from nuclear power plants. Like La Hague, for example."
"What are you trying to say?"
"What I’m trying to say is that that man showed every sign of having been on board a ship in the past twenty four hours, where he accidentally contaminated himself with Cesium-137. Cesium-137 is the perfect vehicle for a dirty bomb. And it is generated at La Hague."
"But he didn’t have any quantity of Cesium-137 on his person, just the residual contaminant."
"Yes. You are starting to understand. The Cesium-137 is not going to be taken off the ship. It is going to stay on the ship. Along with the other cargo."
"'The ship'? What ship?"
"Surely you’ve guessed it by now? A specialized cargo vessel. The vessel is carrying MOX fuel and Cesium-137 originating from the La Hague nuclear plant, via Cherbourg, bound for Japan. But the ship has already been infiltrated by Day of Wrath terrorists amongst the crew. And it will take very little, I assure you, to make the MOX go critical, or to cause a dispersal accident on a much wider scale than their little canisters. Those canisters were meant to be just a foretaste of things to come.
"You have an oceangoing, moveable nuclear threat of apocalyptic proportions."
"How do you know all this?"
Sherlock spoke rapidly as he finished assembling the treatment regimen for John’s consumption.
"Paint flecks: on the dead man’s shoes and on his jacket. They were large, and numerous. Haven’t had a chance to look at them under a microscope but if one did, I am virtually certain the paint from his shoes is paint from the deck of a British-flagged transport ship out of Barrow. Pacific Nuclear Transport Limited. I’d say it’s probable that she’s the Pacific Heron: entered service in 2008. And the paint flakes on the man’s jacket are almost certainly that particular paint used for nuclear radiation warning symbols on transport casks. Bring me the paint flakes and I'll verify it.
"I suggest that somebody formulate a plan to board that ship immediately and secure the crew and cargo - before they start a nuclear holocaust."
Sherlock had barely finished before the remaining two agents fled the room to deliver Sherlock’s shocking intelligence report up the chain of command.
"Now that I’ve saved the world for you," Sherlock announced, flourishing several pharmaceutical cocktails, "perhaps you would get out of my way and permit me to save Doctor Watson."
To be continued . . .
Listen to Now I Know, here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BltvcDeI10
(The author thanks erynn999 (she knows why) and the other kind readers who took the time to encourage me to continue this fic.)
next: Ch. 2: Antidote
back to Part One: http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/41267.html
* Notes: Churchill's reaction to the sinking of the battleships HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales is taken nearly verbatim from Churchill's memoirs.
* Readers curious about Sherlock's proposal to John at Moy Castle in Scotland, may like to read Full Fathom Five, Number 2 of the Indestructible Series.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 3,500
Warnings: graphic violence, explicit sex (entire work), reference to war atrocities
Summary: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a terrorist conspiracy called the "Day of Wrath."
All Souls' Day. Part Two
Chapter One. The Ghosts of Sandakan.
August 1941. The Headquarters of the British North Borneo Chartered Company, London.
"No defence!"
"No defence. In fact: scorched earth. Everything is to be sacrificed. Leave the Japs nothing but ashes."
"Scorched earth! What about the locals: you know, civil servants and such? Surely -- "
"Well, Governor Smith's a Company man, must do as he's told. Poor blighters. They're to be abandoned, then, if the worst happens. Churchill says he can't spare the troops or air support: not for Borneo. Well, perhaps we shall be fortunate. The Japanese aren't there yet. Perhaps they never shall be! Brandy?"
"Thanks, I believe I will."
* * *
Late November 1941. Sandakan, North Borneo. Capital of the British North Borneo Chartered Company.
Private Memorandum of Lieutenant-General Arthur E. Percival, General Officer Commanding, Malaya Command.
"Completed 2-day tour to assess the adequacy of defence preparations. Nobody can pretend that this is a satisfactory situation -- we have left them absolutely defenceless here. . . .
"The best I could do was to tell them of the arrival of HMS Prince of Wales and HMS Repulse, due at Singapore in a few days . . ."
9 December 1941. The War Room. London.
12:04: from HMS Repulse: Enemy aircraft bombing.
12:40: Emergency. Have been struck by a torpedo on port side Repulse hit by 1 torpedo. Send destroyers.
13:20: from HMS Vampire: HMS Repulse sunk.
13:21: from HMS Electra: HMS Prince of Wales sunk.
9 December 1941. 10 Downing Street.*
Churchill was opening his dispatch boxes. It was very late, and he was in bed, frowning under the pool of light from the bedside table. The telephone rang.
"What is it?" Churchill growled.
‘Prime Minister -- " He recognized the strangled voice of the First Sea Lord, Admiral Sir Dudley Pound. Admiral Pound gave a sort of cough and gulp, and at first Churchill could not hear quite clearly.
"Prime Minister, I have to report to you that the Prince of Wales and the Repulse have both been sunk by the Japanese- Vice Admiral Tom Phillips is drowned."
Churchill put the telephone down. In all the war, he had never received a more direct shock.
Now there were no British or American ships in the Indian Ocean or the Pacific.
Except the American survivors of Pearl Harbor, who were hastening back to California.
Over this vast expanse of waters, Japan was supreme, and everywhere Britain was weak and naked.
* * *
19 January 1942. Sandakan, North Borneo.
Last entry in the Official Log of Superintendent of Police for Sandakan, by Captain Ranjit Singh, acting Chief of Police:
The Japanese have landed. Superintendent of Police Thomas Cornwall was recruited for the defense of the southern airfield. An asset deemed more valuable than Sandakan. I have command now.
The few British troops here are utterly inadequate in the face of enemy numbers. Our people are being shot, bayoneted, burned, and worse. I pray my wife is safe in the mountains by now.
It is fortunate that our Headquarters, a former counting-house for the cocoa plantations, is solidly built. We have secured it as a last refuge. There are more than one hundred here. I have just twenty guns. I hear them coming now.
Mid-1943, Sandakan, North Borneo. A POW Camp.
(In 1942, the Japanese established a POW camp at Sandakan for prisoner labor.)
Entry in Prison Commandant's Log:
Prisoner: Ranjit Singh. Age: 45. [In league with resistance; caught by kempei-tai (secret police) in radio communication with prisoners. A former British civil servant in Police service. Enemy sympathiser and conspirator.]
February 15, 1945. Sandakan Death March, North Borneo.
After discovering that the POWs were in communication with local resistance, prisoners were force marched from Sandakan to Ranau over some of the toughest and most remote jungle terrain on the planet.
Half died of exhaustion, starvation or illness during the death march. Those that could not keep up were executed. The half that made it to Ranau, died there.
Of 2,400 prisoners of war held by the Japanese at Sandakan, only six survived.
Ranjit Singh was not one of the six.
4 April, 1946. Rabaul, Papau New Guinea.
Captain Hoshijima Susumu, commandant of the Sandakan POW camp, is hanged for war crime atrocities in the Sandakan death marches.
* * *
2 November. All Souls' Day. Ascot Racecourse, Berkshire, England.
Sanjay "Sammy" Singh gazed at the photograph of his revered grandfather Ranjit Singh: red-turbaned, black-bearded, proud and stern, wearing his dress police uniform. Like all those in distant colonial backwaters in the twilight of the Empire, it was gaudy, with an excess of brass buttons and braid.
He remembered his own father's garments: no more than filthy rags, usually; and his own childhood garb, no better.
Sammy Singh now had a uniform, of sorts: crisply tailored bespoke suits, shirts and ties, the finest Bond Street could provide. Although some in in the service went in for Hong Kong tailors, he himself was loathe to perpetruate even the faintest of Asian connections. His scrupulously maintained standards required his entire wardrobe be supplied only by firms possessing a Royal Warrant.
He kissed his grandfather's photograph reverently and replaced it in the little Smythson portfolio he always carried.
He brought out a second photograph. This was a small -- but none the less impressive --- colonial-style mansion, walled and surrounded by lush palms. This was once his grandfather's house. It had been rebuilt, after the war. During the post-war boom, it was said that for a time, the largest concentration of millionaires in the world was to be found in Sandakan. The house was now a luxurious eco-hotel.
* * *
Singh consulted his watch. It was nearly time. He ignored the twinge of concern that so far, Agent Rennett had failed to neutralize Mycroft Holmes. Even his new partner, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestade of Scotland Yard, had evaded them. These failures would be addressed.
But neither was there any sign that Mycroft had penetrated Singh's plans. Aguirre had sent him a brief signal at the correct time.
No matter what Mycroft Holmes did now, the Day of Wrath was here.
In a week, nearly all of the younger Royals would be seated, watching the Coral Ascot hurdle races, directly above this spot.
He checked the secret compartment one last time. It had ducting that angled in several directions. This would be very useful. There would be no escape. He spoke into his headset. "All clear here. Meet me at the Royal Enclosure and we'll give it one last pass, shall we? Can't be too careful."
"Yes, sir. I'll be right up."
* * *
2 November. AREVA Private Hospital for Nuclear Medicine and Research. Somewhere near Cherbourg, France.
Sherlock told his captors succienctly what he had learned from in Willencourt, before he himself was shot and lost consciousness.
"They -- the Day of Wrath terrorists -- plan to smuggle canisters filled with radioactive particulates into airports and train stations around the world -- disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. Each canister would be enough, probably, to kill or seriously damage hundreds of people."
"Where? How many? When?"
"I don't know where, and I don't know when. Soon, I should say. But even assuming you can intercept all oxygen canisters - an impossible task -- another problem is that these terrorists have developed a black market source for radioactive waste."
"What do you mean by 'black market'?"
"Oh, come now. Not everything gets disposed of according to IAEA regulations. China, Russia, probably even France, everyone has some dirty little radioactive waste -- and nowhere safe to put it. And with enough help from the right sort of people -- for example, a nuclear physicist --- all sorts of interesting projects can be launched. Radioacive gas. Dirty bombs. They've gotten their hands on a plutonium core, apparently military grade -- like the one at Los Alamos, 1945. You know, the "demon core" experiments. I certainly hope you've got that locked up tight. Got it from the Russian black market, I'd say."
The men looked at him with astonishment. "Plutonium core? There was no plutonium core."
"Well, I didn't dream it. Ask Dr. Echavarria. John was holding it ---"
"Echavarria's dead. Maybe you killed him."
"I? I was shot, I was unconscious, for God's sake."
"Maybe you took the -- what did you call it -- 'demon core'."
"Don't be absurd. Where would I hide it? And I was unconscious. You know this. Look, if it wasn't for --" he was about to mention his brother's name, and stopped. Because so far, his name had not come up.
* * *
"I won't say anything more until you tell me everything about John Watson's condition -- he has radiation poisoning -- acute -- part of his chart is locked -- I suppose you are letting him -- just--" his voice shook and broke, "--die, is that it?"
"Mr. Holmes, your accusations are quite delusional. Doctor Watson is receiving the very best of care. This facility has state-of-the-art capabilities for treatment of acute radiation syndrome. His prognosis is -- well, we are doing everything that can be done."
"Then let me see his tests. Let me see his chart. His entire chart. NOW." Sherlock was making no effort to modulate his tone of voice; however, the French being undisputed masters of sneering disdain, his own brand of contempt appeared to be having little effect.
The hospital administrator, a distinguished silver-haired aristocrat, shook his head. "I'm sure you can appreciate, Mr. Holmes, that apart from every other consideration, we have our privacy regulations. You have no -- how may I put it --- legal relations -- with Doctor Watson. You are -- what did you say here," he consulted a folder "--- 'flatmates'? Here we say, colocotaire, cohabitant --- such persons have no rights of access to a patient's medical records."
Sherlock groaned in frustration. In Scotland, at Moy Castle*, he had as much as proposed --- well, certainly he had meant it to be a commitment. A lifetime commitment. Months later John had said, casually enough, that "he didn't need a piece of paper" to prove anything about their bond. After that, neither of them had done anything more about it -- such as registering as civil partners -- nor in truth felt a need to.
Now he recalled that Mycroft had admonished him to be more responsible; more adult about the matter, and sent him packets of the necessary forms. These were presently buried under a pile of Italian forensic journals in 221b.
Now, he was being treated like a stranger to John Watson, when he was most needed.
"Well, surely -- he can simply sign -- what would you say, a directive for me to access his records," Sherlock said, changing tactics as he was consumed with peculiar feeling that anyone else might identify as a sinking heart. He was alreadly nearly numb from his struggle with the wave of panicked loss that had overtaken him, knowing John was stricken. But part of his mind was ticking away at the problem. Until he discovered the solution, he would have to try to appear to be reasonable.
"I am afraid not. This is not an ordinary facility. Doctor Watson is not an ordinary patient. There are many questions about your actions in Willencourt -- and how Doctor Watson came to be exposed to radiation at such levels."
"What are you saying? Please try to be clear."
There was a discreet buzzing and the aristocratic administrator waved at the door. The dark-suited man who had been sitting outside Sherlock's hospital room entered and began hauling Sherlock by his good arm out the door. There were three other men with him. None of them smiled.
"Yes. To be clear: Mr. Holmes, privacy is no longer the issue. This is now a matter of state security. As are Doctor Watson's records. As Doctor Watson is not presently in any condition to answer questions, and as you have now apparently recovered from your surgery, I believe that answers to these questions are expected . . . from you. I would say bonne chance, Monsieur, but --" the administrator gave a peculiarly Gallic shrug and shut the door firmly after Sherlock as he was dragged, howling, down the sterile corridor.
* * *
Sherlock began telling them everything, all over again. He was surrounded by four French agents who questioned him in turn, impatiently, sceptically. Sherlock knew that the sooner he satisfied them, the sooner he could get to John. This clarified and purified his fragmented thoughts, devastated by the tidal wave that kept rolling over him, over and over, as he understood that John might very well die.
Not yet. Not yet. There’s time.
"Like I said before, you need to listen to me carefully. They have canisters. Disguised as ordinary medical oxygen. When, where, how many - I have no idea. Soon. And they have a plutonium core. You lot must be up on your nuclear history around here. Don’t waste time with me - ask Aguirre. He was there, he is your mastermind. And Dr. Echavarri. They have black market connections, he said. They said they were taking it on the TGV train, London to Calais. Echavarri’s in on the entire plot. These terrorists have been very busy indeed and are rather omnivorous in their nuclear tastes. Haven’t you interrogated them?"
"We would rather hear from you."
"Look, I was shot, remember? I was unconscious. You’re wasting time."
"Dr. Echavarri’s dead. We think you killed him. And we didn’t find Aguirre. Are you quite sure you saw him?"
"I? I told you -- I didn’t kill Echavarri - look, you do have ballistics here, yes? I never fired my gun at him: do your forensics. And Aguirre was there - he was talking to John, John was . . .he was holding the case. The case with the plutonium core. Look, I need to see John."
He remembered John clutching the case containing the demon core. Perhaps there had been a struggle: perhaps John had been forced to shoot Echavarri, or Aguirre. Or both.
Insufficient data.
"Tell us again about this plutonium core."
Sherlock could not conceal his astonishment. "You mean you don’t have Aguirre? You don’t have the plutonium case?"
"We don’t have any such things, Mr. Holmes. Nothing like that was found in Willencourt. Did you hide it? What about Doctor Watson? Did he take it?"
He realised again that not once since he had been in this facility had he heard his brother’s name. No one had mentioned Mycroft. Nor Lestrade.
And now it was clear that Aguirre had not been captured, if they were telling the truth.
And also telling the truth about the fact that no one knew where the plutonium core was.
It followed that somehow, Mycroft had taken the demon core himself.
Or, Aguirre had.
* * *
"Look," Sherlock said seriously, "Don’t you think you’d better consider the probability that Aguirre has escaped? He was definitely there, in Willencourt. Why would I lie? And if he’s escaped, he’s taken the plutonium. I assume you know the damage it can do. But that’s not the least of your worries."
Two of the men fled the room. The remaining two were frantically working their mobiles.
"Not . . . the least of our worries?" One of them said. "You will please explain that remark, monsieur."
Sherlock folded his arms, and felt a sharp stabbing from his shoulder wound as a result. This only served to bring back painful thoughts of John, of John’s own shoulder wound from Afghanistan. He shivered.
"I’m not telling you anything more until you give me unlimited access to Doctor Watson, let me see his files. His complete files. And - permission to administer treatments. It’s not so much to ask, really."
"Believe me when I say, monsieur, that you will tell us what you meant by that remark. And you are not in a position to make conditions."
"If you think you can just make me talk," Sherlock sneered, "I think you’ll find that rather a daunting undertaking. At any rate I imagine you’ll find out what I mean soon enough - but you’ll have lost any time advantage you might have gained. Let’s say --- you could make me talk. That might take forty-eight hours, seventy-two hours, I’ll give you that, for the sake of argument. Unlikely, but still, that is an eternity, isn’t it? When you’re talking about a nuclear threat.
"Give me what I want-- you’ll know what you want within the hour."
* * *
Half an hour later, Sherlock was incandescent with rage and had to be forcibly restrained from breaking John’s doctor’s neck with his good arm.
"It’s experimental, a very promising new drug, Mr. Holmes!"
"It isn’t working, you moron!" Sherlock roared. "Look at his white cell count! Your drug is a failure! You’ve been using John Watson as a - as a - guinea pig - I’ll see you in hell if he doesn’t come through this, I swear it!"
The doctor shrank back, muttering over the chart notes. "I thought -" he said feebly.
"Don’t. Think." Sherlock snarled, tearing though John's chart. "Ever. Again. Take me to your laboratory."
A dose of Prussian blue capsules, then, obviously was the place to start. Acute exposure to ionizing radiation triggering apoptotic cell death of hematopoietic stem and progenitor cells, leaving the victim highly susceptible to infection and hemorrhage. A cocktail of cytokines . . . stem cell factor, Flt-3 ligand, thrombopoietin and interleukin-3 . . .granulocyte-macrophage colony-stimulating factor used off-label to speed neutrophil recovery and stimulate residual hematopoiesis ---
He scribbled a note out and thrust it at the doctor. "Get me all of it. Exactly what I’ve written there. All of it, do you understand? If you don’t have it here, have it brought. I don’t care if you have to fly it in."
The intelligence agents were fuming. "Now Mr. Holmes, let’s stay on target, if you please? You were going to tell us about our 'bigger problem.'"
"Yes. A much bigger problem." Sherlock was running, nearly flying down the hallways to the laboratory now, and the agents sped after him. Sherlock was assembling materials, pouring liquids into beakers, and staring at John’s blood samples under an electron microscope.
"Do you know how Doctor Watson came to be contaminated?" He snapped at the doctor, who had returned meekly bearing the items Sherlock had ordered.
The doctor nodded cautiously. "Cesium-137. Cesium choride. Highly radioactive. Easily fragmented. Distinctive blue glow. Byproduct of nuclear fission of uranium. He had a quantity of Cesium-137 on his skin, in his hair and in his garments. Doctor Watson - inhaled a small amount as well."
Sherlock’s brain was already mapping out the likely strength of exposure, the volume inhaled, the probable consequences, mentally adjusting John's treatment.
"John Watson handled the body of one of the terrorists. That man had radiation burns on his skin. I knew it could not have been from handling the plutonium core - he would never have opened that case -- and if he had, it would have killed him, within hours. That man had been traveling more than just a few hours, from the signs on his garments and his shoes. Before he was shot, that man was ill; yes, but not that ill. Ill from a source that would give him burns on his skin. A number of sources come to mind, but Cesium-137 is one of the most readily obtainable - primarily from third-world medical facilities; also, if one has the right connections, from nuclear power plants. Like La Hague, for example."
"What are you trying to say?"
"What I’m trying to say is that that man showed every sign of having been on board a ship in the past twenty four hours, where he accidentally contaminated himself with Cesium-137. Cesium-137 is the perfect vehicle for a dirty bomb. And it is generated at La Hague."
"But he didn’t have any quantity of Cesium-137 on his person, just the residual contaminant."
"Yes. You are starting to understand. The Cesium-137 is not going to be taken off the ship. It is going to stay on the ship. Along with the other cargo."
"'The ship'? What ship?"
"Surely you’ve guessed it by now? A specialized cargo vessel. The vessel is carrying MOX fuel and Cesium-137 originating from the La Hague nuclear plant, via Cherbourg, bound for Japan. But the ship has already been infiltrated by Day of Wrath terrorists amongst the crew. And it will take very little, I assure you, to make the MOX go critical, or to cause a dispersal accident on a much wider scale than their little canisters. Those canisters were meant to be just a foretaste of things to come.
"You have an oceangoing, moveable nuclear threat of apocalyptic proportions."
"How do you know all this?"
Sherlock spoke rapidly as he finished assembling the treatment regimen for John’s consumption.
"Paint flecks: on the dead man’s shoes and on his jacket. They were large, and numerous. Haven’t had a chance to look at them under a microscope but if one did, I am virtually certain the paint from his shoes is paint from the deck of a British-flagged transport ship out of Barrow. Pacific Nuclear Transport Limited. I’d say it’s probable that she’s the Pacific Heron: entered service in 2008. And the paint flakes on the man’s jacket are almost certainly that particular paint used for nuclear radiation warning symbols on transport casks. Bring me the paint flakes and I'll verify it.
"I suggest that somebody formulate a plan to board that ship immediately and secure the crew and cargo - before they start a nuclear holocaust."
Sherlock had barely finished before the remaining two agents fled the room to deliver Sherlock’s shocking intelligence report up the chain of command.
"Now that I’ve saved the world for you," Sherlock announced, flourishing several pharmaceutical cocktails, "perhaps you would get out of my way and permit me to save Doctor Watson."
To be continued . . .
Listen to Now I Know, here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6BltvcDeI10
(The author thanks erynn999 (she knows why) and the other kind readers who took the time to encourage me to continue this fic.)
next: Ch. 2: Antidote
back to Part One: http://ghislainem70.livejournal.com/41267.html
* Notes: Churchill's reaction to the sinking of the battleships HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales is taken nearly verbatim from Churchill's memoirs.
* Readers curious about Sherlock's proposal to John at Moy Castle in Scotland, may like to read Full Fathom Five, Number 2 of the Indestructible Series.