Codename: Omega (feat. The Apiary Society) (10 page)

 “I don’t know, Sean.  That depends what you suppose awaits you here.”  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her long legs so that her skirt slid just above her knee, careful not to reveal more than a slight glimpse of thigh. 

He looked down at her leg and sighed, “It’s always the same.  Murderous villainy.  International intrigue.  Exotic cars…and then, of course, there’s the women.”

“Of course,” Maxwell said, reaching up to stroke the collar of her shirt as he spoke.  “How dreadful.”

He bent forward, smelling the hint of mint on her breath from her morning tea.  “It seems rather implausible that I would consider giving that up just to stay here.  But still, it seems worth investigating, if only for academic purposes.”  He leaned closer to her and she leaned closer to him.  The scent of mint grew stronger. 

“Urgent means now, Commander!” the intercom squawked. 

Maxwell laughed and sat back in her chair.  “Saved by the bell, once again.”

Price stood up and straightened his tie.  “You can’t hide from me forever, Maxwell.  I always collect on old debts.”

“I was counting on it,” she said.

He opened the office door and said, “Good morning, sir.”

“Sit down.  It’s one thing to keep me waiting, I am but a simple public servant.  It is quite another to delay the entire organization devoted to protecting Queen and Country while you flirt with my secretary.”

“You considered that flirting, sir?  I’m rather surprised.  That was simply—”

Admiral Sir Lee Knight waved his hand at the agent dismissively, “We have a situation.  There is some nasty business afoot from the Beekeepers.”

“Ah.  Beekeepers.  You don’t say.”  

Knight didn’t budge.  

Price smiled, crossing his legs and tapping his foot while he waited.  “All right, sir.  You’ve had your fun.  What is it you really need?”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

“Should I?”

“You didn’t read the packet I sent to you two days ago?”

 
The unopened parcel still sitting on my kitchen table, you mean?
he thought.  “I haven’t been home much recently, sir.”

“Bugger all,” Knight said, pressing his intercom.  “Maxwell, tell Llewelyn to report to my office straight away.   That man’s a blasted walking history lesson.” 

***

Llewelyn was hardly able to contain himself.  “It’s quite the intrigue.  There’s been decades of speculation as to how they came into existence and what exactly it is they’ve been up to.  No one seems to know.  All very shadowy stuff, indeed.”

“Just get to it, if you don’t mind,” Knight said.

“Very well, sir.  Tell me, Commander, how familiar are you with Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street?”

 Price shook his head.  “Perhaps if you refreshed my memory?”

“Perhaps his brother then, Mycroft Holmes?”

“Head of British Intelligence from the turn of the century?  I read one of his papers once.  Quite dry, 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.  Sherlock Holmes operated a consulting detective agency off of Baker Street, assisted by a Dr. John Watson.  They achieved a bit of infamy once Watson began publishing obviously fictional accounts of Holmes’s investigations, claiming to be solving crimes that baffled Scotland Yard.”

 Price snapped his fingers, “Ah, yes.  I’ve heard of him.  He was a bit of a laughingstock, from what I recall.  Drug-addict, or some such?”

“Yes!” Llewelyn said.  “In all probability, most of those stories were simply shameless self-promotion on Watson’s part, trying to drum up business for a lonely man living in the shadow of his powerful, well-respected brother.  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, “With all due respect, sir, what part of any of this is urgent?”

Llewelyn pressed on, “All that we truly know about Sherlock Holmes 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.”

“Thrilling reading, I’m certain,” 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?”

Llewelyn cleared his throat.  “My point is that on the surface we have a man considered a bit of a quack by modern society.  Underneath 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 during one of Holmes’s periods of withdrawal, as he sat in his Baker Street apartment trying to fight off the demons of cocaine and morphine, he began to conjure the blueprint for a secret society.  Holmes created detailed instructions through a series of folios that spread throughout the investigative underground like wildfire.”

Price searched Llewelyn’s eager expression for any hint of sarcasm.  Finding none, he turned to Knight with his hands held out for mercy. 

“To make a long story short,” Knight said, “Regardless of what you think of how the Beekeepers came into being, or who wrote the documents that they based their order on, they are real, they are here, and they have to be dealt with.”

"Beekeepers, sir?  Why that?"

“The actual term is Apiary Society, sir,” Llewelyn said.

Knight shrugged, "Something to do with the daffy old bludger's later years." 

Llewelyn held up a finger and said, “Actually, sir, in point of fact, Sherlock Holmes was quite an—”

“Excellent, sir,” Price said.  He got up and straightened his suitcoat, “So where are they?  Secret jungle base in the Caribbean?  Underground lair in the Arctic Circle?  Just tell me where they are, and let me out of this office before my head explodes.”

Admiral Sir Knight slid a sealed file across the desk toward him stamped
CLASSIFIED: EYES ONLY.

***

Miss Maxwell lowered the dial on the intercom as he shut Knight’s office door.  “So tell me, Sean.  What exciting destination will you be off to without me this time?”

He frowned as he fixed his hat onto his head and said, “Baker Street.”

 An hour later, he was standing on the sidewalk looking up at the run-down two-story building, imagining that the only thing sinister inside might be a colony of hungry rats.  It was a simple brownstone affair, joined on both sides by barber shops and clothing stores.  The front door marked
221
was thick.  Old.  Never repainted since the original coat.  The windows appeared to be original as well, probably installed over a hundred years prior when the house was first erected.  Price rejected the nostalgia of it all.  He had no taste for the past.

He knocked on the door and tried to ignore the suspicion that this was all a colossal waste of time.  If anything, the Beekeepers Guild or Apiary Society or whatever the hell they called themselves was a threat to America.  If they were even a threat.  The tiny contingent of members in London was meaningless. 

How much of this came from Llewelyn prattling in Knight’s ear,
he wondered.  The old bugger was obviously enthralled with the history of it all.  More nostalgia, he thought, sneering. 

 The door opened, the entrance filled by an enormous, muscular, angry looking man holding a club.  Price looked down and saw the double-barreled shotgun propped in the corner of the doorway.  The man caught him looking and said, “What’s this?  Who the hell are ye?”  

Price smiled gently, non-threateningly.  “I’m from the Westminster City Council Planning Commission, sir,” he said, flashing his British Government credentials.  “We’re doing a review of any historic sites in the area.  Are you the owner?”

“Bugger off!” the man said, thrusting the door forward.  Price caught the door before it shut and held it open.  The man glared down at Price, then held up his fat fist and said, “Ye wanna `ave a go?”

A woman’s voice called down from the stairs, “Wiggins?  Who’s at the door?”

The man stayed glaring at Price, but his voice softened when he said, “It’s just a blighter from the local office, come to harass us again, Miss Watson.  He’s just leaving.”

“Actually, there won’t be any harassment, ma’am,” Price shouted over Wiggins. 

“Shut yer trap, you” Wiggins whispered. 

“I’ll just need a moment of your time!”

“Send him up, Wiggins,” the woman replied.

Wiggins took a deep breath and stepped back from the door.  “You get five minutes, laddie.  Exactly five minutes.  Everything's not aw tickety-boo at the moment, if you catch my meaning.  In an' out.  Five minutes, if’n I have to drag you out.”

Price smiled again and tipped his hat.  He took the stairs up to the landing and knocked on the door marked B.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Watson…” his voice trailed off as he saw the woman sitting in the chair by the fireplace. 

Her eyes flashed in the light of the fire when she said, “
Miss
Watson.  But I prefer Emily.”

Price nodded, “As you wish.  Thank you for seeing me.”

Price had the distinct impression that she was taking note of every single thing on his person, starting with his shoes and working her way up to his hair.  She saw him looking her over and said, “Have you just come to ogle, or do you have a purpose for being here, Mr.—?”

“Price,” he said.  “Sean Price.  From the Westminster City Council Planning Commission.”

“Oh?” she said.  She pulled the thick blanket covering her legs up a little further.  Price thought he saw something under the blanket.   

“Yes,” Price said, growing concerned.  He began to focus on the door behind him, worried that Wiggins might come up the steps behind him and try some funny business.  
Who are these people, really?  
“Would you mind if I shut this door, Ms. Watson?  I’ve got something to discuss with you that I wouldn’t be comfortable with anyone else—”

Emily Watson produced a revolver from under the blanket and aimed it directly at Price’s forehead.  “Don’t move, Mr. Price.”

Price held his arms out, showing her his hands were empty.  “I didn’t mean anything by shutting the door,” he said.  “I am absolutely no danger to you.  I have my identification in my jacket wallet. If you’ll just let me get it,” Price said, reaching slowly for the inside of his jacket. 

Emily cocked the hammer back.  “I wouldn’t make another movement if I were you.  Who are you?” she said.

“Sean 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 Sean Price.  For now.  Are you scared?”

“No.  Amused, really.”

“By someone holding a gun to your face?  You are either insane or have a deathwish.”

“Actually, I was thinking how foolish I’ll feel getting shot by such a beautiful woman.”

Emily smiled.  “You are most certainly not from the Planning Commission, sir.” 

“Honestly, I’m not worried you’ll shoot me on purpose so much as the gun will go off because you have no idea how to handle that damn thing,” Price said.  

“Do you see that wall, Mr. Price?”  Watson pointed across the room at the letters
VR
written in the wall by expertly placed bullets.  “I’d dare say I know a thing or two about firearms, wouldn’t you?”

"Big fan of deceased monarchs, are we?"  He looked very carefully at the bullet holes in the wall and then smiled back at Emily.  The bullet holes were far too small to have come from such a large weapon.  "That's a Webley Mk IV, is it not?  That pistol probably saw some action in the Boer War." 

Watson glanced down at the pistol and cleared her throat.  "I’ll ask you one question at a time, Mr. Price. If you lie to me at all, I will begin shooting you in various extremities.  Do you understand me?”

“Perfectly,” Price said.

“Are you here to kill me?”

“No.  Absolutely not.”

Watson took a long time studying his face.  Finally, she nodded.  “Who do you work for?”

Price thought the question over as he looked from the gun to Emily’s face.  “I work for the government.  And we are, in our own way, a Planning Office.  What sort of danger are you in?”

“I’ll do the questioning,” Emily said.  She opened her mouth to speak when the sound of Wiggins bellowing downstairs drowned her out.  He slammed the front door shut with such force that it shook the floor beneath them.   

“It’s them, Miss Watson!” Wiggins shouted. 

Emily jumped from the chair, terror in her eyes.  “Oh God,” she said.  “We have to go.”  

Price ripped his Walther PPK from his shoulder holster and aimed it at the door.  “It’s who, and how many of them are there?”

“Follow me,” she said, racing toward the back of the house.  “We have to get to the roof!”

Muffled gunshots echoed from the bottom of the steps, the thunk of bullets shattering wood louder than the shots themselves.  Price stuck his head through the apartment door and looked down, seeing Wiggins sprawled out, face down at the entrance.  The wall at the top of the steps exploded near Price’s head. 
Silencers?
he thought.  Two more rounds nearly hit him.  Price pointed his weapon over the top of the steps and fired blindly until his magazine ran empty. 

 He ducked back behind the door and slammed it shut, bolting it as he raced into the back room after Emily.  He fished in his pocket for a spare clip, realizing he'd not bothered to bring one.  "Idiot," he hissed.  Bullets flew through the apartment’s front door, spraying wood fragments across the room.