Andrew Lane - Black Ice

In a flurry of wings the falcon took flight. Training only went so far: all it wanted now was its freedom.

Wormersley rubbed his sleeve across his face, smearing the blood into a crimson mask from which his eyes blazed angrily.

‘You meddling, interfering brat!’ he screamed. ‘That plan was years in the making, and you ruined it in moments!’

‘Give up,’ Sherlock said. He was braced in case Wormersley made a move towards him. ‘There’s no way out.’

‘There’s always a way out.’ Wormersley reached behind him and pulled something out of the carriage. It looked like a hoop in his hand, a child’s toy hoop, but then he shook his hand and it uncoiled to the ground.

It was a whip, but not like anything Sherlock had ever seen before. Not like the one Mr Surd, Baron Maupertuis’s manservant, had used against him months ago. No, this one looked like it was made from plaited metal, and attached to its tip was a sharp metal talon.

‘You remember I mentioned the Russian knout?’ Wormersley asked. ‘Well, you’re about to get much better acquainted with it.’

He lashed out suddenly, flicking the whip. The tip whined as it sliced through the air. Sherlock flinched to one side and the hooked metal tip brushed past his ear.

It caught on his jacket as Wormersley pulled it back.

Sherlock’s body jerked forward, pulling him off balance. He went sprawling to his hands and knees on the snow-covered ground.

Wormersley moved behind Sherlock and looped the knout round his throat. He pulled tight, snapping Sherlock’s neck back and cutting off his air supply.

Sherlock’s vision went red. He desperately tried to claw air into his chest, but nothing was getting past the steel links of the knout as they bit into his flesh. He scrabbled with his fingers, attempting to get them beneath the metal, but Wormersley was pulling so tight that there was no gap.

The red mist across his eyes started to turn black. The world receded into a fuzzy blur of light and noise.

Sherlock lashed backwards with his right foot, but Wormersley had moved his legs out of range, leaning forward to strangle Sherlock. His knuckles dug into the back of Sherlock’s neck.

‘Die!’ he hissed, bringing his head close to Sherlock’s left ear. ‘Just die!’

Trying to find some purchase on the ground, some leverage he could use to push himself upright, Sherlock’s hand brushed the outside of his jacket pocket. He felt something hard and curved inside – the spray bottle from the Diogenes Club. The one that had been used to drug Mycroft.

With his vision turning black and his ears filled with the thudding of his pulse, Sherlock used the last of his strength to pull the bottle from his pocket. He fumbled with it, trying to get his thumb on to the spring-loaded button on top. He didn’t even know which direction it was pointing, but he held it above his head and pushed the button frantically.

Behind him, Wormersley gasped. His hands went slack. Sherlock fell forward, pulling great gulps of air into his lungs. He turned over on to his back, raising his hands to ward Wormersley off if the man attacked again, but through the fading red mist Sherlock saw Wormersley standing still, staring into nowhere, with a dazed expression on his face.

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cobbled road.

Hands grabbed Sherlock and pulled him away. He thought for a moment that it was Mr Kyte, but other hands unwound the metal and leather thong of the knout from his neck. Turning his head, he saw that he was surrounded by soldiers in blue and grey uniforms. One soldier was holding him while another was freeing him from the knout. A third soldier was taking hold of Wormersley, whose face was almost unrecognizably swollen beneath the blood. A fourth soldier was pulling Rufus Stone from around the other side of the carriage. Stone was bleeding from a gash in his arm, a cut that went all the way through the material of his jacket to the flesh beneath.

There was no sign of Mr Kyte.

The next few minutes were a blur. Sherlock and Rufus Stone were bundled into the grim Lubyanka Square building and half-pushed, half-dragged along dark corridors and up flights of stairs. Sherlock lost track of where they were in the building. Eventually they were taken past uniformed guards and into a series of linked offices.

In the last office, two men were standing waiting for them.

One was also in military uniform, but it was much more ornate than the ones the soldiers were wearing, and he had a cloak thrown over it. He was in his forties, his hair grey and close-cropped, and his moustache curled up at the ends. The other was in his twenties, wearing a black suit and a striped waistcoat.

‘Ah, Sherlock,’ Mycroft said calmly. ‘This is His Excellency Count Pyotr Andreyevich Shuvalov. Count Shuvalov, allow me to present my brother, Sherlock.’

Shuvalov stared at Sherlock. Finally he glanced back at Mycroft.

‘Yes,’ he said in excellent English. ‘I presume he must take after your father’s side of the family.’

The dining room at the Diogenes Club was as silent as a tomb, which was why Mycroft had arranged for their meal to be served in the Strangers Room. At least there the four of them could have a reasonable conversation.

Mycroft was at the head of the table, with Sherlock to his left and Amyus Crowe to his right. Rufus Stone was seated opposite Mycroft.

Looking around, Sherlock found it difficult to remember that this was the very room where the whole adventure had started. He checked the carpet for bloodstains, remembering the unfortunate man who had been so desperate for his family to have a little money that he had killed himself on the instructions of the Paradol Chamber, just to provoke Mycroft into going to Russia. Either it had been expertly cleaned or the entire carpet had been replaced.

Mycroft and Crowe were discussing what the American government were going to do with Alaska now that they had finally paid for it. Sherlock turned his attention back to his dinner. Silent black-clad waiters delivered bowls of soup to the table.

Crowe stared dubiously at the creamy reddish liquid. ‘This surely ain’t fit for human consumption?’ he asked. ‘It looks like somethin’ made up out of cow’s blood an’ milk.’

‘It’s borscht,’ Mycroft replied. ‘Russian beetroot soup with smetana, or sour cream, stirred in. I thought that we should share a little memento of our adventures with you. Our chef has been very cooperative. Unusually adventurous, in fact. I wasn’t sure that he could even attempt anything other than Brown Windsor soup, but he was eager for a challenge.’

‘Talking of challenges,’ Stone said, ‘is there any news of Mr Kyte?’ His hand crept up to rest on his right arm, where a dressing concealed a nasty cut. There was an edge to his words that suggested to Sherlock that he felt he had unfinished business with the burly red-headed man.

Mycroft shook his large head sorrowfully. ‘Not a word. He seems to have gone to ground. I presume the Paradol Chamber are looking after him somewhere – assuming they have a forgiving nature, of course.’

‘What about the rest of Kyte’s Theatrical Company?’ Sherlock asked.

‘As with Mr Kyte, they are missing, presumed hiding.’ His face was grave. ‘To have been that close to the Paradol Chamber – to have been that close to Mrs Loran, who I now believe is one of their most important members – and not to have realized… it galls me, Sherlock. My mind was affected by the accusation of murder and my subsequent, although short, incarceration. I should have realized there was something odd about that entire company. I should have realized that we were being set up from the start.’