“I’m not talking about half-a-dozen,” Williams argued. “I’m talking about one skilled undercover operative, and that swapped out every couple of hours.”
“Sherlock,” Skye suggested, tentative, “I’m okay with that. I’m not as skilled as you, let alone as experienced, and I don’t wanna screw it up.”
“After all, she is a target,” Williams pressed, playing his lone trump card.
* * *
Holmes put down his fork, ignoring his French toast as he studied Skye. He knew Williams was attempting to manipulate his decision, but the detective considered the agent had made a valid point, nevertheless.
“Very well. I shall leave it to you to work out the details.”
Skye nodded and glanced at Williams.
“I’ll have an operative waiting for you when you go to the loading dock to get your car. You and he can work out contact signals from there.”
“Good,” Skye said, finishing the last of her sausage.
Holmes, too, took one last bite of his breakfast, turning to his liaison, companion, assistant, friend and lover.
“Come, my dear, we must turn you into a mystic.”
* * *
The decision had been made earlier for Skye to tail the retired colonel living in Manitou Springs. Manitou Springs, a bedroom community of Colorado Springs and just as old, lay between the latter and the base of Pikes Peak, and was known for being eclectic. So Skye’s disguise would be a medicine woman “wannabe,” a white woman trying to follow Native American medicine ways. Her long blonde hair became dark auburn, braided into two plaits. Her tanned skin turned darker, with plenty of freckles and a few lines of age added around her eyes and across her forehead, and green contact lenses concealed her bright blue eyes. Williams produced a western shirt from somewhere, as well as knee-high lace-up moccasins, and to this Skye added a pair of her own jeans, tucking them into the moccasins. Several strands of bone and glass beads draped around her neck. Staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, she snickered.
“Ohmigosh, I hope I don’t run into any of the actual Native folks around there. ‘Wannabes’ are usually kinda scorned by the Natives, and this getup will rile any of ‘em who see me. It’s a classic.”
* * *
Holmes studied her, and for a split-second he saw Skye as a child, concluding she had been adorable. Something about the braids, I think.
“Well, well, let us hope you do not run into them, but hopefully you will run into your mark,” was all he said.
* * *
“She should,” Williams offered them each a file folder. “Here. Colonel Jones and I did preliminary work overnight, some basic dossiers compiled on our list of suspects, and this Jenkins generally goes down to a little cybercafé called the Baked Bean for lunch at eleven. That’s why I’m loaning Dr. Chadwick the laptop. It’ll look perfectly normal if she goes there in an hour and websurfs through lunch.”
“Very well,” Holmes acknowledged. “Off you go, my dear Skye! The game is afoot!”
Skye kissed him then, a chaste little goodbye given their audience, but she didn’t want to go off and leave him without it.
* * *
Holmes returned the kiss in kind, then caught her chin in his fingers to look into her eyes, finding himself suddenly concerned for her safety. Oh, be careful, my dear, bonny Skye. For not only does the safety of the project rest on you, but my heart’s, as well.
She evidently read something of what he was thinking in his eyes, for she murmured, “Don’t worry, Sherlock, I’ll be careful. See you for dinner.” She kissed him once more, then left the bathroom.
Moments later the two men heard the soft closure of the saferoom door.
Holmes turned to his own disguise, a Royal Air Force Tornado fighter pilot. Skye had coached him late into the previous night on terminology, and he was confident he could manage the deception—provided, as she said, he didn’t actually have to fly anything. He reached for the packages of colored contacts, selecting a pair of blue lenses, when Williams laid a light, restraining hand on his arm.
* * *
“Mr. Holmes, before you get started, I need to ask you something, and there’s something you should know, too.”
“And what would that be?” Holmes paused, turning to the other man.
“I know you…care a great deal…for Dr. Chadwick, but…how well do you really know her?” Williams gave him an apologetic look.
“I know her. Inasmuch as it is possible for one human to know another, for a man to know a woman, I know The Woman.” Holmes’ voice was calm and certain; his terminology was not lost on Williams.
“And you trust her?”
“Completely. With my life.”
“And she got herself shot defending you…” Williams sighed, troubled.
“She did. My bonny little comrade in arms was loyal almost to the death.”
“I have to ask this, sir: Are you sure she couldn’t have been…faking, allowing herself to be injured to create a cover?” Williams steeled himself.
Holmes’ eyes narrowed, a spark of affronted ire igniting in the grey depths.
“I have reason to know The Woman was prepared to die in my defence that night,” he coolly informed the British operative. “There is some point to all this, so I strongly suggest you get to it. Obviously you consider her suspect. Please state your case.”
Williams shook his head.
“I just need to make sure you haven’t lost your objectivity where she’s concerned, Mr. Holmes; I—”
“State your case.” Holmes’ voice grew brittle. Cool became cold.
“They found the source of the Trojan horse virus. It was introduced into the Chamber computers from the director’s console. That automatically puts both Dr. Chadwick and Dr. Hughes under suspicion. And since witnesses say Dr. Chadwick stayed so calm when the Trojan initiated…” Williams met Holmes’ eyes.
“I know The Woman too well to have concerns over such, and with Colonel Jones’ aid I have fully vetted Dr. Hughes. It is worth noting that the director’s console has many of the same functions as ALL of the subordinate consoles; I learned this during many hours spent observing in the Chamber. As to your accusations: Skye’s observable responses to the crisis were all genuine reactions of the involuntary nervous system, even to the dilation of pupils. Her distress was real and discernible as such. Her ability to remain calm was due to training and significant experience dealing with the harsh realities of emergency situations, not to any foreknowledge of events. Dr. Hughes, too, reacted in a shocked fashion consistent with a person who had no advance warning of danger.” He shook his head. “It is impossible for their involuntary systems to lie. It is therefore also impossible for either of them to have been aware of the sabotage beforehand. And when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. I suggest you have Colonel Jones search the security records from the airlocks for anything out of the ordinary, possibly as simple as Robert Harris exiting the Chamber after working overtime. The timeframe would have been between…” he paused in thought, trying to recollect, “…the fourteenth through the twenty-fifth of March, I believe.”
“Hm. I’ll pass that information on.”
“Do that,” Holmes said crisply. “I assume that is one reason why you insisted upon backup?”
“Actually, it was more to protect her from this, than to catch her in anything. With backup watching, she’d have corroboration for anything that happened. Her willingness to allow it was a point in her favour, too. I…expected there to be an alternative explanation. I was hoping you’d be able to give it to me, and I think you did.”
“It is probably as well,” Holmes sighed, returning to the delicate task of inserting contact lenses. “It is merely one more level of protection around her.”
“It is. May I ask another question?”
“You seem to be rather inquisitive this morning, my good man,” Holmes remarked, wiping his hands and blinking to s
eat the lenses properly. “What is it now?”
“You called Dr. Chadwick ‘The Woman’…”
“I did. Several times, I believe.” Holmes reached for the hair color, choosing a blond tone.
“Why?”
“Is it not obvious?” Holmes pointed out, using the temporary color to add copious highlights to his dark hair with a small brush, dexterously approximating a sun-bleached effect. “You have eyes, and you have already inferred an explanation of how matters lie between us.”
“You love her, don’t you? I mean, really love her.”
Holmes stopped, and the artificial blue eyes stared calmly at Williams’ reflection. The expression in them was knowing, soft, and confident. Holmes said nothing; Williams smiled slightly.
“Are you happy?”
Holmes still said nothing, but a sparkle appeared in the faux azure gaze.
“Good,” Williams replied, pleased for his hero. “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs with the car when you’re ready.”
“Thank you, my boy,” Holmes murmured, and Williams thought there was more in the detective’s tone than simple gratitude for procuring a vehicle.
* * *
Skye headed for Manitou Springs, confident her backup was discreetly tailing her. She parked down the street from the cybercafé and sauntered along the sidewalk, popping into shops as if browsing and enjoying the morning. Around ten o’clock, she wandered into the Baked Bean and took a seat at a small corner table, unpacking the laptop and setting up. A small device went into one of the computer’s USB ports; it looked like a datastick, but was actually a voice-activated recorder, provided by Williams’ unit. The waitress came over and Skye ordered coffee with extra cream, then started surfing the web, searching on “Native American medicine,” in case someone looked over her shoulder.
The waitress kept the coffee coming, and Skye sipped it, pretending to read the information she’d found. At eleven, Colonel Jenkins came into the café, and Skye was grateful for Williams’ thorough background work: She immediately recognized the portly, balding, grey-haired man. He took his usual table, not too far from Skye. How odd. He looks like somebody’s grandfather, not a spy. And he’s a retired veteran, too. This seems all wrong.
Jenkins ordered a roast beef and cheddar on sourdough, accompanied by a Heineken, and settled in to people-watch. Skye pretended she was pondering the computer screen while keeping an eye on Jenkins. A few minutes later, the waitress came by and asked if she’d like to order lunch, so Skye ordered the veggie wrap—on the vague notion that it would be in better keeping with her character—and more coffee.
Five minutes later, a woman came in and joined Jenkins. She was middle-aged, with salt-and-pepper hair, below average height, and heavyset. To her surprise, Skye recognized her from the dossiers as well.
Kristen Scott. Major, United States Air Force. But she’s familiar from somewhere else, too. Wish I could remember where. This is getting stranger and stranger. Is this spy ring completely inside our own military? I would have expected a couple of moles but mostly non-citizens. What gives? This makes no sense. Are we completely off track?
* * *
“Hey, Pete,” Major Scott greeted Jenkins warmly as she sat down. “I can’t take long; I’m on my lunch hour, and I’ve got a meeting back at the office right after.”
“No problem, Kris,” Jenkins smiled. “You can grab a bite though, can’t you?”
“Sure can,” Scott agreed. She turned to the waitress and ordered a tuna salad and bottled water, then returned her attention to her table companion. “So what’s up this time?”
“Oh, no big deal. The prof is looking for another intro into your group. Some sort of term paper for the boy. You know him and his thorough research.”
“Yeah. Not to mention that nephew of his. He’s really trying to get the boy started off well, isn’t he?”
“Looks like it. The way he dotes on the boy, it’s surprising he never got married and had kids of his own.”
“Yeah, I know. Kind of a pity, I think. Might’ve kept him out of that mess a few years back. At least he seems to be doing well at the teaching post. Okay, I’ll see what I can do for him,” Scott agreed, then sobered. “I sure hope whoever I hook him up with has better luck than the last guy.” Her salad arrived and she dug in.
“What do you mean?” Jenkins wondered, apparently surprised.
“Oh, I gave him a point of contact over on that other program, and I heard the guy had an accident while hiking, couple weeks back. Swan-dived off a cliff.”
“Damn!” Jenkins exclaimed, seeming shocked. “Helluva way to bite it.”
“Ain’t it, though? Listen, just outta curiosity, how do you know the prof, anyway?”
“I was one of his instructors at the Academy, way back when. I thought you knew that.” Jenkins laughed.
“Well, hell, that makes sense,” Scott chuckled. “Duh. That’s how you know me, half of Colorado Springs, and most of the Air Force.”
“Well, do you have a contact for him in your group?” Jenkins laughed again.
“Let me get back with ya, Pete,” Scott said, polishing off her salad. “I’m sure I do, but I’ve gotta take a look at the duty roster and come up with somebody who isn’t snowed under right now.”
“Works for me. I’ll wait to hear from ya. You know you can always find me here at lunch, since Sarah died.”
“Yeah, I know. You doing okay?”
“Fine,” Jenkins waved off the concern. “Gotta go?”
“Yeah, need to be headin’ back. I’ll get with you as soon as I get a chance to look at things.”
“Okay, I think I’ll mosey on home too,” Jenkins decided.
* * *
They called for their checks, and Skye followed suit, shutting down her laptop and glancing at her watch as if suddenly aware she was late for an appointment. All three paid, and Skye tailed them out of the café. Jenkins headed down the street, and Scott turned up the street, in the general direction of Skye’s rental vehicle. Skye glanced around and spotted her backup across the street, lounging on a bench with a sack lunch. She looked straight at the man, then turned and stared down the street after Jenkins, appearing lost in thought. Her backup tossed the remains of his lunch in a trash can and rose, ambling down the street behind Jenkins.
Skye wandered after Scott. As it turned out, Scott was parked near Skye’s vehicle. So Skye waited a few moments before following Scott, careful to stay well back. Once they moved onto heavier-traveled streets, Skye allowed one or two vehicles to come between herself and her mark, but never lost sight of the major’s car.
She followed Major Scott all the way to Highway 94, only veering off when Scott turned onto Enoch Road, headed for the main gate to Schriever Air Force Base.
“Damn,” she murmured. Several hundred yards past the Enoch Road intersection, she turned left onto Slocum Road, looping the block and emerging back onto Highway 94, headed into Colorado Springs. Less than half an hour later she was inside the saferoom in the Cimarron Springs Hotel, still in her disguise, sitting on the sofa, looking thoughtful.
* * *
Some time later, Holmes returned. By that time, Skye had removed her disguise and sat down with the laptop to compose a detailed report, including a transcript of the conversation from the small recorder.
“Hard at work, I see,” Holmes observed, coming over to the sofa and sitting beside her.
“Hi, honey,” she murmured, offering her face for his kiss. Holmes obliged, and she added, “Any luck?”
“I spent the day at Peterson, and blended in quite nicely as Wing Commander Sigerson today. Commander Holmes has disappeared for the time being, off on another assignment, it seems. Major Carl Woldren seems harmless enough, at least at first glance.”
“Hm. Given what I saw today, that’s fascinating. Sherlock, I’m beginning to think maybe all the members of this spy ring don’t know they’re part of a spy ring.”
“An intriguing theory. Show me
your data.”
“Here.” Skye shoved the laptop into Holmes’ lap. “Here’s my report; have a look.”
Holmes spent the next fifteen minutes perusing Skye’s report of her surveillance efforts in detail. When he was finished, he placed the laptop on the coffeetable, then patted down the pockets of his flight jumpsuit. Skye hopped up and scurried into the bedroom, emerging with his pipe and the fresh packet of tobacco Williams had left while they were out. His grey eyes lit up, and he accepted the items. In rapid order he’d packed and lit the pipe, kicked off his uniform boots, then curled his legs under himself. Skye sat back down beside him, but avoided disturbing him, curious to know what the profound intellect would make of the information.
Twenty minutes later, the grey eyes resumed focus, and Holmes turned to Skye.
“It is patently obvious we have not lost the trail, for we have reference to the cadet who shot you, and his uncle, in the conversation. Your assessment may be correct, or it may be this retired officer is more astute than you have given him credit. It is entirely possible you have found our…I believe the name used was ‘Sauron’?”
“You think Jenkins is the ringleader? He doesn’t seem the type, but I know you can’t go on first impressions. Okay, I can see it; he definitely has the contacts. The tower reference could be symbolic rather than literal, I guess. Or…it could represent the chapel at the Academy. It’s kind of tower-like. Or the ivory tower of academia, maybe. So what about this Academy professor? How does he figure in?”
“Perhaps he is the scientific expert for the group,” Holmes hypothesized. “We are still lacking one critical piece of information, however.”
“Yeah. Why are they doing it?”
“Precisely.”
They both sat on the couch, lost in thought.
* * *
Later that night at dinner Williams informed them—as if Holmes had never heard—the Project: Tesseract software team, in conjunction with Agent Smith and Colonel Jones’ people, had located the point of injection of the Trojan horse virus.
“It came in through the director’s console. Evidently that console was chosen because of its command capabilities; it’s my understanding it partakes of some of the abilities of all the other stations?”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 56