The Reluctant Knight (3 page)

Morse code was
something she'd looked at once in a maths lesson when she was a
young child and then forgotten about. Twenty years later, there was
nothing she could do to recall it. Unlike that of the Holmes
brothers, her memory wasn't perfect.

Just in case
someone hadn't heard her first message, she tapped out SOS again
every now and then to signal to whoever was listening that she was
in trouble. With that plan in motion, she tried to feel around the
inside of the boot but her arms were tucked against her body in
such a way that she could only feel a limited area. She poked,
pulled and otherwise tried to get to something like the outside of
the car, but nothing gave way to her probing fingers.

Until she reached
somewhere else, she had no hope of escape. All she could do in the
meantime was try to feed information to whoever might be listening
in. She tried not to think about how little she had to communicate.
With the bag on her head she had no idea where she was going.

While she fought
to keep herself calm, keep track of the time, and keep up her
message-tapping, hours slipped by, and she found her hope slipping
away with it.

It took Mycroft
several minutes to scan over the area around the white van, but he
saw nothing, not even a cigarette butt that might give him a clue.
After glancing at the quiet car park to see if he was being
watched, Mycroft tried to open the back of the van. Surprisingly,
it was unlocked.

Not wanting to
waste the few precious minutes he had to catch up, Mycroft got up
inside and pulled a small torch from his pocket. After a few
seconds he noticed the light glint off something small to the left.
He reached forward and found one of the bugs he'd given Amelia to
plant in the hotel room.

It had been
pressed as if it had been activated and he nodded his satisfaction.
She'd only put two of them in the room, and he'd been in such a
hurry to get away from her when she'd been trying to seduce him,
and almost succeeded, that he'd left her with the rest.

If she'd
deliberately dropped one, or even had one taken off her, that meant
there was a good chance the fourth and final one was now
transmitting from either the Russians or her. He hoped it was the
former, but even the later could be a useful result.

After the lack of
skill she'd shown in allowing herself to be taken, for her to have
managed to plant one of the bugs would go some way in restoring his
faith in her abilities. She might yet lead them to her in time.

He pocketed the
bug and scanned the rest of the interior of the van, but there was
nothing else to provide him with a clue. Their shoes had been clean
and there were no non-metal surfaces to give him any indents, scuff
marks or other identifying features.

A little over
three hours after Amelia was there, Mycroft got back into the car
and looked to Sherlock for directions.

“Folkestone still
makes the most sense,” he said, not looking up from the laptop
screen. “The motorbike is still heading towards the channel
tunnel.”

“If they do,
they'll have changed cars again,” Mycroft replied as Daniels pulled
off, not waiting for him to confirm the order.

“Certainly. They
don't know how far behind we are.”

Mycroft nodded,
despite his brother not even looking up. They'd expect him to
figure out the car they were using before each checkpoint they
reached. If they used the crossing, there was a good chance they
were out of the country and in France, but only if they'd timed
things well. There was a slim chance they were on the train still,
but he needed to know what car they'd used to cross if he was going
to get the authorities to do a stop and search. It was a legality
he couldn't skirt outside of the UK.

Until then, he
could at least try to see what Amelia had managed to do with the
fourth bug. Leaving Sherlock to direct Daniels, he fetched his
laptop again and pulled up the feeds for the bugs. Now more than
ever, he felt grateful that he'd given her real equipment.

As he expected,
three of them gave him nothing but static. The fourth had a dull
droning in the background. Sherlock finally glanced up from
watching the motorbike, the curiosity evident in his eyes.

“She's planted a
bug,” he said. Sherlock only raised his eyebrow further, but didn't
look up again. “It was part of a task.”

Sherlock nodded
almost imperceptibly, but it was evident he still felt some
curiosity about the situation. Before Mycroft could even consider
the merit of explaining further, the sound coming from the bug
changed. Immediately, he recognised the three short taps of the
beginning of an SOS message.

“Amelia has it
working somewhere, then,” Daniels said, also recognising the
distress call.

When it repeated
for the third time, Mycroft found himself wondering if it was going
to give him any other information, but it started again with three
short taps. Just as he was feeling frustration well in him Amelia
tapped it again only once. There was another pause and then she
tapped it twelve times, then another pause and a single tap. When
the next set of taps added up to nine Mycroft rolled his eyes.
Amelia evidently didn't know anything other than SOS in Morse code.
Now she was spelling out Calais with a tap for every letter further
down the alphabet. It was a rudimentary code at best.

Sherlock finally
looked away from the camera feed on his screen. Neither Holmes
brother said anything. Amelia wasn't in the UK anymore.

“What's she
saying?” Daniels asked, picking up on the atmosphere change.

“They've taken her
across the channel,” Sherlock explained when Mycroft didn't
respond.

“I've got my
passport on me.” Daniels gave Mycroft a quick glance, and he didn't
fail to see the fiery look in his chauffeur's eyes. One of them, at
least, was prepared to do whatever it took to get her back, but
Mycroft had to consider what would happen if he stepped onto
European soil unannounced.

Being such a big
part of the UK government, he had always been careful about leaving
the country. In his entire lifetime he'd only left twice before,
and both times had been at the request of the British monarch at
the time. Not even when his own brother had faked his death to
elude Moriarty had Mycroft left British soil. Doing so now ran the
risk of causing problems, and he was already in the bad graces of
the current monarch because of Amelia. On top of that, he took
little delight in leaving. It had been bad enough having to travel
to Scotland.

“We can still
catch them, especially with her feeding us her location,” Sherlock
said, all too aware of the thoughts going on in Mycroft's head.

It took him less
than three seconds to process all the ramifications of leaving the
country. As long as he stayed in Western Europe he could follow
Amelia and smooth over any awkward political situations after he
had her safe. There would be several, but if he travelled under one
of his aliases he would go undetected for a few days by most
countries. The problems would arise when he reached Russia and her
closest allies. There was too much history there for him to
ignore.

“Shall I head to
the airfield at Dover?” Daniels asked, breaking into Mycroft's
thoughts.

“No. It won't be
quicker to get a helicopter or plane than the channel tunnel.”
Sherlock beat him to the response and shut down the man's attempt
at help before it became annoying. He didn't have time for
pointless questions. “The real question is are we going at all,
brother of mine?”

He gave Sherlock a
quick nod and immediately his younger brother pulled out his phone
and bought the required tickets to get them into France. While he
was doing this, Mycroft messaged his secretary for the appropriate
paperwork for the three of them, making sure she would book them
under the correct names.

Sherlock would be
travelling as a Daniel Winters and himself as Mark Turner. Very few
people in the UK government knew that was him, and nobody outside
of his country would think he was anyone else. Only Daniels had no
other name.

If he'd been given
more time he'd have changed cars and provided Daniels with
something other than his chauffeur uniform to wear, but it would
waste precious time to do so now. They were going to have to go as
they were and hope the car wasn't quickly traced back to him. It
wasn't ideal but he had few options when caught by surprise like
this.

Daniels drove
towards the channel tunnel, breaking the speed limit in an attempt
to make his way there in time for the train Sherlock had booked.
All the while, Mycroft continued to listen to the tapping from
Amelia, but it was always the same message, SOS in Morse code,
followed by Calais. Given that she never spoke and the engine of
the car she was in sounded muffled, Mycroft could safely assume she
was being kept in the boot of a car, or some other small space out
of sight.

Half an hour after
he emailed his secretary, he turned down the volume of Amelia's
feed and passed the laptop to Sherlock to monitor. A minute later
his phone rang. Before he answered it, he knew who it would be.

“Good afternoon,
Mr Holmes,” the familiar voice said. “Were you planning on getting
permission to go abroad through the usual channels?”

Mycroft knew the
palace butler would waste no time, but he wasn't going to be
deterred.

“My assistance is
needed in a very delicate matter and time is of the utmost
importance. I assure you I know what I'm doing,” Mycroft replied,
keeping his tone cool and letting the man know exactly how he
felt.

“Her majesty would
like me to remind you that you represent her, and as such shouldn't
be doing anything that would reflect badly on her. She also wishes
you to know that we have no desire to fight a war with Russia right
now.”

“Of course. I'm
well aware of the disaster that would cause. I did handle a
significant amount of the details of that particular agreement. My
restrictions have already been taken into account.”

“As long as we
understand each other, Mr Holmes. We can't aid you in your current
endeavour, and the usual resources will
not
be made
available to you.”

“I assure you, I
had no intention of breaching protocol. Give my best to her
majesty.” Mycroft hung up before he could be told any more, and his
brother chuckled.

“The royal family
still causing you problems, brother of mine? I'm surprised you
haven't sought to replace them with someone more compliant. After
all, hundreds of years of ruling as a family does give people
delusions of authority.”

Mycroft felt the
corners of his mouth tilting up at the irony of the statement, and
caught the twinkle of amusement in his brother's eyes as well.

They were still a
little way out from the Channel when Amelia's regular tapped
message changed. Sherlock turned the volume back up again and the
entire car listened while she let them know she thought they'd gone
through into Belgium. When it took several minutes, Mycroft decided
he'd be teaching her Morse code at the next opportunity.

As soon as the
message was over, Sherlock pulled up a map and worked out where she
might have crossed the border. Mycroft pulled up the camera feeds
the French had of the cars pulling off the Eurostar train and
watched through the footage for the right sort of time. If any of
the cars appeared in both this video and the ones at the border
crossings Sherlock was finding, they'd hopefully know soon.

Several minutes
away from Folkestone, a message from Mycroft's secretary came
through detailing a police report of a car stolen from London and
found less than a mile from the Folkestone departure gate. It
matched the description of one of the cars leaving the car park two
minutes after the van drove in.

Mycroft relayed
the slight detour on to Daniels and only two minutes later the car
was pulling up in front of a blue saloon car cordoned off with
police tape. Two policemen were standing nearby, neither of them
doing anything but waiting for instructions. One was talking on his
radio, but stopped when Mycroft and Sherlock got out of the car and
walked over to them.

Mycroft pulled out
his ID and enjoyed the startled look on their faces as they
processed how much he commanded.

“This isn't your
average stolen car then?”

“No. Get forensics
done on the car interior, but I need the boot open, now.”

The men nodded and
hurried to the back of the car to do what he bid. Mycroft tried to
look leisurely as he followed, but in truth they needed to hurry
almost as badly. He had only four more minutes here if they were
going to get on the next train.

Again, the car had
been left unlocked, and using some flimsy plastic gloves to cover
his fingers, the policeman pulled the lever by the driver's foot
well to pop the boot open. Mycroft used a tissue to take hold of a
corner of the metal lid and push it upwards. Sherlock came up
beside him and both men glanced over the insides.

“There's blood
here,” the policemen said, noticing the rust-coloured fabric very
close to the lip of the boot on the right.

“Amelia's,”
Mycroft and Sherlock said at the same time.

“She was tied, her
feet at that end, where the scuff marks are. The heels have dug in
as she's moved. She faced us and was on her side,” Sherlock
continued, always having more patience to explain these things than
he ever had. “This is where she tried to scrape through to the back
or get to the possible tool box underneath her. It made her fingers
bleed.”

“No, they were
bleeding before that,” Mycroft said, interrupting. He pointed to
the torn bit of bloody fingernail close to where her neck would
have been. Near it were thin wispy strands of a black synthetic
chord. “They've black-bagged her and she was trying to untie
it.”