"Just get to it, if you don't mind," Knight said.
"Very well, sir. Tell me, Commander, how familiar are you with the Great Detective of Baker Street from Victorian Times?"
Price winced and said, "Perhaps if you refreshed my memory?"
"Perhaps his brother then, Mycroft Holmes?"
"Head of British Intelligence, turn of the century," Price said, snapping his fingers. "I read a paper of his once. Really quite boring, if I recall."
"Well, Mycroft Holmes had a brother who most wrote off as an eccentric bachelor that dabbled in chemistry. Others claimed he possessed the greatest deductive mind of all time. This man, Sherlock Holmes, was a bit of an eccentric figure. He operated a private consulting detective agency out of his flat on Baker Street and was assisted by a Dr. John Watson. They achieved a bit of infamy, actually, when Watson began publishing fictionalized accounts of their investigations. It was all pretty bawdy stuff for the times."
Price nodded and said, "Right, right, I've heard of him. He was a bit of a laughingstock, from what I recall. Drug-addict, or some such?"
"Yes!" Llewellyn said. "In all probability, most of those stories were simply shameless self-promotion on Watson's part, trying to drum up business for their detective agency. By all appearances, Sherlock Holmes was a lonely man living in the shadow of his powerful, well-respected brother. At least, that is how it seemed on the surface of things. But as we well know, there is often more than meets the eye."
"Quite so," Price said, shifting in his seat. He looked at Lee and said, "With all due respect, sir, what part of any of this is urgent?"
Llewellyn gamely pressed on, "All that we truly know about Sherlock Holmes aside from what was written by his friend Watson, is that he lived on Baker Street in an apartment, with no identifiable profession or means of income and that from 1881 to 1912 he published approximately ten monographs ranging in subject from distinguishing ashes of various tobaccos, tracing footsteps, tattoo marks, etc."
"And here I thought his brother's writing was boring," Price said.
"Actually, Commander, those writings are held by scholars to be sublime works in the fields of study they pertain to. For a drug-addled recluse, he certainly seemed to have a thorough knowledge of very complicated, little-known, subjects. In short, exactly the knowledge a man would need to accomplish the things written by his biographer."
Price shrugged, "Well, perhaps history has failed to recognize a deserving man. I'm sure it happens all the time. What does any of this have to do with us, sir?"
Llewellyn cleared his throat. "My point is that on the surface we have a man considered a bit of a quack by modern society."
To which I'm sure you can relate, Price thought.
"Beneath that, however, we have a man who secretly pioneered scientific and deductive techniques that are still considered state-of-the art to this very day. But there is another, deeper layer. It is rumored that Holmes created detailed instructions through a series of folios that were intended to give birth to a secret society of criminal investigators."
Price searched Llewellyn's eager expression for any hint of playfulness. He waited for the man to have his joke, and when it did not come, he looked at Knight and said, "What the hell is everyone talking about? I was having a nightmare when you rang me to come in, Admiral. Maybe I'm still in it. That's the only reasonable explanation for any of this."
Knight held up his hand and said, "History lesson aside, the beekeepers are real, they are here, and they have to be dealt with."
"Beekeepers," Price said. "Is that what this secret society you're talking about is called?"
"The actual term is Apiary Society," Llewellyn said.
Knight shrugged and said, "Something to do with the daffy old bludger's later years. Apparently he was fascinated with the insects."
Llewellyn held up a finger and said, "Actually, sir, in point of fact, Sherlock Holmes was quite an expert in pollination and honey manufacturing."
"Excellent, sir," Price said. He got up and straightened his suit coat, "All right, I see very clearly what needs to be done. Just tell me where they are and I will deal with them immediately. Secret jungle base in the Caribbean? Underground lair in the Arctic Circle? I don't care where it is, so long as it is not here, and I can get away from this madness."
Knight slid a sealed file across the desk toward him stamped CLASSIFIED: EYES ONLY. "It's all in the file. Keep me posted."
When Price opened the door to leave, Miss Maxwell immediately turned down the dial on the intercom where she'd been listening to them. She batted her eyes at Price and said, "So, what exciting destination will you be off to without me this time?"
Price fixed his hat onto his head and said, "Apparently, Baker Street."
An hour later, he was standing on the sidewalk looking up at the run-down two-story house that seemed likely to harbor a colony of sinister rats more than anything else. It was a simple brownstone affair, joined by barber shops and second-hand clothing stores. The front door bearing the numbers 221 was thick and old, made from good wood, and likely bore the original finish and stain.
The windows appeared to be original as well, and Price reckoned they'd probably been installed over a hundred years prior. He rejected the worthless nostalgia of it all. A man like Stuart Price had no taste for the past.
He swallowed his pride and knocked on the door. If Admiral Knight saw fit to waste a man of Price's talent and expense on chasing down angry insect fanatics, so be it. He rapped on the door and waited, thinking that this was all likely due to Llewellyn prattling incessantly in the old man's ear.
So I've been sent as an errand boy to do a spot-check on the property, and once I've discovered it's nothing, I'll be off on a real mission.
The door opened and Price's thoughts of a real mission vanished as an enormous man the size of a small wooly mammoth, but slightly more hairy, looked down at him. "What d' ye want?"
Price smiled congenially and said, "Good day, guv, I'm from the Westminster City Council Planning Commission," he said, flashing a false set of credentials. "Doing a review of historic sites in the area, and this one is on me list. You the owner, by any chance?"
"Piss off," the man grumbled, moving to slam the door shut in Price's face, but he held up his arm and caught it.
"That's not very polite, guv," Price said. The man was twice his size in every way, but Price knew how to break him down. Heel strikes to either knee would bring the largest man down a foot or two. An elbow smash to the side of the skull was devastating, no matter how big and stupid the recipient was.
"Ye wanna `ave a go? Let go a this door or I'll send ye back to the Council wiff a few less teeth, my son."
A woman's voice called down from above the stairwell, saying, "Wiggins? Is everything all right? Who's at the door?"
The man's eyes tightened on Price, but his voice was soft and calm when he called out, "Nuffink, mum. Just a blighter from the local office, come to harass us again. He were jest leavin'."
"Actually, there won't be any harassment, ma'am," Price shouted over Wiggins. "I'm just trying to speak to the property owner so I can update our files."
Wiggins glared at him and said, "One more word an' I'll−"
"I'll just need a moment of your time, ma'am!" Price said.
"Send him up, Wiggins," the woman said.
Wiggins regarded Price carefully for a moment and said, "Ye get five minutes, laddie. Exactly five minutes. Everything's not aw tickety-boo at the moment, so get in an' get out, or I'll get ye out meself, get me?"
Price smiled again and tipped his hat at Wiggins, having to move around the man to get to the staircase. He looked down and saw a large double-barreled shotgun propped up against the door, and then back at Wiggins. "I see what you mean about not being tickety-boo," he said.
"Not in the slightest, ye don't," Wiggins muttered.
Price headed up the stairs toward the landing and raised his hand to knock on the door marked B. It was open and h
e pressed his fingers against the door, taking a step inside the dark living room. There was a warm fire glowing in the fireplace and a woman sitting in the chair beside it. Her eyes were fixed on him, a natural green color that burned emerald in the light of the flames. She wore her long black hair down to her shoulders, its color offset by the creamy, rich color of her skin. Price blinked in surprise at how stunningly beautiful she was and fumbled his words trying to simply say, "Hello, miss."
"Watson," she said. "But I prefer Emily."
Price left the door open behind him, not wanting to alarm the young woman or to make Wiggins nervous and have him come crashing up the stairs like a rhino, carrying his shotgun. He was staring at her and could not help himself. Focus, damn you, he thought. "I, ah…am glad you agreed to see me. The Commission feels very strongly about…um…preserving the history of this area."
In addition to being distracted by her beauty, he had the distinct impression she was taking in great detail about every single thing he said and did, even what he wore and how he spoke. She studied his shoes and coat and inspected his hat as he spoke, and it only made him trip over himself worse. Finally, she said, "Who are you and where are you really from?"
"Price," he said. "Stuart Price. From the Westminster City Council Planning Commission."
"Is that right?" she said. She reached into the seat and put her hand down beside the cushion as she spoke.
"Yes, sorry. I should have said that at the beginning," Price said, his eyes focused on her hand. He turned and looked at the door again, assessing how fast he'd have to move to get out at a moment's notice. There were hardly any other options. The living room was cluttered with tables and a desk, each of them covered with old crates of papers and what looked like ancient scientific instruments. Past Emily Watson was a hallway that lead to two bedrooms with no exit from either. If she tried to kill him, he was going to have to fight his way down the stairs past that big gorilla named Wiggins, shotgun or no.
Price inched toward the door and Emily produced a revolver from the seat with frightening speed. She aimed it at Price and said, "Don't move. I prefer you exactly where you are."
Price held out his hands and showed her they were empty. "This really isn't necessary, Miss Watson. If you do not wish to discuss the property with me, I can leave this instant," he said. He started reaching for the inside of his coat where his pistol was holstered and said, "I have my identification right here if you'd like to see it."
Emily cocked the hammer of her revolver back and said, "I wouldn't make another movement if I were you. Now, who are you really and who sent you?"
"My name is Stuart Price."
Emily's head tilted as she looked at him, concentrating on his facial features. "There are several dozen indicators of deception in the facial features alone. The voice has even more, both in quality and tone. I'll accept that you are Stuart Price, for now. Tell me something, Mr. Price, are you scared right now?"
"No," he said. "More amused by the situation, really."
"Amused?" she said. "By someone holding a gun to your face? The funny thing is, I believe you, so you are either insane or have a deathwish."
"Actually, I was thinking that it would be just my luck to meet the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and then get shot by her."
Emily grinned slightly and said, "You, sir, are most certainly not from the Planning Commission."
Price shrugged and said, "It was all I could come up with. To be perfectly honest, I'm not so much worried you'll shoot me on purpose, as I am that the gun will go off because you have no idea how to handle that damn thing."
"Excuse me?" she said.
"You may be able to read faces, Emily, but I can read gunmanship and you clearly have none."
Emily waved her pistol at the wall behind him and said, "I assure you, I am quite the marksman. Perhaps you'd like me to demonstrate by aiming just beneath your nether regions?"
Price kept his hands up as he turned and looked back at the wall, seeing the letters VR stamped on the surface by multiple expertly-placed bullets. Price nodded his head in admiration and said, "Whoever fired those shots is an expert, indeed."
"So there you have it," Emily said.
"Pity it wasn't you and it most certainly wasn't fired from that gun."
Emily cocked an eyebrow at him and said, "Please, explain how you came to that deduction."
"That's a Webley Mk IV. Probably issued to a serviceman who fought in the Boer War. The Webley's rounds are much too big for that type of precision. It's a miniature hand cannon meant to blow holes in the opposition big enough to see through. Whatever gun decorated your wall is something a gentleman might have shot birds with back in the 1800's."
Watson glanced down at the pistol and said, "I'm sure whatever ghosts linger in this apartment are laughing like the devil right now, Mr. Price, but be that as it may. Either tell me why you are here or I will test your theory about blowing holes in people with all due haste."
Price nodded and said, "I am from the government, just a few levels above the Westminster City Council Planning Commission."
"A few?" she said.
"Quite a few," he added.
"Are you here to kill me?"
"Not at all."
Watson took a long time studying his face, working out whether she believed him or not, then said, "What level of government do you work for?"
Price lowered his hands and said, "This is nonsense. What kind of danger are you in? I can help."
"I'll do the questioning," Emily said, "Get your hands back up."
Her words were cut short by the sound of two cars screeching in front of the house and Wiggins bellowing, "They're here, mum! Take cover!"
Wiggins slammed the front door shut with such force the floor beneath them shook and Emily leapt up from her chair and said, "Oh, God. We have to go."
Price yanked his Walther PPK from his shoulder holster and pointed it with both hands at the door. "Who are they and how many of them are there?"
"We don't have time for that," she said. Emily ran toward one of the back bedrooms and said, "Come on! We have to get to the roof while Wiggins holds them off."
There were several muffled gunshots at the bottom of the steps and the sound of Wiggins grunting in pain. The large man's shotgun roared deafeningly as he emptied both barrels and shouted, "Har, got ye, ye bastard! Emily! Run, love! They're comin'! Christ, they got me."
Price stuck his head out of the apartment door, looking down to see Wiggins sprawled out in front of the entrance. Just as Price looked, the top step exploded into wooden fragments, shot by a silent assassin.
Silencers?
Bloody hell!
Price dove back into the doorway and stuck his hand out, firing blindly at the front door. He dumped lead down the steps until his magazine ran dry, trying to buy enough time for Emily to escape.
Instead, she was standing in the doorway of the bedroom, yelling for him to hurry up and follow her. Price slammed the apartment door shut and bolted it, then stuck his fingers in his coat pocket for his extra magazine. He hadn't brought one.
These damn beekeepers were supposed to be an easy assignment.
Bullets flew through the apartment's front door in his direction, punching holes in the old door. "This is worse than getting shot by a beautiful woman," Price said, kicking one of the armchairs over to block the door. "I'm about to get killed in a smelly old historic site!"
Emily Watson pulled a rope down from the bedroom's ceiling and yanked on it, releasing a step-ladder down from a hatch in the roof. She hiked up her skirt and started up the ladder, calling for Price to, "Get going!"
Price ran to the ladder and looked up at the hatch, pausing momentarily at the sight of Emily's silk underwear. It was light blue. And thin. He tucked his useless gun back into its holster and said, "At least I've glimpsed heaven, even if I'll never get there."
The roof of the building was connected to several other houses on either side. Emily popped
the hatch and clambered out onto the tar roof, turning around to help Price, when she saw another doorway burst open from the far end of the building. Two men came through, guns aimed at Emily, the barrels capped by fat, round silencers.
Price stuck his head up through the hatch and silenced bullets skipped across the black roof, leaving score marks all around them. Price's eyes widened and he shouted, "Give me the Webley!"
Emily was frozen in place, staring wide-eyed at the men even as hot lead skirted past her, close enough to leave red marks on her arms and legs. Price pushed her out of the way and grabbed the Webley from her, cocking the hammer and praying to God that whatever old boy had bothered to hold onto such an engine of destruction had bothered to keep the damn thing loaded.
He fired and the barrel erupted louder than an elephant gun. The nearest assassin flew backwards, clutching for the smoking hole in his chest. Price cocked the hammer again and the second man dove for cover behind a smokestack.
"Stick your head out, you son of a bitch," Price whispered. "Just give me an inch."
Emily suddenly snapped into action, fishing a key from a chain around her neck and running for a small box chained to a gutter along the roof's wall. She fit the key into the rusted lock and heaved a heavy iron ball out of it with both hands. Price stared at the object as she carried it and said, "What the hell is that thing? A cannon ball?"
Emily shuffled the ball to the far end of the roof and pressed up against it, leaning down over the side to unscrew a cap covering one of the drainage pipes. The pipe ran down the side of the house toward the street below. "My grandfather was always afraid of being caught with his knickers down if he were ever at home and one of his enemies came after him. He built several defenses into the house that no one knows about except me."
She grunted as she lifted the iron ball over the edge of the house and dropped it into the pipe, listening as it clanged and bounced along, spilling out of the pipe to roll down a narrow platform, then drop into another pipe. Emily watched in fascination as the ball switched pipes along a series of elaborate configurations, gathering speed as it fell toward the street.
Agent Omega: You Only Live Forever Page 13
