Sherlock Holmes in 2012: TIMELESS DUEL

by Mohammad Bahareth

  “Here.,” Sherlock said, handing his brother a set of photographs, “take a good look at these photos. They’ll tell you that I’m right.” He got up from his seat and rounded the table to come to stand behind Mycroft’s shoulder. “See., right there..” He pointed to a young man carrying a package and entering the Tube station. “And there..” He flipped to another photo, over his brother’s shoulder. “There, he’s coming out of the Tube without the package-not only ten minutes later, according to the time stamp on the photo.”

  Mycroft nodded while looking at the two photographs closely. “That’s all circumstantial, Sherlock. No one could ever arrest a man for carrying a package in the Tube station.” He turned to Weisberg. “Have you found this package and examined its content?”

  “I’ll let Agent Zimmerman answer that.”

  Zimmerman was sitting beside Sherlock-the latter had regained his seat by now-and opened a manila folder. “When we suspected the package may have contained a bomb, we went down the Tube station, found the package under a seat and some MI5 experts examined it.”

  “And what did the package contain?” Mycroft asked.

  “Nothing, sir, absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s exactly what should have been in the package!” Sherlock shouted. “Don’t you see-I thought it was clear as day-this David Penny planted a decoy and watched you from a distance to ensure that you were indeed following him and that you in fact found an empty box.”

  “And why would he go through such an elaborate deception if he was only planning to blow up the underground line-the device could have exploded by the time he was out of reach or even out of sight.”

  “He could, yes, but that’s not the ultimate goal,” Sherlock replied. “He’s planning something much bigger somewhere else-I am now certain of it.”

  “And what would that be then?” Mycroft asked.

  “I am sure you are aware of the 2005 bombing in London..” Mycroft nodded. “And that bomb killed several people, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course it did, but what has that bombing to do with today’s problem?” Mycroft asked.

  “Only two things. First, that bomb did not kill enough people, and second, the man assigned to develop a dirty bomb, presumably under orders from al Qaeda, is now ready to defuse his devastating evil upon the people of

  England.”

  “And what’s the name of that person,” Weisberg asked, somewhat curious now.

  Sherlock turned to the agent. “You know him, Agent Weisberg, your FBI agents have been hunting him for some time now and yesterday you have ordered the hunt to start again. But this time, Adnan Al Shukrijumah has chosen to complete his task, not in the States, but in Britain.”

  Mycroft stared at his brother. Once again, he could not come to grips with the fact that his brother was sitting across the table from him, for one thing, and that his mind was making deductions equal to those he had made when he had known him a hundred years ago, for another.

  “DEBKA is well acquainted with Mr. Adnan, yes,” Weisberg agreed. “However, we have no confirmation that he has moved to England at this point.”

  “But you do, Weisberg, you do-you just don’t want to admit it!”

  “No, Sherlock, I have no such admission to make, because I have no facts to support it, no!”

  “Alright, gentlemen,” Mycroft intervened, “no need to get into a debate at this point. Let’s just say that I will take the matter into serious consideration and alert MI5 and MI6 to increase their vigilance and surveillance on this man Adnan. Would that appease your fears?” He looked around the table. Most of the agents nodded while Sherlock shook his head. Mycroft knew his brother would not accept such a back-door exit on his part.

  As soon as Mycroft exited the conference room, he observed his brother disappearing down the side stairs of the building. He wanted to rush after him but was stopped by Weisberg, who asked to have a word with him out of earshot from the other agents who had now filed out of the room.

  “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Holmes, for having brought you all the way from England to listen to the ravings of a lunatic who pretends to be your brother.”

  “I told you there’s no need for this sort of apologies, Weisberg. In fact, as you often say in America, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

  “But you can’t seriously think Sherlock’s assertions are anything else than pure imaginings on his part.”

  Mycroft looked down at the floor beneath his feet and then raised his gaze to his interlocutor. “Tell me something, Weisberg; did you or did you not resume your surveillance of this Adnan fellow lately?”

  “Well., that’s difficult to confirm.”

  “Don’t start pussyfooting around with me-that was a simple question that only demanded a yes or no answer-so what will it be?”

  “Hum, as I said DEBKA is in charge of the surveillance-if any-and their latest report is only stating that Adnan has probably been enrolled by al Qaeda during his stay in the States, and that he has been assigned to carry out a radiological bombing attack in America. Other than that, I have nothing.”

  “Why then are you so afraid to believing Sherlock-he is very close to the truth-and you’ve chosen to ignore him? I find that preposterous, Weisberg,” Mycroft uttered, raising his voice a little.

  “But, sir, you have to understand our position.”

  “Oh, I understand it perfectly, Weisberg. I have no doubt you’ll be able to cover your tracks very well if or when a radiological bomb explodes in London’s underground in the next few days. I will be the one paying the price for your willful ignorance of Sherlock Holmes!” As Weisberg was about to respond, Mycroft said, “Good day to you, sir,” and marched away in the direction of the stairs.

  It was too late however, to chase or attempt to find Sherlock now; Mycroft knew he would not be able to find him.

  Following an afternoon of shopping in local department stores, and getting acquainted with the use of credit cards-to her continual astonishment-Irene was dressed and ready to accompany Mycroft to dinner that night. She would have preferred to be with Sherlock but knew instinctively perhaps, that it would not be long now until shemet him once again.

  Sitting opposite Mycroft at the end of a delicious meal, Irene could not resist asking, “How is it possible that I have been so wrong about Sherlock’s landing date? I was right about everything else-except for the date. Tell me what are the possible answers for my mistake; missing the date by so many weeks?”

  Mycroft crossed one leg over one knee, swirled the cognac in his snifter and looked at Irene for a long moment before he answered. “I have no answer on that point, my dear. Perhaps when you finally meet Sherlock, he will tell you.” He smiled.

  “But what’s your contention, Mycroft?”

  “It’s difficult to say, but let’s assume you were not wrong, that is to say Sherlock did land on November 29, such as you did this morning and saw the houses-because since I am now aware of the existence of a Baker Street in this city, I would not hesitate in postulating that Sherlock landed in the very same street-and let’s assume that the house on the corner had a “Sold” sign on it.” Irene looked at him fixedly; she had an inkling of what Mycroft was going to advance. “He may have decided to go back to a few months prior to the selling of this particular house, and try his luck then.”

  “But he must have had no money to purchase such a place then-or even now-how did he survive?”

  “Your protective anxiety of Sherlock is charming, my dear, and touching, but you need never to forget how resourceful my brother can be, yet I must admit, when I first met him, he looked as disheveled as I had ever seen him.”

  “Oh? Was he living in the streets, do you think?”

  “I don’t think so, and if he ever did, when I met him the second time, I had ensured that he was lodged in a small private hotel and had everything he needed to survive comfortably.”

  “And how would he have obtained enough funds to purchase 3321 Baker Street th
en?”

  “I don’t know, and I hope he has not accepted to borrow funds from unsavory parties,” Mycroft said pensively.

  “But why didn’t you take him back?” Irene asked after a moment’s silence.

  “I couldn’t do that, my dear. I would have killed him the minute I locked him to go back to a time his mind could no longer function and was starving for growth.”

  “So, you think he will never go back?”

  “Unless something forces him to do so, I do believe Sherlock is here to remain.”

  Chapter Five

  A Conundrum

  Mycroft finds his brother embroiled in US terrorism cases and in strife with the powers-that-be. The U.S. considers him a terrorist and he is not an official consultant to the FBI or CIA. He always uncovers plots and government secrets and he fights terrorism but the government remains blind and deaf to his repeated pleas, until it is too late, thereby eliminating the idea that he is the real Sherlock Holmes from anyone’s mind.

  Since that August meeting, Sherlock had been perusing and even scrutinizing every US and British newspaper he could put his hands on and had scoured the internet on the laptop Mycroft had purchased for him. Every day, he became more disgruntled. Every day he read nothing that could have been remotely linked with the disappearance of the Adnan fellow or even that his envisaged explosion of a radiological bomb in the London Tube had been defused or worse, detonated. He was close to falling into depression when, on that November day, he went to Baker Street and observed the marquis tent being erected at sunrise. He stayed hidden and waited for an hour or so until, to his utmost amazement, he saw his brother and another scrawny fellow enter the tent. His wonder only increased when he saw a woman exit the tent accompanied of the two men. He was sure the figure was that of a woman, although her cloak and cowl hid her shape and face. Stunned, he only made a move when he saw Mycroft’s car leave the area along with the truck transporting another time machine, similar to the one he had used several weeks earlier.

  Sherlock had come to Baker Street on that morning to visit the house-number 3321-which he had just purchased the previous month. If Mycroft had been worried about him borrowing from unsavory parties-there was no need. In fact, soon after his arrival in August, Sherlock bought several financial newspapers and noticed that if the housing market was depressed, the mining stock market was on the rise. He studied the financial pages every morning and wasted no time in investing in some stocks and shares that he was sure would return him a hefty sum in the short term. If Sherlock was considered somewhat impulsive by all that knew him a century ago, he was nonetheless very careful in his planning an escape or a trip of any sort. This careful preparation had been put into motion the night he departed 1890. He knew the British Pound of the time would not serve any purpose a hundred and twenty years later, so he took a few gold pieces he had in reserve in his lodgings and brought them with him to 2010. That year, gold value was at its highest and the sac of ‘antique coins’ he sold to a gold merchant brought him the thousands he invested in mining stocks. And voila! Sherlock had made a killing in the four months he had been in Washington, D.C.

  He was still standing agape when the real estate agent appeared around the corner a few minutes after Mycroft had left the scene.

  “Ah, Mr. Holmes,” the man exclaimed genially when he saw Sherlock on the front stoop of his house. “Are you ready to take another look inside.?”

  “No, I am not, my good man,” Sherlock replied, waving an arm and pushing past the agent. “I will telephone you when it’s more convenient.”

  “But., but, Mr. Holmes, I have your keys.,” the man said, hurrying after Sherlock.

  The latter stopped and swung on his heels. “Well? Where are they?” he asked, extending a hand. “And have you completed every task and repairs required then?”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Holmes, everything’s been done.” The agent extracted a set of keys out of his briefcase and deposited them in Sherlock still opened palm. “But., you’ll need to sign the possession papers.”

  Holmes was already running down the steps and down the cross street before the agent could complete his sentence.

  The man shrugged and returned to his car. He now knew where to find his eccentric client.

  As soon as Sherlock reached a thoroughfare, he hailed a cab and gave the driver Mycroft’s hotel address. He crossed the lobby and without waiting his turn, pushing in front of a customer, he asked the front desk clerk if Mr. Mycroft Holmes was in his suite.

  The patron who was about to pay his bill and check out of the hotel looked up at the intruding fellow, visibly annoyed. “Excuse me, but there’s a queue-or haven’t you noticed?”

  Sherlock shrugged and rudely ignored the man.

  The clerk shot a quick, rueful but unwavering smile at the client, “Excuse me, sir.,” and then to Sherlock. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

  “Just give me an answer, NOW!” Sherlock insisted.

  “I’ll have to ask you to wait, sir,” the attendant said, armed with the patience his position demanded too often.

  “I have no time to wait; a yes or no answer will do,” Sherlock retorted hotly.

  “May I suggest that you pick up the house phone”—the clerk pointed to a side desk—”and ring your party. I’m sure if the minister is in his suite, he will pick up.”

  Sherlock turned around and strode decisively towards the bank of telephones lined up on the side table near the front desk. He picked up one of the receivers, waited for a second, talked to the operator and hung up. His brother was not in the hotel!

  At a loss to know where Mycroft had gone, Sherlock walked the streets for several hours before returning to his room at the little B&B. He couldn’t come to terms with what he had witnessed in front of his house in Baker Street. Who was the woman? Was that a second time machine? And where was Mycroft?

  That evening, the minister was on his way back to England. After leaving Irene Adler in a comfortable hotel in town, he had made his way to Dulles Airport and had boarded a flight back to London. Now that he knew where to find Sherlock and that Irene was safe to get acquainted with her new environment for the next few days, Mycroft wanted to concentrate once again on the David Penny problem. More than a problem, David Penny had proven to be a constant migraine for both MI5 and MI6. The man was navigating through time-Irene had intended to meet with him the night before her departure-and had been seen in both centuries, always mixed up with suspicious individuals. Although glad that Adnan Al Shukrijumah had not made good on Sherlock’s predicted bombing, Mycroft could not find a link between the two men-Penny and Adnan. Sherlock has never been wrong, he mumbled to himself as he was sipping on a midnight cap in the middle of the Atlantic.

  After only a few hours’ sleep, Mycroft hurried into his office the next morning to find his assistant in a state of utter agitation.

  “Oh, Mr. Minister,” the young man said, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all night, sir., I’m sorry., but there’s been some development.”

  “What sort of development?” Mycroft asked, marching into his office-his assistant in tow. “Which case are you referring to?” He sat down.

  “It’s the David Penny case, sir. The man’s been seen again-this time carrying a briefcase into the London

  Stock Exchange building.”

  “Say what?” Mycroft nearly shouted. “Did you ring Olsson at MI5 to get the details?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “And how were you advised of this?”

  “I just got a message this morning through our sources.. I was waiting for your authorization to call Agent Olsson.”

  Mycroft riveted his gaze on the young man standing before him across from his desk. “Listen to me, Yves. When it comes to David Penny, don’t wait for me! Have you got that?”

  Yves nodded, spun on his heels and walked back to his desk after closing Mycroft’s office door behind him.

  Mycroft reclined in his
chair, pondered for a moment and than picked up the phone.

  “Get me Agent Weisberg in D.C.,” he said to the office operator, and waited.

  “Minister, good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “Simple, Weisberg, you can get off your duff and tell me where Adnan is-and I mean at this very minute!”

  “You mean the al Qaeda bomber?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I have seen nothing from you since August and now our man David Penny is on the move again. I’m telling you, these two are continuing to give me a headache. So, where is Adnan?”

  Silence.

  “Well., are you still there or are you running for cover.?”

  “I’m sorry, Minister, but this has become a matter of national security and I cannot divulge our latest findings in the case, I am sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t give me that bull, Weisberg, just tell me if Adnan is still in the States-or I’ll call your Vice President or even the President himself, so you can get all the security clearance you want.”

  “Just hold on, Minister,” Weisberg babbled, “I am not authorized.”

  “Alright, alright., just be aware that if anyone dies because of your refusal to cooperate with our Majesty’s Government, I’ll see you rot in jail for this,” Mycroft declared vehemently, slamming the phone down.

  He was about to pick up the receiver again when Yves came in after knocking lightly on the office door. “Sir, Agent Olsson at MI5 has just told me that their field agents followed David Penny out of the Stock Exchange building last night and lost him in the rush hour.”

  “You mean these nincompoops have managed to lose his trail again?” Mycroft shouted. Yves nodded. “What about the briefcase? Did they find it?”

  “Yes, sir, and.”

  “And what?”

  “It was empty-same deal as the time in August, sir.”

  Mycroft banged his fist on his desk. “That does it!” he yelled. “Get me the CIA director on the line,” he ordered to the dumfounded Yves, who looked terribly upset. Obviously the young man wasn’t used to seeing his boss so irate. He trotted out of Mycroft’s office head bent in dismay.