Sherlock Holmes and The Roswell Incident

by Michael Druce

  “From the Soviet end, how involved were you?”

  “Not very. My Moscow contact was the one to alert me to the Wright-Patterson photo. They pressed me hard, but I haven’t been able to tell them anything.”

  “Do you know the name of your Moscow contact?”

  “No. Names are never exchanged.”

  “Were you made aware of the operation to kidnap the girl?”

  “Not specifically. I was told an operation involving the Winston girl was in the planning stages. No details were shared with me. I was told I would be notified when the operation would commence, and that didn’t happen. The next thing I know, the operation has already been executed. Something changed.”

  “Is the girl still in the country?”

  “I cannot say for sure. My guess is yes. It seems unlikely she was ferreted out on a commercial flight. All airports and ports are on high alert. The Soviets would not risk flying a private plane across U.S. borders to Canada or Mexico. The plane most likely landed at a secluded airstrip.”

  “There must be thousands of places where a small plane can land.”

  “A needle in a haystack for sure.”

  “What about Cherepanov’s house? How thorough was the search?”

  “Intelligence crawled all over it.”

  “Is the house sealed?”

  “Yes, it is in government possession.”

  “Can you take me there?”

  “Of course, but I don’t know what you expect to find. As I said, intelligence went over it in excruciating detail.”

  “I would like to see for myself.”

  “Very well. The house is in Roswell. It will take us about three hours.”

  “If something was missed, I will find it.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. Clean as a whistle. With all due respect, Mr. Holmes, you will not find anything of use. Intelligence is very thorough.”

  The hot and dusty drive in an open-air vehicle took every bit of three hours. Holmes was filthy with sweat and dust by the time he and Victor arrived at the tiny house that been the residence of the previous agent. Victor pulled a key from his pocket and let Sherlock Holmes inside.

  Shut up as it had been, the house was stifling and muggy. The interior was a complete wreck. The entire place had been torn apart. The young agent told Holmes to take his time. He would be outside relaxing on the porch swing.

  Holmes had to give the Americans credit. They had been thorough. Impressions were lifted from scratch pads, books opened, photo frames torn apart, the undersides and backs of furniture examined. Every inch had been put under the microscope. Holmes spent a good hour looking for clues a normal investigation would not reveal. Reluctantly he had to admit to himself there was nothing. Perhaps if he had been allowed to investigate before the destruction began, he might have discovered a vital clue.

  He cleared a spot on the settee and sat down. Staring at the empty book shelves opposite, he tried to imagine where an agent might conceal information he wished to keep hidden. The books scattered all over the living room floor suggested there was nothing to be found. With his foot, he sifted through the remnants of Cherepanov’s library. The agent seemed not to have been interested in much other than cheap pulp fiction. Among the collection of potboilers, a familiar looking publication drew Holmes’s attention. It was a road atlas like the one he had consulted in the Washington bookstore. He turned through the pages, imagining an American agent having done the same, pausing to read each note and scribble. Scribbled on the inside back cover were the following letters.

  MEIINOh

  Holmes was certain an agent had lingered over those letters for a long time before deciding they had no meaning in English or Russian. Yet one did not jot down meaningless letters. Were they a code? Why were all the letters written in capitals except the letter H? No, these were not random letters. They had meaning. This was a puzzle, but puzzles could only be solved if there were a frame of reference. One had to discover an association. He studied the letters for some time. Did they have something to do with a state? That seemed possible, but it was a guess at best. He laid the atlas on the settee and stood up. The room was filled with too much clutter to pace. He glanced at the letters again. Suddenly Holmes burst into laughter.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Holmes?” Victor called to him from outside.

  “No worries, old chap. Carry on.”

  The solution was so positively amateurish, Holmes could kick himself for overthinking it. One only had to view the letters upside-down to realize they were coordinates.

  40NII3W

  The letters read 40 degrees north and 113 degrees west. Holmes exited onto the porch. “Do you have the tools necessary to plot coordinates?”

  “Yes, in my Jeep. You found something?”

  “Scribbled inside the back page of this atlas.”

  Victor retrieved the compass from his Jeep. He opened the atlas to the map of the entire United States. After a few quick calculations, Victor said, “Utah.”

  Holmes turned to the map of Utah.

  Victor made another quick calculation. “The Great Salt Flats.”

  “A place where one could land a plane?” Holmes asked.

  “It’s a place where you can land hundreds of planes. It is west of Salt Lake City.”

  “Is Salt Lake the nearest major airport?”

  “Yes, Salt Lake City Municipal. I watched intelligence go over every inch of this place. They looked through everything. I can’t believe they missed this.”

  “It does seem unusual, doesn’t it?” Holmes said.

  “Maybe they thought the letters were worthless gibberish.”

  “Perhaps,” Holmes mused. “Get me to a telephone as quickly as possible.”

  Victor drove Holmes to a local service station with a telephone booth outside.

  “Get a message to Colonel Hawker. Have him send a detail to the Salt Lake City airport. That will likely be the arrival point of a Soviet agent known as The Caretaker. Passengers arriving with foreign passports should be given extra scrutiny. Any information you receive from the Soviets should be passed along to the Colonel without delay.”

  “Of course, but you shouldn’t go this alone.”

  “I appreciate the offer, my young friend. Keeping you safe is paramount. We shouldn’t risk any possibility of exposing you. You are much too important to the security of the nation.”

  Holmes waited until the young agent was out of sight before he entered the telephone booth. He pulled a small card from his pocket and dialed the operator. Moments later his call went through.

  “Bob’s Air Service,” the voice on the other end of the line announced.

  “This is Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Who?”

  “I am a friend of Bob,” Holmes said impatiently. “Have Bob meet me at the Roswell Airpark.”

  “Roswell, New Mexico?” The voice asked.

  “Yes,” Holmes snapped.

  “Hell, mister, we’re in Amarillo. That’s 200 miles from here!”

  “Bob assured me I could depend on him if there is anything I need. I require a flight to Utah.”

  “Bob isn’t due in for another hour. I’ll radio him. Maybe he can get there sooner.”

  “I will be waiting for him.”

  After the Fact

  Kasputin Yar

  Yuri Olenev pushed open the door of the hangar. A blast of cold air and snow blew inside. He pulled back the wolf rough of his parka and removed his snow goggles. Dmitri Sokolov was standing below the gleaming saucer, pretending to be interested in the work The Team was undertaking.

  The young officer pulled his superior aside.

  “Major, we have a matter we must discuss in private.”

  “Go up to my office. I will b
e there in a minute.”

  When Sokolov arrived, Yuri Olenev had removed his coat and poured two glasses of vodka.

  “I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Sokolov never minded a glass of vodka.

  “Operation Minnie Mouse is over,” Yuri said.

  “Over? Were we not to be notified in advance?”

  “That was my understanding.”

  “This information comes from Cherepanov?”

  “A contact in Moscow. He has a friend close to Director Shubin.”

  “Say no more. We will leave well enough alone. Nothing good ever comes of a peeled onion.”

  “I suppose,” Yuri said, not sure how to interpret Sokolov’s aphorism.

  “Has the operation succeeded? Do we have the girl?”

  “Yes, but things did not go as planned. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were at the girl’s house when our agents arrived.”

  “Holmes? What in hell was Holmes doing there?”

  “That is what I do not know. One of our agents attempted to kidnap him.”

  Sokolov poured another drink. “What in holy hell is going on? Did the agent succeed?”

  “No, Dr. Watson shot him.”

  “Watson killed a Soviet agent?”

  “That came later. Dr. Watson wounded the man. Another of our agents put him out of our misery. He had become a liability.”

  “What about the girl? Where is she?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Five years ago, Holmes and Watson were at the Roswell crash site, and now this. What are we to make of this, Yuri?”

  “That is what I cannot understand. It seems unlikely they were at the girl’s home by coincidence.”

  Sokolov filled both glasses again. “Either our operation was compromised, or this is the work of Shubin. My money is on Shubin. Have a plane readied. We are going to Moscow.”

  * * *

  Moscow

  “General-Major Sokolov and Lt. Olenev to see you, sir.”

  “Show them in.” Director Shubin depressed the button on his intercom. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation.

  Major Dmitri Sokolov and Lt. Yuri Olenev were shown into Director Shubin’s office. Without looking up, Shubin gestured for the two men to sit.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure, Major?”

  “Operation Minnie Mouse.”

  “You are to be congratulated on a fine success, Major.”

  “Was it a success?” Sokolov asked.

  “We have the girl.”

  “How did Sherlock Holmes become involved?”

  “It is a long story.”

  “We have time.”

  “I saw an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Holmes was not a part of our operation.”

  “Your operation? All operations come through this office, Major. That means Moscow oversees all intelligence operations. Once an operation is approved, it is in our hands. We amend operations as we see fit. Am I clear?”

  Rank forced Sokolov to exhibit the proper deference.

  “I mean no disrespect, Chief Director. It seems to me as if the entire plan might have been put in jeopardy.”

  “And yet it wasn’t. Our main objective was achieved. We have the girl. Holmes proved most useful. He led us to the girl sooner than we might otherwise have been able to grab her. Had we been able to grab Holmes as well, that would have been a bonus.”

  “What did you hope to gain by capturing Holmes?”

  “Blackmail, leverage, humiliation. Revenge. We could have made the British look like fools.”

  “Forgive me, Chief Director. What do the British have to do with this?”

  “It was personal!” Shubin said explosively, hammering his fist on the desk.

  Sokolov and Yuri reflexively snapped back in their chairs. The small framed photograph tipped backwards onto the desktop. As a courtesy Sokolov leaned forward and returned the framed photo to its upright position, but not before noticing the familiar young woman framed against the Eiffel tower.

  “Let me ask you this,” Shubin continued. “Did you consider the girl might have been a trap? Did you not question why a photograph of someone given identity protection appeared in a military newspaper? No, you did not. It may well have been an operation designed to expose our network within the United States. Either way, it makes no difference because we have achieved our main objective. Leave the business of espionage to those who know something of it.”

  “Where is the girl now?”

  “We have a safe facility near the Great Salt Flats in Utah. It is too risky to get her out of the country. We will get what we need from her. The Caretaker is on his way.”

  “What about Holmes?” Sokolov asked. “Where is he?”

  “He has gone underground. We have lost him.”

  “And Dr. Watson?”

  “He is still in Washington D.C. He is under continual surveillance.” Shubin poured three glasses of Vodka. “Have a drink, Dmitri. After, go back to your toy box and do whatever it is you do there. When we have the information we need, we will pass it along.”

  Once on the street where they could not be overheard, Sokolov drew Yuri aside.

  “It is now clear to me why Shubin wanted Holmes involved. The girl in the photograph on his desk was a British aerospace worker Shubin had an affair with several years ago. She was personally arrested by the brother of Sherlock Holmes. I was forced to listen to his story one night in a bar. He was drunk and weeping, carrying on like a schoolboy who has been rejected at a dance.”

  “Involving Holmes was personal.”

  “Stupid ass! He has jeopardized the entire operation over a woman. With Holmes in the picture, that means the British are now involved.”

  “Has the time come for Operation Dead Loop?” Yuri asked.

  “Not yet. We will wait to see what The Caretaker learns.”

  Dinner for Two

  Georgetown

  Mycroft Holmes and I were scheduled to return to London on the same flight. As that would not occur until the following afternoon, I was pleasantly surprised to receive an invitation from Mycroft asking me to join him for dinner at an intimate little restaurant in Georgetown not far from my hotel. When I arrived by taxi, Mycroft was already seated.

  A waiter brought a bottle of wine to the table.

  “Something special. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not.” Mycroft had exquisite taste. I had no doubt the wine would be superb. He asked if he could suggest our meal. I agreed, and we toasted good cheer. After a few minutes of requisite chitchat, I asked why he had invited me for dinner.

  “As an expression of thanks. I want you to know how much I value your friendship with Sherlock, and how much I value your friendship.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mycroft. But seriously, what is the real purpose of this dinner?”

  “I am afraid you have spent too much time in the company of my brother. Cynicism doesn’t suit you.” Mycroft refilled our glasses. “You have been a good friend to Sherlock. I say that with genuine sincerity. You will agree our meeting with Colonel Hawker was illuminating.”

  “Yes, if not unsettling.”

  “There is much you do not know to which you are entitled.”

  “Please, don’t tell me Moriarty is back.”

  “No. Rest assured of that.”

  How many times had I heard that pronouncement over the years?

  “You will recall the case of Ellen Sharpe.”

  “The woman convicted of passing to the Soviets highly classified documents related to the development of The Comet.”

  “We now know the name of her contact in Paris. Arkady Shubin. He is the Soviet
director of foreign intelligence. I was the one who personally arrested Miss Sharpe.”

  “I fail to see the connection-” I reconsidered. “Oh, I see. Drawing Sherlock into the Jenny Winston affair was a revenge motive. Shubin was seeking revenge against you by kidnapping Sherlock.”

  “It seems the plausible explanation.”

  “You learned this how? Did Miss Sharpe have belated change of heart?”

  “Initially, no. It seems we have an ally in the Kremlin. A photograph of Miss Sharpe was sent anonymously to our ambassador in Moscow. Across the photo was written With Love, Arkady Shubin.”

  “Someone else with a grudge, perhaps. Any clue as to the identity of the individual?”

  “SIS is developing some ideas. Across the back of the photograph were scribbled the words Women scorned.”

  “Women, not woman?”

  “Women.”

  “That narrows it down to half the population of the Soviet Union.”

  “One might conclude the sender felt she and Miss Sharpe were birds of a feather, so to speak. The photograph is a copy. The original appeared in The Times of London five years ago. One doesn’t usually keep copies of past newspapers. That the individual was also able to make a high-resolution copy of Miss Sharpe’s photo is telling. It might suggest the work of a Soviet analyst.”

  “Or a librarian.”

  “When confronted with the photograph, Miss Sharpe acknowledged she and Shubin had been lovers.”

  “If Miss Sharpe had been resolute for so long, what persuaded her?”

  “We offered her a full pardon. Continuing to incarcerate Miss Sharpe no longer serves the interests of the crown.”

  “In other words, Miss Sharpe might prove more valuable outside of prison than in.”

  “John, you could have had a wonderful career as a civil servant.”

  “I prefer my role as doctor, writer, and companion to Sherlock Holmes. By the way, have you shared with Colonel Hawker that Shubin is the one who wanted Sherlock involved?”

  “One doesn’t share everything.”