War Games

The Idea – Quarantine – The Decision – Imposter – Just Like the Film – Madrid – The Old Road – Cordoba – The Marquis of Trafalgar – Call Me Mycroft – The Rendezvous – For Queen and Country – The Importance of Names.

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Christiana del Fernanda Teresa Andrea Helling y Jaqo, Ninth Countess of Zahora and only daughter of Fernando Martínez de Jaqo-Perez, 11th Marquis of Trafalgar, knew she was probably going to die quite soon which was a shame, since she had only really started living about ten hours earlier.

###

Only two days prior in Cadiz, sipping aromatic coffee from tiny porcelain cups, it had been her cousin and best friend from university who had floated the idea. At the time, the notion seemed desperately attractive and a thing of satisfying rebellion, both sentiments immensely appealing, given the circumstances.

"You can't be serious?" Lourdes Luis Garcia almost dropped her cup in surprise. "But you're over thirty! How on earth does your father imagine he can make you marry anyone?"

"Papa is old-fashioned when it comes to certain things," Christiana, or Stina, the diminutive used by all whom she counted as friends, closed her eyes and sighed. "And he's decided I need a husband and a family, and that's pretty much that."

Her friend beckoned a passing waiter for more coffee. This was not a conversation to be rushed. "What can you do?" she asked. "Are you going to let him arrange your future? Are you simply going to give up your own life like that? I can't believe it, I just can't," she coughed quietly from a tickle in her throat.

"It's all to do with the title and the land, Lulu," Stina wondered if now was a good time to take up serious smoking. Or perhaps heavy drinking. "Since my mother divorced him and returned to London, he's been going a little odd at times. And this is his latest insanity."

"Can he actually force you to marry someone?" Lulu Luis linked her fingers on the tabletop and leaned forward, eyes wide and agog with morbid fascination.

"If I want to keep living in his house, on his land and expecting him to pay my bills, he's definitely going to try," the slender, dark-haired woman rested her chin in her hands and knew she sounded theatrically depressed.

Being the outcome of an unlikely and briefly-lived passion between a Spanish nobleman and a British Physicist had left Christiana with a strange cultural bequest. On the one hand, she adored the romance and beauty of history and languages and the heritage that her father strove so hard to maintain for future generations, while on the other, she relished the sharpness of analytical thought, of practical ideas and logic. It was why she had forced herself to complete an MBA in international business before she allowed herself the joy of a second Masters in game design; it was the most outrageous program the university offered, and the closest thing to fun she'd ever done. Not only was it exciting, but to her amazement, Stina found she was rather gifted at it; her eclectic background providing an entire universe of inspiration she might otherwise have lacked. To her continuing amazement, she also found she had something of an innate skill with computers as well as battle strategy. Visualising the desired outcome and running through the coding seemed as natural as breathing. War games became her particular delight; they not only enthralled her, she was cold-bloodedly brilliant at them.

Her latest project was sitting on her computer in her rooms at the Castillo de Águilas, her father's family seat and eyrie-like fortress, perched high on the hill overlooking the small but historically significant coastal town of Zahora near the southern tip of Spain.

The Project: an entire, multilevel war-game; multiplayer, online and vastly complex, Christiana was working up the courage to present her proposal and concept demonstration to one of Sony's agents at the upcoming games convention in Cologne. Based on the history of European wars, she'd constructed a game that not only took players through individual battle strategies, but also took them through time itself. If a player managed to beat the game protocols, they actually changed the course of history, at least in game terms. What might have happened if the Spartans had been defeated? Or if the Normans had been driven back at Hastings? Or if Napoleon had actually won the day at Waterloo? Any successful player would not only win the battle, but also be able to create an entirely new geopolitical scenario, which would lead, inevitably, to other battles and alliances. First using authentic period weaponry, the winning players would be able to steal or design technology that history had denied them, enabling the creation of new and unknown armaments. The concept of the game itself and all the peripheral stratagems had taken her months of research to design and set up a prototype program with the authentic armies and the incredibly detailed CGI, but now she was so close to finishing the work. If Sony or one of the other mainstream game-development companies were to take her model and produce it, her reputation as a games designer would be made. And she'd no longer be dependent upon anyone's economic benevolence for survival.

But in the meantime, if she stayed here, she was likely to be hounded to exhaustion by her father's latest scheme, or driven to utter distraction and unable to complete her project in time for the all-important Gamescon in August.

"Then you simply have to leave, at least until your father realises he can't make you do anything. It's not the middle-ages, for God's sake," Lulu sipped her coffee and narrowed her eyes in thought.

"Why not come with me to London?" she said, slowly, contemplatively, as she pulled a tube of throat lozenges from her pocket. "Come and stay with me for a few weeks; the flat I've leased is small, but there is a second bedroom I was going to sublet, so why not let it to you?" Lourdes grinned. "You know I've got that political science exchange program in Admiralty House for the next three months, so why not stay with me, find some kind of a temp job, and we can have the summer to ourselves in London?" Lulu, lithe and dark haired like her best friend, clapped her hands together in delight. "It'll be just like being back at university again," she laughed. "We'll have such great fun!"

And there it was. The idea.

Stina sat back in her seat and allowed the notion to wash over her.

It was an impossibility. She couldn't simply up and leave ... could she?

But what was there to hold her back?

"I have some money," she nodded, thinking. "Even if I can't find a job immediately, I could still pay my share of the costs for at least a couple of months."

"Then it's a deal," Lulu nodded, satisfied. "My plane leaves Jerez Airport tomorrow morning and last time I looked, there were a stack of empty seats, so you should be able to get one easily," she murmured, opening the relevant website on her phone then tutting at herself.

"Here," she said, pushing the device across the table. "You do it; you're far better with technology than I'll ever be."

Smiling at her friend's self-confessed uselessness, Christiana took the phone and in less than a minute, had booked and paid for a second seat on the plane headed for Gatwick.

In less than a minute, she had changed her entire life.

Her pulse thudding at the realisation that she was about to do something wild and probably unwise and that her father would either be incensed or inconsolable. But at least she could spend some time with her mother while she was in London; her mother was currently working on something for the Thames Commission at a lab near the river. It would be good to catch up with Madelyn Helling again; it had been almost a year since they had last met, just before Christiana had returned to Spain to live with her father while she worked on the new game.

Knowing that this entire enterprise was mad and imprudently thoughtless, Stina felt a wild grin arrive on her face and couldn't do a thing to shift it.

"I'll meet you at Jerez tomorrow for the plane, then," she toasted her friend with the dregs of her coffee as a surge of excitement made her tingle inside.

She was going to London.

###

"Quarantine?" Mycroft Holmes was aghast at the very idea. "For how long?"

"Ten days minimum," the bespectacled health official advised him. "And that's if all the tests come up negative," she added. "One hint of a positive result and it's at least twenty-eight days in a registered quarantine facility," she made a face. "Your assistant was told the worst-case scenario might happen before she travelled to Panama and unfortunately, it has," the woman waved a slim document file at the elder Holmes. "It's fortunate she came home on a special flight rather than a commercial one," the woman continued, oblivious to the deepening scowl on his face. "Or everything would have hit the fan. We hope her elevated temperature is nothing, but these days, we simply cannot take the chance," she sighed. "I'm sure you can manage without her for a couple of weeks," she met his eyes and smiled brightly. "Blighty spirit and all that?"

If the sour expression twisting his features was insufficient a response to that suggestion, Mycroft was sorely tempted to supplement it with a few, well-chosen words. But no. Regardless of the woman's obnoxiousness, she was, alas, doing precisely what the Government paid her to do.

He sighed, watching the health officer depart. He had known there was something of a risk sending his assistant to conduct the talks with the Panamanian government in person, but she was almost literally his right hand, these days. There was nothing on his calendar with which she was unfamiliar. If he could clone himself, a thought which had crossed his mind on more than one occasion, his clone would be given her name. To even consider attempting to conduct business-as-usual without her would be nothing short of folly, especially now, with the Panamanians so close to agreement with the Chinese and Americans. He could not handle all the details of the connection himself, not with everything else; the threatened assassination of a minor Royal; Russia's determination to attend the next G20 despite the protests and, of course, the ever-present joy that was North Korea. In addition to all the local, British minutia that crossed his desk on an hourly basis, the thought of trying to take over what was essentially his assistant's project, made him sigh again. It wasn't as if Spanish was even his best Romance language.

No. Much though the notion gave him intestinal discomfort, it was clear he could not handle the Panama project in addition to everything else. He needed assistance, if only with the confidential translations.

"I want a fluent Spanish-speaker, secure to a Level Three or higher," his requirement of the HR department was succinct. "Administrative assistance as well as translation capacity for at least the next two weeks," Mycroft paused, wondering if there was anything else he might need. "Someone with a little imagination might be helpful," he asked, ever hopeful. It never ceased to amaze him how infallibly dull administrative bureaucrats tended to be. One of an assistant's great strengths was an ability to extemporise should the occasion demand it, yet he had little expectation of duplicating that particular attribute from the current pool. He sighed again, fighting the temptation to add Panama to his list of other accountabilities.

Within thirty minutes, an internal email arrived for his attention, a list of potential candidates for the role of acting clone.

There were four names. Two of them he already knew and instantly discounted. The third was a man whose CV announced that he hunted ghosts in his spare time. The hobby was not, of itself, a problem, however that the man actually believed in ghosts most certainly was. Turning without a great deal of anticipation to the final resume, Mycroft observed that it was the vitae of a student. Upon closer examination, he saw it was not precisely a student but an exchange specialist, newly arrived from Spain. With an MBA and several languages, including, of course, Spanish, Ms Lourdes Luis Garcia had just taken up a short-term internship in the Admiralty Office. In the cartography department. Though her role might not be terribly secretive, she had already been vetted to the required level

Pursing his lips, Mycroft considered his options, which were few and unlikely to increase before the following day. There were already a significant number of communiqués awaiting translation and analysis and any further or excessive delay would put the Panama project at real risk of collapse.

The sour expression returning to his features, Mycroft Holmes picked up the lesser of his desk-phones and rang HR.

Ms Luis Garcia had just been liberated from map-making.

###

The little cough and sore throat had magnified twenty times into a raging and totally overwhelming flu-like illness, and Lulu Luis Garcia wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers of her bed and die quietly. Her head throbbed, her throat was lined with razors and her blood simmered with an inconveniently high temperature.

Fortunately, the symptoms hadn't made themselves quite so obviously known until after they had arrived at the flat in Errol Street, Islington. The area was filled with student digs, a result of all the university campuses in the area. Their furnished flat was on the second floor of a large, sandstone building. Nice enough, it was clean and quiet; two moderate-sized bedrooms with a tiny bathroom wedged in between. A single large lounge opened up into a small kitchen and dining area. There were bright red geraniums in window boxes.

Almost as soon as she'd dragged herself through the front door, Lourdes complained that the headache she'd had on the flight had become even worse and she was terribly thirsty. The general tiredness she'd put down to excitement and the hot, dry air of the plane seemed to take on a more ominous light.

Getting her friend to lie down while she popped out to the small Waitrose supermarket at the end of the road, Stina stocked up on the basics, as well as a large carton of really good coffee. Seeing there was a pharmacy only a few doors away, she thought for a moment before going in and asking the man in the white jacket what he could give her for a cough and a sore throat. Making it clear it wasn't for her, Stina nevertheless ended up with a large paper bag filled with things that Lulu might find useful, though her spare cash wasn't going to last very long at this rate. London was not a cheap place to live.

Back at the flat, Lourdes was fast asleep; having dragged herself under the covers in the first bedroom she walked into. Closing the curtains quietly, Stina realised that a good sleep was probably the best thing her cousin could have, and, after ensuring the sleeper was warm and well-wrapped up, left her in peace, closing the door of the room.

Stacking the milk, cheese, and eggs into the small refrigerator, Stina sliced herself a chunk of fresh English bread, a piece of strong cheese and grabbed a handful of green olives. Boiling water for coffee, she rinsed out the cafetière she'd seen before she went shopping and made a large pot just for herself. She'd go and see if Lulu was awake in an hour or so in case she might feel hungry. In the meantime, Stina settled down in the lounge and worked out how to use the remote control for the television.

Switching the thing on, the very first thing she saw on the BBC news was an item about students protesting in Madrid. It reminded her uncomfortably of her last discussion with her father. The idea that his only child was not only calmly defying his explicit directions that she needed to be married and produce an heir for the sake of the title, but also that she was leaving Spain for London on little more than a whim rendered him virtually speechless. They had parted with the conversation hanging in the air, resentment and bad-feeling on both sides.

But now she was actually here, in London, watching the BBC on the television rather than on her laptop. She'd also bought several British newspapers at the shop and she browsed through in between flicking over channels on the TV.

Feeling an enormous wave of tiredness wash over her and yawning until her eyes watered, Stina knew she was ready for sleep. Checking in on Lourdes before she rinsed out the dishes, it was clear that her cousin was not likely to awaken any time soon, but hopefully, she would feel better in the morning.

After taking a quick shower, Stina unpacked most of her stuff in the remaining bedroom before crawling into the narrow and rather firm bed and lying back, wondered where she should begin looking for work in the morning; she certainly needed to get at least a part-time job to help eke out her remaining money for as long as possible. During all the thoughts of what she might be able to do based on her skillset, Stina drifted off to sleep, hard bed and strange room notwithstanding.

Only to be shaken awake by a rough hand in the middle of the pitch-black night.

A little shocked at being woken so unexpectedly, Stina reached over for the bedside lamp, blinking as the light illuminated the bowed form of Lourdes half-collapsed over the end of the bed.

"Lulu!" Stina was immediately out of bed, wrapping an arm around the other woman as she helped half-carry her back to her own bed. Her cousin was burning hot and mumbling and while fetching a glass of cool water, Stina realised that this was more than some ordinary bug. Making a decision, she Googled an emergency medical service in inner London and made a phone-call. For a relatively small but extortionate sum, a doctor would call on them within the next hour.

Making Lourdes some hot black tea, Stina added a dollop of honey and took it into the bedroom where she lay, her face flushed and sweaty with fever. There was nothing else Stina could do, except offer sips of water until the doctor arrived.

If was after three in the morning by the time a weary-looking young man turned up, taking Lulu's temperature and monitoring her pulse. Checking to see if there was pain anywhere or swelling, he nodded and asked what she'd eaten or had to drink recently. On hearing that she'd been feeling a little unwell for the last few days, and though her head was blocked up and congested, she was not sneezing, had no rash or discomfort anywhere else, no stiffness but a general malaise, he sat back nodding at Christiana.

"Sounds like your cousin has a nasty virus," he said. "To have no contact with any contagion prior to arriving in London, to have no pain or other major symptom; no swelling or rash, no seriously elevated temperature," he raised his eyebrows. "It could be the start of a flu, but she's not been near anyone who's had it, so I'm fairly sure it's just a flu-type bug, though an unpleasant one," he added, taking a small box of ibuprofen from his case. "Lots of clear liquids and plenty of sleep would be the best; your cousin's own immune system is her strongest ally in this," he said, walking into the bathroom to wash his hands. "She should be as right as rain in a few days."

Right as rain? Stina understood all the medical stuff, but the other things the British doctor said ...

"If she's worse in the morning, or other symptoms develop, you can call me again, or contact a more local doctor," the young man smiled, handing over a business card. "But I think she'll start to feel better very soon now; these things usually have a relatively short life and this seems to be the peak of it."

Feeding Lourdes two of the white pills and some more water, Stina held a cold compress to her head until her cousin settled back down. Returning to her own bed, leaving both bedroom doors open so she could hear any noises, Christiana rested her head on the cool white pillow, and closing her eyes, was asleep in seconds.

The light coming in through the window was different. It was the first thing she noticed on waking the next morning. Paler, somehow, not as intense a shade of golden as in Spain. Immediately, Stina thought about Lourdes and was scrambling from her bed in the same instant.

Though the room was darker because of the drawn curtains, it was clear that her cousin had managed to get some sleep. Placing the back of her hand against her cousin's forehead, Stina was relieved to find that, while it was still warm, it had lost the alarming heat of the previous night. Hopefully, Lourdes was on the mend.

As if she had heard her own name being thought, the patient cracked open her eyes and blinked wearily. "Am I dead yet?" she whispered.

"Silly," Christiana knelt down beside the bed. "You're actually just about to start getting better. The doctor said you had a nasty virus and needed lots of liquids and plenty of rest, so you stay right where you are today and I shall play nurse. Would you like some tea or coffee or water?"

"Just water, please," Lourdes half-choked, her throat was so painful.

Returning with a glass, Stina helped her patient sit up a little and sip the liquid.

"I'm going to lose my new job if I can't get in there today," Lulu rasped hoarsely. "They made it very clear that I had to be there this morning for the induction. If I miss that, they won't let me work there until the next orientation session in three months."

"But you can't possibly go anywhere today, or even tomorrow," Christiana frowned. "You're still far too unwell to even think of it," she added. "Surely there's someone I could phone and explain the situation?"

"It won't matter," Lulu rasped, coughing and swallowing with difficulty. "If I'm not there this morning, it's going to be too late."

There didn't seem to be anything else for it, in that case. Stina sighed. "Then I'll go in your place, take lots of notes and tell you all about it tonight," she said. "If it's something you absolutely have to attend, and as it's clear even to a medical amateur like me that you absolutely cannot attend, then there's not really an alternative, is there?"

Lourdes closed her eyes, but whether this was from a headache or something else, Christiana wasn't sure. The idea was quite mad, but what were friends for?

"Didn't they send you a whole pile of stuff to take with you today to the meeting?" Stina unlocked her cousin's still unopened case. Right on top of everything else was a large, thick envelope. Inside were several letters and documents, as well as a large plastic ID tag on a navy-blue halyard. It only needed the official stamp over Lourdes' photograph to be complete.

If I go to this thing, are you going to be okay here alone?" Christiana flicked through the papers. All the necessary instructions were there. Ms Lourdes Luis Garcia was expected at the formal induction seminar this morning at the Ministry of Defence in Whitehall, after which she was to present herself to the authorities in Admiralty House at which time she was to take up her confidential role in the cartography department.

Stina wouldn't actually have minded taking a look around the map-department of the British Government; she had drawn and redrawn the various maps of Europe so many damn times in the work for her game that she could even tell the different versions apart now; even make a pretty good guess at which year they were from.

But that was Lulu's job, and she would only be filling in for the induction itself. In a day or so, her cousin would be well enough to take up the post she'd been assigned, and that, as they say, would be that.

###

Having borrowed one of Lourdes' nice new business suits and put her hair up into what she called her 'Downton Abbey' look, Stina dusted on a morsel of makeup, followed the given map directions and, some five minutes before nine that morning, found herself outside one of the black wrought-iron gates at the main entrance of the British Ministry of Defence in Whitehall. Showing Lourdes' pass, the photo of which was so very similar to her own features that neither of the armed guards so much as blinked as they waved her though and into the inner courtyard.

Following yet more directions, Christiana walked briskly into one of the enormously high doors and down a marble-tiled corridor, following the small wooden signposts that indicated the Orientation seminar was this way.

Reaching a very large room already half-filled with a number of people seated in several rows of chairs, the hands of her watch met on the stroke of nine as she found a seat towards the back and settled down, waiting to see what happened next.

A narrow-faced woman walked in, smiled briefly and wished everyone a good morning. Explaining that she represented the British Civil Service's Human Resource division, the woman went on to explain why they were all there this morning and what was on the agenda between now and midday. There was to be a general overview of the exchange internship program, followed by individual meetings between the internees and their new managers.

Knowing that she would be able to clear up the situation with Lourdes as soon as she was able to speak with her manager, Christiana settled back and started taking notes in her engineer-neat handwriting. Several pages in and the woman at the front had clearly finished, suggesting everyone helped themselves to a cup of tea before they continued onto the next stage.

Tea? Stina wondered why anyone would drink such a thing unless they were ill, for it was well-known that tea settled the stomach. Her mother swore by it. Perhaps that was why the British drank so much of the stuff. Wandering across to the refreshment counter along the side of the large room, she saw several tall steel urns with the label Coffee across the front; she poured herself a cup and took an experimental mouthful.

Immediately wishing she hadn't, Christiana wondered if anyone would notice if she spat it back into the cup. Whatever vile decoction it was, it was nothing remotely like the coffee she was used to drinking. No wonder everyone here preferred the tea.

Standing alone, an expression of acute disgust on her face, Stina was unprepared for the quiet voice beside her.

"You can't spit it out you know; it would hurt their feelings."

So unexpected was the comment and indeed, the man's sudden appearance, that Stina gulped the foul liquid in shock as she turned to stare at the stranger beside her.

Tall, dark, and a little older than she, the man seemed very calm and composed in his immaculate suit, even if he did look somewhat out of place in the middle of all this noise and bustle.

"That was an unkind thing to do," Stina grabbed some paper napkins and began wiping her mouth to remove any remaining traces of the awful brew. "What is that dreadful stuff?"

"Civil Service coffee made from an ancient and secret recipe known only to a few Himalayan monks, no doubt," the man narrowed his eyes as he examined her face, comparing her features with the photo in her ID. "Ms Luis Garcia?" His left eyebrow lifted fractionally as he scrutinised her features.

Nodding silently, Stina looked around for some water or orange juice; anything to kill the taste in her mouth.

"No point hanging around here then," the man seemed to make up his mind about something. "Since you're going to be working for me, you may as well come with me now and at least permit me to provide you with a respectable coffee. Can't have you poisoned on your first day now, can we?"

"Who are you?" Christiana had recovered sufficiently from the brutalisation of so many taste buds to permit her brain to kick back in. "Are you from Admiralty House?"

"This way, I think," the tall man was already leading her out of the room and down one of the side-passages that took them both further and further away from the general noise and hubbub.

"I have no idea where I'm supposed to be going next," Stina almost ran to keep up, clutching the various packets of information tight to her chest to stop them from flying away. "Except I think I'm expected in the map-making unit."

"Slight change of plan" the impeccably-suited man headed off down another, smaller corridor, where the architecture was less lavish and on a smaller scale, but no less grand. It was also a great deal quieter.

After what seemed ages, Stina realised they had left the other building completely without once stepping outside into the sunlight. The man slowed and turned, a faint smile on his face.

"This way," he indicated a doorway framed in the wall beside them. Swiftly pressing several of the tiny metal studs in the door key-pad, the solid door swung silently open, revealing a well set up office beyond.

An elegant sideboard that Stina recognised as a Regency walnut chiffonier almost identical to a matching pair her father owned, stretched along one beautifully papered wall. On top of the sideboard stood a formal silver coffee service.

"There's facilities through there," the tall man walked towards a large desk, waving in the general direction of an open door on the far side of the room, beyond which Christiana could just make out a second office, almost the twin of the one she was currently in and, even further through, the open door of a discreet kitchen. Helping herself to a strange man's coffee wasn't her usual behaviour, but if he was going to be Lourdes' new manager ...

"Would you like some coffee too?" she asked. "I cannot possibly make it any worse that the stuff back there," she added.

"That would be lovely," the tall man paused, still looking at her assessingly. "Mycroft Holmes," he said finally, extending his hand. "I need the assistance of a fluent Spanish speaker far more than do the Admiralty's cartographers, so you've been reassigned to my department," his fleeting smile appeared and disappeared. "I trust you won't be terribly upset?"

"Depends what your department does and what you need my Spanish for," Stina called over her shoulder, already walking through the second office towards the small kitchen where she extracted a large sealed packet of ground coffee from the refrigerator. She smiled. It was the exact brand she had bought at the supermarket yesterday. Finding the percolator, she fixed up a fresh filter and had the machine dripping unctuous black nectar in seconds. The perfume of hot, fresh brew filled the small room while she warmed a small jug of milk in the neat little microwave. Stina smiled as she rinsed and filled the silver coffee pot with boiling water to heat it.

It was clear the man understood good coffee. How bad could he be?

And there was an unopened packet of galleta ... biscuits her mother used to buy. Tipping half the packet onto a small plate, Stina filled the heated and very elegant silver pot with the aromatic liquid and brought a tray of cups, saucers and biscuits into the main office.

"You did say Holmes?" Christiana smiled as she placed the tray on the corner of his large desk, pulling up a chair. "Shall I pour, Mr Holmes?"

"Please do," he leaned back in his own chair, linking his fingers together across his lap, watching as she served the coffee, her fingers poised over the hot milk. "Un toque," he nodded, his fleeting smile returning as Stina added the required touch. "No sugar, thank you. And yes, Holmes," he nodded, helping himself to a biscuit. "Mycroft Holmes."

"And what do you and your department do that's more important than the Admiralty's map people?" Christiana sighed in great relief as the taste of high-altitude Arabica erased the odious memory of the earlier coffee tragedy.

Sipping from his cup with undisguised enjoyment, Holmes rested a measured gaze on her, as if she were something he couldn't quite place. "You don't look terribly like your photograph, you know," he said musingly. "Someone might ask questions."

Remembering she was here under the falsest of pretences, Stina ducked her head down to stare fiercely at her cup. "That happens to me a lot," she mumbled, about to explain that she'd probably seem different tomorrow as well, when he placed a densely-printed sheet on the edge of the desk in front of her.

"What do you make of this?" he asked.

Taking up the sheet, relieved not to have to look at him, Christiana was immediately fascinated by the form of Spanish-that-wasn't-Spanish, as much as the contents of the letter, for it was indeed a letter or, at least the copy of a letter, that she was reading.

"What do you want me to tell you?" she asked, eventually meeting Holmes' eyes above the upper edge of the paper. "A straight translation, or what it actually means?"

Sipping his coffee slowly, Holmes blinked, his eyes remaining half-hooded. "Tell me what it tells you," he said, a curious tone in his voice.

"Well," Stina took a deep breath. "The writer speaks Spanish, but not like a Spaniard speaks it, so I'd say he's not Spanish, and it's definitely a man, based on the imperative phrasing," she pursed her lips, thoughtfully. "The writer is also very angry at being cheated on something, though he doesn't say exactly what," Stina narrowed her eyes as she rescanned several lines of text. "Was the original hand-written and do you have it?" she asked, still studying the page. "You can tell a lot from how people write the actual words, you see ..." on hearing a desk-drawer slide open, she waited until a single sheet of heavy parchment was passed across to her.

"Oh, wow," she grinned. "This is some serious stuff," she almost laughed. Papa used very similar heavy-bond paper for his personal stationary. It was hand-made and cost a fortune. "My father ..." she stopped abruptly realising she was about to give the entire game away.

"Your father?" the tall man behind the desk leaned forward fractionally as if waiting for the rest of her sentence.

"My father ... was once given some paper like this," she avoided the tall man's eyes that were dark blue and suddenly uncomfortably penetrating. "It's very expensive. Whoever wrote this letter clearly has money and look at the penmanship," she said, turning the page so the man Holmes could see. "Look at the heavy pen-strokes; the writer's clearly furious about something ..." she paused again, looking for any words she might have misread. "Though he doesn't actually say what he's been cheated out of," she wrinkled her forehead. "He only refers to the thing as his 'rights'," she added. "What rights?" she asked, looking up and frowning. "A man who speaks Spanish but isn't; is very angry but still careful enough not to put details in his letter which he has hand-written on very expensive paper, yet clearly feels he is being ripped-off from what should be his," Christiana frowned again. "Will that do?" she asked, suddenly uncertain.

"The writer is Panamanian," Holmes nodded distantly. "A Cartel chief with a very large sum of drug-sales money with which he is attempting to establish a certain international relationship," he paused in thought. "Does the letter give you any sense of the recipient?" he asked. "Any idea for whom it might have been written?"

Lifting her eyebrows high, Stina mulled the question over. There were no names used at all, nor anything that provided any idea of gender or status ... although ...

"Even though the writer is angry and powerful and obviously wealthy, he controls his anger," she said. "He doesn't swear or use any form of threat, nor does he write in any way that is disrespectful as he might if he were speaking to someone who was less powerful or of a lower social rank than he," Christina stared off into the distance as she pondered this. "If I had to suggest anything, I'd say he was writing to another man whom he considers at least as powerful as himself, and who speaks Spanish but is possibly foreign ... neither Spanish nor from Panama," she explained. "These words are very simple and clear, as if you would write for a child ... or ..."

"A foreigner," Holmes leaned back in his seat, the fingertips of one hand resting against the side of his face. "Yes," he said, nodding. "Indeed it will."

"Will what?" Stina was momentarily lost.

"Do," Holmes said. "It will do very well."

###

The rest of the day had been spent in the barely-smaller of the twin offices, reading endless health-and-safety documents and signing what appeared to be an infinite number of forms; Christiana having to bite her lip every time she had to sign Lulu's name. Though it wasn't for her own sake that she was misleading the people who kept handing her forms, she knew she was lying and she didn't much like the feeling it gave her. Another sheet was handed across; a single page with not that much writing on it. There was a small crest at the top with the British lion and unicorn and directly beneath it the words 'MOD Form 134,(Revised 04/08), PPQ'. Immediately after that came the words 'OFFICIAL SECRETS ACTS AND CONFIDENTIALITY DECLARATION'.

Oh. Christiana felt her heart thud in her chest. She knew there would be something like this; Lourdes had laughed about it any number of times. But now that it was actually her hand signing what was effectively a lie, it didn't feel quite so amusing. She sat, poised over the paper, thinking.

"A problem, Ms Garcia?"

She hadn't heard him come through the door dividing the two offices; his footsteps were lethally silent.

"No problem at all," she smiled briefly as she signed Lourdes' name with a flourish. "There's just so much paperwork."

"Ah yes," Mycroft Holmes took a seat on the far side of the desk. "Ever the bane of bureaucracy," he lifted his eyebrows. "But at least you can relax now knowing that everything is signed and above board," the corner of his mouth curved in a faint smile and his eyes widened for a split-second.

Her stomach tensed a little as she felt uncomfortably dishonest.

"Absolutely," she nodded, her mouth fixed in something of a rigid smile. "What would you like me to do first?" she asked. It was still early; plenty of time for some work and Stina felt she could at least do something so that she wouldn't feel like a total fraud.

"Nothing more for today, thank you," Holmes stood, walking towards his own office. "Though I think we'll make an early start tomorrow," he turned at the threshold. "There's always something to be said for making a fresh beginning, isn't there? Please bring your passport in with you in the morning," his voice was mild, yet there was an entirely ambiguous tone to his words as he closed the dividing door between them.

It was still broad daylight as Christiana made her way back to the flat in Islington as she realised she'd have to work out public transport very quickly as she couldn't afford to keep taking cabs everywhere. Though only a couple of miles as the crow flew, London's urban geography made the distance seem a great deal more.

Stopping off again at the Waitrose supermarket at the end of the street and pleased at the variety and quality the supermarket had available, Stina bought a pile of fresh vegetables and some juicy black grapes from her father's region in Andalucía. Hopefully, Lourdes would be feeling a little better and able to eat something.

But the apartment was very quiet when she unlocked the door and walked in. Dropping the groceries in the small kitchen, Stina went immediately to Lulu's room, only to find her cousin asleep, but breathing harshly. Checking to see if there was any temperature, Christiana was relieved to find Lourdes' skin was cool.

Disturbed by the light touch, the sick woman stirred, blinking awake.

"Feeling any better?" Christiana scrutinised her friend with a clinical eye. Her colour was on the pale side of normal and her eyes a little bloodshot.

"Am I dead yet?" Lourdes gravelled.

She sounded so depressed that Stina had to smile.

"Not yet, but the doctor told me last night you were probably at the worst point," she said, shaking her head. "But you're not going anywhere soon, are you?"

"I'll be fine in the morning," Lulu tried to push herself upright, only to fade back against the pillows, holding her chest as she coughed.

Christiana saw that at least her cousin had drunk all the water in the jug she'd left that morning, though she hadn't touched the sandwiches. This wasn't good; to have any chance of a speedy recovery, Lourdes needed to eat something.

"I'm going to make you some iced-tea with honey," she said. "And then I'm making an early dinner so that you can try and eat something before you go back to sleep," she added, waving another box of tablets she'd picked up at the chemist's. "The Pharmacist said that while there's no cure, these can help you feel better by dealing with the side effects, but you need to eat something first."

Shaking her head again at the pitiful choking reply, Stina headed into the kitchen to find a decent sized flat pan for an omelette. Fortunately, Spanish cooking tended to be simple and used only a few ingredients. Peeling a couple of potatoes, she sliced them thickly and laid them in the heated pan with some oil. Adding a chopped onion, she stirred them around to cook while she chopped the parsley and got the eggs ready. Once that was done, Stina boiled the kettle and made a large jug of strong black tea into which she added several good spoonful's of honey. Straining some of the clear golden liquid into a tall glass, she added several ice cubes and took it in to the invalid.

"Try and sip some of this while it's warm, to get your stomach ready for a little food," she said. "And I'll ice the rest of it for you for later."

Helping Lourdes to sit up, Stina put the hot mug into her hands and watched while the contents were sniffed.

"Can't smell anything," Lulu grumbled chestily. "My head's full of crap."

Tamping down a smile, Christiana sighed. Sick people were always the same. "Don't try to smell it, just sip it slowly. I'll bring you in some food when it's ready."

The potatoes and onions were nicely stewed and soft, with only a little oil remaining. Adding the eggs and parsley, plus a decent seasoning of salt and pepper, Stina stirred the whole lot together and watched it set into a thick pancake. When the omelette was properly solid, she tipped the entire thing onto a dinner plate and then slid it back into the pan to cook the other side. In a few minutes more it was done.

Slicing the finished result like a cake, Stina put a small piece onto a clean plate and took into Lourdes.

Who was once again fast asleep. The glass of tea was emptied, which was at least one good thing. Returning to the kitchen, Christiana sat and ate the slice of omelette and wondered what to do the following morning.

She had done what Lulu had requested; she had taken her cousin's place at the induction and had signed all the necessary and relevant paperwork that Lulu had said was so critical. Therefore, there was no absolute essential need forcing her to return the following day.

However, she, or rather, Lourdes, had already been drafted into what appeared to be an important position with serious translation work lined up for the morning. If she simply chose not to turn up, then it would put the man Holmes in a difficult position and wouldn't look terribly good for her cousin, either. However it was painfully obvious that Mycroft Holmes was not an unobservant man and if she went in for a second day in order to do the work he wanted, he'd have to be told she wasn't actually who she had claimed she was.

That she had claimed in writing. On official documentation. On official secrets documentation.

Stuck in an ethical dilemma, Stina sighed and had another slice of omelette while it was still hot, reminding herself to look in on Lulu in an hour.

The night was much more peaceful than the previous one. Lourdes had woken long enough to eat a small portion of food and drink more tea. Asking for something cold, Christiana made a tall jug of the stuff, setting it down on Lulu's beside table. After ensuring her friend had taken the recommended medication, it hadn't been long before she had fallen back into an exhausted sleep, allowing Stina to do the same.

Awake with the sun, Christiana showered and donned one of her own outfits this morning. Not quite as officious as the suit of yesterday, this was an outfit she had planned to wear for job-interviews and was a neat pair of taupe pants, navy-and-taupe striped sleeveless top and a nautical navy blue blazer with brass buttons her father had given her as a gift. It was of the highest quality and was, for once, something she actually appreciated. With new tan leather flats and a matching tan shoulder bag, she felt good, looked great and allowed her worry about the day to fade into the background. Pulling her hair into a neat French braid, she was about as ready as she ever would be.

Checking that Lourdes was set up for the day with drinks and medication and food, and confirming that her cousin's phone was there, on the charger, Stina walked out onto the street to grab another cab having already decided what she needed to do.

She would go in, do the work that the man Holmes asked her to do, and then tell him, at the end of the day, that she was not really who she claimed to be, but someone trying to help out a sick friend. If that meant trouble, then so be it; holding the fort for Lulu was one thing; actively pretending to be someone else was another thing entirely. Hopefully, she could convince everyone to accept the situation and go on from there.

So Stina felt more than a little nervous when she presented Lourdes' ID once again at the MoD gate that morning, well before eight. Holmes had specified an early start, and eight was probably early enough, she felt.

It was only once she was actually inside the main building, that Christiana realised she had no clue how to find her way back through the labyrinth of passageways and corridors. Standing in the huge central, marbled space of the main entrance hall, each of the corridors leading off looked exactly the same. Which particular rabbit hole had she followed Mycroft Holmes down yesterday?

"Excellent timing, Ms Garcia," a dark-charcoal pin-striped suited body swept out of her peripheral vision, the tall man reading the precise hour on an antiquated silver fob-watch attached to his waistcoat. "Passport?"

Nodding, she tapped her bag, expecting to have to have it checked and photographed for the employment records.

"Excellent," Holmes nodded briskly. "We should go; our flight is set to leave in less than thirty minutes."

Flight?

"We're going somewhere?"

"Spain," Holmes touched her upper arm with a fingertip, urging her towards a previously unseen exit.

They were going to Spain?

"Why are we going to Spain?" she asked, observing a shiny black Jaguar waiting for them, the engine already running at a low rumble.

"I have a meeting in Madrid in regards to the Panama situation and I need a confidential translator with me at all times," Holmes stopped, turning to examine her face. "Will this be a problem for you?"

"Not at all," Stina shook her head. She had no idea what she was getting into but this man seemed to know what he was doing. Getting into the rear of the luxury car, she silently admired the air of quality about the whole thing; the new scent of the leather seats; the clear but understated opulence of the interior finish. Her father would like this car. She frowned, not wanting to think about her father right now.

Besides, while part of her was a little alarmed at the situation, a much larger part was thrilled. It felt like she was involved in something straight out of a big Hollywood film.

"Before we take off, I'd like you to begin working through these and preparing both a direct translation as well as notes on the deeper content and meaning, just as you did yesterday," Mycroft Holmes passed her an ultra-slim laptop; jet-black and sleekly expensive.

Knowing that most of these high-end cars had fold-down tables in the back of the seats in front, Christiana immediately set about arranging her little desk. Opening the laptop and powering up, she was somewhat relieved to see there was no password set up, though she frowned at this. The kind of information it contained and was likely going to contain more of, was too sensitive to leave unprotected. With the unrealised frown still furrowing her forehead, she turned to look up into a pair of blue eyes focused entirely on her.

"Don't worry about the password," he smiled gently. "The system is slaved to me," he waved his phone gently. "I have access authority from here," he added. "It's perfectly safe, I promise you."

Thinking for a moment, Stina nodded. "You can read minds, but not Spanish?" she asked carefully.

Holmes laughed, amused. "Tricks of the trade," his mouth stayed curved.

Getting back to the task in hand, Christiana saw there were at least a half-dozen letters just like the one she'd seen yesterday for her to work on and was already well into the first one when she felt the car slow. Lifting her head, she saw they had arrived at the City airport, right on London's dockside. Just about to start saving all her work and closing everything down in preparation for getting on the plane, she felt the car move forward, travelling down to the far end of the hangers. A small turbo-prop aeroplane stood there and the Jaguar drove in a wide circle until it was directly aligned with the rear of the fuselage.

Stina felt her jaw drop. The entire back of the plane was a large ramp.

They weren't going to take a plane to Madrid; the plane was taking them, car and all.

This was definitely like something from the British Bond films. Any minute now and there would be familiar music coming from the car speakers. Her eyes were wide and inquiring as she turned back to stare at the man beside her.

He took one look at her expression and laughed again. "We'll be in Madrid in just over two hours," he said. "Will that be sufficient time for you to have looked at all the letters?"

"I'll do my best to have them done by the time we land," Stina smiled back.

"Good," he blinked tiredly. "I had very little sleep last night so if you don't mind, I shall snooze until we arrive."

Pulling down a solid-looking armrest between them as well as angling his headrest into a more comfortable position, Holmes slid his feet forward and crossed them at the ankle. Folding his arms, he closed his eyes and allowed his body to relax.

Though Stina was opening up each of the documents in turn, she flicked her eyes sideways, taking in the face of the man beside her.

In repose, his features lost some of their inherent sharpness, lending a general softening to his whole form. It was as if he maintained an incredible alertness in his every waking moment yet was now able to tumble into sleep as might a child.

It was rather attractive.

Frowning again, Stina realised she was staring and returned her attention to the task at hand. Fortunately, the years of work she'd done on a variety of computers and keyboards rendered her somewhat adept at not only typing up straight text, but manipulating all manner of software programs and applications. In no time at all, she'd set up a tri-level document with the original letter on top, followed by the straight translation that she'd been asked to produce, but beneath which lay a third level of writing, that of her thoughts and general notes on the content.

The way all these things fell so nicely into place for her sometimes made Christiana wonder why everyone else seemed to find such things difficult. These programs lay down like lovers for her.

The Jaguar had already driven up the short ramp and into the hollowed-out body of the plane and she could see several men fussing around the outside of the vehicle with heavy wedges around each of the wheels, as well as a number of serious ties that were connected somewhere to the chassis of the car and the structure of the plane. The driver was also outside the car, checking that everything had been secured to his personal satisfaction.

Turning back to her task, Stina realised she was already at the end of the first letter and they hadn't even taken off yet; this really wasn't going to be difficult to do. If there was any spare time when she'd finished, she might even be able to do a little more research for the game.

The engine of the plane rose to a muffled roar and there was a soft jerk as they moved forward. It was an odd sensation being inside a car, inside a plane, but a curiously soothing one. Unable to move or do anything, she felt able to relax and read the letters and do her job.

Lourdes' job.

Despite her thrill at being involved in such exciting work, she'd knew she'd have to tell him soon. Today, in fact.

###

The plane made a soft and discreet landing at the Madrid-Barajas airport just over two hours later. Debarking from the transport was the opposite process of going in and as the Jaguar reversed out into the bright morning sunshine, Stina smiled. Though she'd only been away from the country for a few days, it was nice to see the colours of home again, if only for a little while.

She had managed to work through all of the letters quite easily in the allocated time as Holmes awoke just as the small plane began its descent. Either the change in the aircraft engine's tone had roused him or he had an inbuilt alarm. Either way, she was pleased he had awoken; the letters held no good news.

"Let me know when you're ready for me to brief you on the letters," she said carefully, aware that he'd just woken up but equally aware that he needed to know the information she had for him.

Clearly the tone of her voice had the desired effect.

"What?" he said, turning slightly towards her. "What is it?"

"Which do you want first?" she asked. "The straight translation or the important stuff?"

"The latter. Quickly, please," his eyes focused on her face, reading as much from her expression as her voice. Clearly she'd found something vital.

"The man in Panama knows he's being watched, though he can't say for sure who's doing the watching," Stina searched for the quickest words. "He's set up his own surveillance to try and track down whoever it is; he knows it's someone based in London," she added grimly. "He might already know it's you, especially if he's had your car watched," she paused, a vast wave of disbelief washing over her. Was this really happening? Had she found herself in the middle of a dangerous spy network? Who was Mycroft Holmes?

"Do the letters speak of this car specifically?"

"Not specifically, but the letters mention a Jaguar outside a club in London whose name begins with the letter 'D'," she said, meeting his eyes. "Does that mean anything to you?" Judging by the way his mouth hardened into a thin line, it did indeed mean something.

The car had already left the shelter of the plane which was taxiing away to refuel. As they waited in a short queue of vehicles headed towards a remote exit designed for the use of service vans at the airport, the big black sedan was impossible to miss.

But there was no way back.

The plane needed to refuel and could not possibly be considered a place of safety. The car was already too far away from the main airport terminal buildings to seek shelter and possible assistance there. Other than the insignificant building beside the gate; itself barely large enough to house more than a single office and a minimal number of occupants, there were no places to hide within or behind.

"It may be that we have not been under such close observation," Holmes murmured, his eyes scanning the vicinity to the limits of his peripheral vision. "It may be that we are still ahead of the ..." his voice stopped abruptly as he peered directly ahead through the front windscreen of the car.

They were almost at the exit gate patrolled by armed members of the Nacional de Policía, but beyond them, parked across the street were two newish-looking grey Mercedes. In itself, not a thing of great consequence.

What was of consequence was the fact that the two men sitting in the front seats of each car were staring right at the Jaguar; four sets of eyes focused acutely and deliberately in their direction. The matching expression of all four men suggested they were not in the friendliest of moods.

"We're too far from the British embassy to guarantee we can get there in safety," Mycroft spoke out loud, as much for his driver's ears as anything else. "We're too far from the north coast and far too far away from Dover to drive all the way home," he muttered, weighing up the options. "And since our visit today has been kept under the most stringent security, a confidentiality which has clearly not been maintained, then calling for assistance from either the Spanish authorities or their police invites possible further threat," his eyes were fixed on the parked cars and the men inside.

If he ordered the Jaguar back into the airport, the two cars, or others just like them would follow, endangering innocent bystanders. If they made a run for it, there would be a chase and an unknown outcome. If they surrendered, there was no indication of what might happen, but the odds were against it being terribly good. There was no safe place, no haven of security.

"I am most sorry, Ms Garcia," he murmured, his eyes still fixed and wide. "But I seem to have dragged you into the middle of a rather sticky situation. I do apologise."

Christiana was neither stupid nor unobservant, and the content of the letters from Panama made it clear that someone, someone with money and influence, was out to find the man sitting beside her and stop him from doing whatever it was he was planning to do. There was little doubt that if she were in his company at the time this event took place, she would likely share the same and probably unpleasant, fate.

"How fast can your driver go?" she asked in an undertone, her eyes, like those of Holmes, locked solidly on the two cars across the road. The Jaguar was almost at the police-check, though she knew help from the police could not now be assumed; far better to deal with the situation themselves.

The question permeating his thoughts caused a frown to line his forehead.

"Fast?" Holmes turned to stare down into a set of dark eyes. "How fast?"

"I know the roads of Spain better than I know the balance of my very minimal bank account," Christiana held his gaze. "I can get us out of here and to a place of safety as long as your driver will trust me and can drive very fast."

Stina knew she was an unknown element; that the man Holmes had little reason to trust her, but she hoped he would. Her heart thudded hard, though whether from fear, excitement or the desire to be in a spy film, she had no idea.

"Where?" his eyes returned to the twin Mercedes. Both drivers had their hands on the steering wheels of their cars; they were preparing to give chase.

"South of here," Stina followed his gaze. "Near the coast. My father has a castle; we'd be safe there."

"A castle to the south?"

Stina wasn't certain but she thought she heard a note of amusement in the question. "I know all the roads, not just the autopista, the motorways," she said. "If we can go fast enough, I can get us to safety at my father's Castillo," Stina repeated. "Make up your mind Señor Holmes."

"How fast do you feel like driving today, Richard?" Holmes leaned back in his seat, fingers pulling a seatbelt firmly across his body, turning to watch as the woman beside him did the same.

"Quite fancy a bit of a run, Mr Holmes," the driver's pale blue eyes met dark blue ones in the mirror. "The old girl hasn't had a decent stretch for a while now."

"Then by all means, let her have her head," the tall Englishman took a deep breath. "Take the helm, Señorita Garcia."

Nodding, Stina told the driver that as soon as they had been cleared by the policia, he should turn left and go fast and straight until they came to an exit for the M50 motorway, then follow any signs that pointed to La Fortuna or Toledo. If they could go fast enough, they might lose at least one of the Mercedes at the numerous sets of traffic lights near the airport.

"Will those men have guns?" she turned back to Holmes, checking the expression on his face and the look in his eyes. Was he going to trust her?

"Possibly," as it was their turn now at the police-check, Holmes had his eyes locked on the men in the cars across the road. Passing their passports and his ID card to the driver Richard who tendered them to the police through the fractionally-opened window. There were several glances at the Ultra-clearance and then only the most cursory of passport inspections. Saluting, the senior police office waved the car through the checkpoint.

"Hold on to your hats back there," the driver floored the Jaguar's accelerator , throwing the steering wheel abruptly left, the supercharged five-litre engine screamed in all eight cylinders as the car hurled itself forward and down the thinly-populated service road before the two Mercedes had even lifted their revs.

"Looks like we caught them on the hop," though the driver had his eyes fixed firmly ahead, the grin was evident in his voice. "Toledo here we come."

Holmes was speaking urgently into his phone, a deep frown on his face. Stabbing the thing off, he scowled blackly.

"That was the Head of my security team in London," he said, his eyes scanning the rear-view mirror for either of the two Mercedes. "He didn't exactly say it was my fault that we're in this situation, but then," Holmes turned back to look at the woman beside him. "He didn't exactly need to. What do we do when we get to Toledo?"

"I hope you don't mind your beautiful shiny car getting dirty," Christiana raised her eyebrows apologetically, but we're going to be driving through a farm with some very muddy places."

"How dirty?" In the front, Richard switched both eyes from the road ahead to the rear view mirror. He thought he'd just seen ... "Company," he added. "Both of them."

"Damn," Holmes' scowl deepened. "How long before this ... farm?"

"Cobisa, the far side of Toledo," Stina also started in the wing mirror on her side of the car. The two Mercedes were definitely behind them, though still too far away to be an immediate menace. "Can we go any faster?"

"Richard?" Holmes raised an eyebrow in the mirror.

"What do the local police drive around here, Miss?" the driver flicked a glance towards Stina in the mirror.

Christiana had to think for a second. "Fords," she nodded. "They drive Fords."

"In that case, we can go quite a lot faster," Richard's voice grinned some more as he put his foot down and the Jaguar surged ahead.

Something inside her screwed the rising thrill tight into her spine. She had never ever been involved in anything more exciting than playing the winning level of some pretty heavy games, but this ... this was electrifying. And terrifying.

"I do believe Ms Garcia is your latest fan, Richard," Holmes sounded completely unruffled as he studied the small screen of his phone. Stina caught sight of what looked like a map.

"I promise you, I know exactly where we are and where we have to go," Christiana laid a hand on his arm. "I promise."

Meeting her earnest gaze, Holmes paused, then nodded briefly. "Very well," he inhaled slowly. "But if anything goes wrong, you may have the dubious pleasure of explaining it to my Head of Security."

"Deal," Stina looked through the front window of the car, silently amazed at how far they had managed to travel in what had only been a matter of minutes. What would normally be the journey of an hour had already been accomplished; there were already signs announcing the proximity of Toledo.

"We need to take the mountain road north of Saceruela," she said. "It's very remote and not a terribly good road, but it will be easy to see if we are still being followed, though I don't think we'll shall be."

"There's no mountain route showing on the GPS north of that town," Richard's eyes flicked between the road ahead and the road on the small screen at the level of his eyes.

"It's there, but it's very narrow. I promise it's there," Stina swallowed convulsively. If they didn't believe her, they might as well give up the race now. There was no way they could lose the two cars following them on these main roads; not even if they flew like the wind. The only choice was to go ... across country.

"Richard will follow your directions," Holmes placed his hand over the fingers that were still clutching his arm. He patted them gently. "Rest assured."

"I ..." his hand was warm against her skin ... "Thank you," she swallowed again, sitting upright and holding herself in a more composed manner. The Jaguar was still in the outside lane of the motorway, passing everything beside it as if all the other cars were stationary. A swift glance in the rear mirror showed intermittent glimpses of the grey Mercedes; both in the same lane as they, though no longer one after the other. The speed of the chase was already stretching them apart.

"Toledo exit coming up on the right," Richard touched the brakes, but only fractionally.

"Take it and follow the road around that says Pasao Rosa," Christiana craned her neck, trying to see if the closest Mercedes was still following. It was.

"Quick, quick!" Stina hissed, "take the bridge road on your right, then take the next left and go very fast indeed," she felt breathless and her heart pounded as if she was running beside the car. "There's another bridge two-hundred meters further up also on your left; take it and bring us back to this road."

"Doing it," the driver's now grim expression flashed in the mirror as he controlled the wheel while the big car shuddered and whined.

There was only one Mercedes in sight now, but it was getting closer.

Mycroft Holmes sat composed and serene as the Jaguar wove in between the, thankfully, thinning traffic on this lesser road. Though such heaving travel was not to his liking, he knew Richard to be a superb driver and was therefore not unduly concerned. What was taking up much of his observational energy was the woman beside him who appeared to have assumed the guise of a Field Marshall in her tactics and directions. It was evident she knew precisely what she was doing and it amused him a little, even in the midst of this rather worrisome chase, that Richard; large, muscular, black-belt trained, ex-Commando Richard, was doing exactly as he was being told. Oh for a micro-camera when one was needed.

"There's a very small road coming up soon on your left," Stina closed her eyes as she visualised the area. There had been an important battle in the vicinity during the Civil War in 1938, and she had memorised the local maps for her game, her magnum opus. She knew exactly where they were.

"Here!" she almost shouted, "turn here, now!"

With a heave of both arms, Richard hauled the screeching car across the road.

###

The lane had been barely wide enough for a smaller vehicle, let alone the Jaguar and the leaves of the overhanging bushes brushed briefly at the roof and doors as they passed. Within a minute, they had reached the wide, steel-barred gates of what was evidently a working farm.

A pig farm.

"Wait here," Stina was out of the car before either of the men could stop her. Running up to the gate, they could see and hear her shouting until a sun-beaten old man came out to see what all the fuss was about. There was a quiet but intense few moments of discussion.

The man nodded and Christiana shook his hand, running back to the car.

"He'll let us through," she grinned first at Holmes and then at the driver. "Go through the gates and driver straight through, but slowly, so's not to frighten his animals," she said. "Sorry about the car, though."

"Sorry..?"

The first savage dip into the muddy main driveway spattered liquid mud up onto the windscreen as the tyres whirred useless and without grip. Catching a little traction, they moved on once more, Richard taking everything down to a slow crawl as the old farmer closed and bolted the heavy steel gates behind them.

"Might I ask where we're actually going?" Mycroft had no doubt the woman meant well, but this saunter through a commercial piggery made little sense unless there was a greater reason.

"Old Talut's farm was built across the ford of an old stream, which is why everything's so wet; the pigs like it and he always has fresh water," Stina turned to him, smiling for the first time in a while. "They built the new road around his farm, but the old road, the one that's no longer on the map, starts at the far side of his holding ..." she paused, stretching her neck to look ahead through the increasingly dirty windscreen.

"And there it is!" she pointed out the flattened grey edge of an old but perfectly serviceable track stretching out ahead; a faint line running through the soft yellow-green of early summer growth.

"Will it do, Richard?" Mycroft knew better than to naysay his driver on such a matter. If the passage were impassable for the car, they would wait until he managed to arrange for a helicopter to come and collect them. It was unlikely the following Mercedes would be able to track them through the farm if the old man denied having seen them, especially if nobody else knew about the old road.

It was all a bit of a game, this kind of thing. Who would blink first, he wondered.

"If it's all as good as this part, it'll do just fine," Richard braked the car and turned back to face them. "My concern is petrol," he added, looking serious. "If we had a full tank, I'd get us to the south coast no problem, but all the shenanigans since we left the airport has taken us well down from that. We've got enough, depending upon the terrain for just over three-hundred miles, which is about, perhaps, five-hundred kilometres. If we can't stop to refill ... we'll be sitting ducks at that point."

Closing her eyes and picturing their journey, Stina knew that they would come within relatively easy reach of several moderate-sized towns. It would be a risk, but if they needed to refuel ...

"We can make a detour into Cordoba," she said, meeting the man's pale gaze. "It's about three-hundred kilometres from here, if the car can get us that far."

"My sweeting, this pussycat of a car can take us three-hundred klicks without raising her temperature," Richard smiled, relieved. " Now just you tell me where to go and we'll be off."

"Don't mind Richard's over-familiarity, Ms Garcia," Holmes was staring at his driver with mild amusement. "These ex-military types are conditioned to attempt to chat up every attractive woman within twenty miles," he raised a sharp eyebrow. "Best stick to what you do best, my good man, and leave everything else to your elders and betters."

"Yes sir," Richard winked at Christiana and turned back to the controls. In moments, they had left the rough and muddy confines of the farm and were coasting along a somewhat overgrown but still clearly visible road.

"As long as we are able to evade satellite observation, we might be safe," Holmes folded his hands in his lap and looked around at the view beyond the windows. It was rugged and wild but beautiful. "You are indeed a treasure beyond rubies, Ms Garcia."

Stina knew she couldn't keep the pretence up. Not now. Not with everything.

Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly. "My name's not really Garcia," she said in a low voice.

"Of course it isn't, but I realise you were planning on telling me in your own time," Holmes didn't miss a beat as he watched the passing scenery, the corner of his mouth curving just a fraction.

Christiana wasn't sure what to say next. How did he know? Had she given herself away somehow?

"Attractive though the identity-photograph of the genuine Lourdes Luis Garcia might be, she does not match the reality of ... wait ..." Holmes paused. "You say your father has a castle?"

Stina nodded, not meeting his eyes.

"South of Cordoba? On the coast? Perhaps near Gibraltar?"

Still mute, Stina nodded briefly, horrendously embarrassed. The man Holmes must consider her the worse kind of imposter and fool. She felt her face burn with the shame of it.

"Any connection to the Trafalgar estates?"

Closing her eyes tight, Stina offered a single, tight little nod.

"Ah. His Grace must be very proud of his daughter's ability to handle herself in a difficult situation," he smiled genially. "Are you sure he will be happy to receive us?"

Finally lifting her eyes to the dark blue ones she could feel, feel, burning into the side of her head, Stina sighed, her stomach churning. Holmes must consider her the biggest fraud.

"Christiana del Fernanda Teresa Andrea Helling y Jaqo, Ninth Countess of Zahora," she managed, offering him her hand. "But my friends call me Stina, and I think my father will be delighted to see how badly I've made a mess of everything," she scowled and sighed. "I can't even run away from home properly."

"Mycroft Holmes," he said, taking her cool fingers in his own and raising them briefly to his lips. "A pleasure to finally meet you, Contessa. I'm sure you underestimate the affections of your father, and please, do call me Mycroft."

Meeting his gaze, Stina was immediately suspicious of his tone. He sounded far too accommodating and unfazed by the revelation that she wasn't who she thought he thought she was.

"What gave me away?" she asked, watching the fine lines at the side of his eyes crinkle upwards with a faint smile.

"Ah," he raised both eyebrows a little and smiled even more. "Where to begin?"

"Then at least tell me when you suspected," Stina sat back feeling a little miffed. "I thought I was doing quite well."

"My dear Contessa," Mycroft smiled with some real amusement. "There was never a question of suspicion. It was clear from our first few moments together yesterday that you were assuming a role. Virtually everything you've done since we met has given you away, from your taste in coffee, to your appreciation of the furniture in my office to your familiarity with a silver service ..." he paused, his eyes dropping momentarily to the brass buttons on her jacket. "And if all of those minor details weren't quite sufficient, your father's crest on each of your buttons is definitely something you need to be aware of if you weren't before."

Frowning, Stina grabbed the front of her jacket and pulled it closer to her eyes. Peering, she saw that Holmes was exactly right. Tiny little heraldic symbols in the centre of each shiny button. She'd never even noticed. Her father's gift that she had liked so much had been simply another demonstration of his power over her. She dropped the material with a sound of disgust.

"The real Lourdes Garcia is my cousin," she defended herself. "We came to London together three days ago and she was so excited about the internship, but she fell ill and, of course, I offered to stand in for her at the induction, but then you came along and ..." her words tailing off, Stina shrugged, awkwardly. "Things got out of hand. I'm very sorry to have deceived you, Mr Holmes, but please don't have Lulu dismissed from her internship in the Admiralty Office because of any failing on my part," Christiana felt even worse at the idea that Lourdes might lose the job she so wanted.

Holmes paused, staring, evaluating. "I'm sure that some arrangement can be reached," he nodded. "And please, call me Mycroft."

"There's no sign of any company," Richard in the front called back. "Just in case either of you might be interested."

"Thank you, Richard," despite himself, Mycroft felt somewhat relieved. On foreign soil and without reliable backup, vanishing from the map was probably the wisest strategy. "We must do our best to maintain such a situation."

"Don't you worry, Miss," the driver caught Stina's glance in the mirror. "We'll keep you safe and sound."

"One simply cannot get the right kind of help these days," Mycroft threw his driver a tolerant, faintly derisive look. "Give them an inch and they take a mile."

A soft snort came from the front seat.

The remainder of the journey to the south was almost without incident. Turning off from the old road and heading through a rough field until they hit the outskirts of Cordoba and located the first petrol station was a little unnerving and Christiana almost held her breath every time the sound of another car-engine approached.

Filling up the Jaguar's sizable fuel tank took several minutes and Stina was able to watch the expression on the driver's face as he examined his beautiful car. It didn't matter in the least that it wasn't actually his car; he had been given charge of the elegant creature, and to see her muddied and unkempt like this made him wince.

"I want something cold to drink, would you like anything?" Stina asked Holmes as she hunted for her bag, her hand on the door-handle.

"Thank you, no," he paused. "I doubt there is any immediate danger," Mycroft looked at her warningly, "But be as quick as you can, please."

"Of course," after visiting the ladies bathroom, Stina entered the shop beside the gasolinera and picked up a large bottle of iced water and a local newspaper. Turning to head back to the car, she halted as a horribly familiar shape of a grey Mercedes coasted down the street. It neither slowed nor stopped and she hoped this was because it wasn't one of the two who had been chasing them ... Mercedes were common in Spain; this could be anyone's.

But the sinking feeling in her stomach told her the coincidence was too marked. She hurried back to the Jaguar just as Richard returned from the cashier.

"A grey Mercedes just went down that street over there," she said, pointing. "They didn't stop, but ..."

"Right. Get in the car."

Almost flinging herself into the back, Christiana belted herself in fast, turning to meet the anticipated stare. "Grey Merc just drove down there," she pointed again. "Might be nothing, but I suggest we stay off the main road now until we get to my father's place, if that's okay with you, Mr Holmes?"

"Mycroft, and yes. Richard? Anything I need to know?"

"The car's fine, sir," the driver was resetting the GPS. "Mucky as hell, but nothing permanent. Where are we heading, exactly?"

"Zahora, on the south coast," Stina said. "The other side of the peninsula from Gibraltar. My father lives on top of the hill there, you really can't miss the place."

"You got any more of those special short-cuts we could use to avoid the main roads?" Richard leant back over his seat. "In case that was one of our friends back there, anything we can do to keep 'em guessing is a good idea."

Feeling strangely breathless, Christiana nodded. Closing her eyes again, she pictured the entire cartography of the area through an entire series of maps, each one overlaying all the others that came before. There were roads in her mind-picture that went back to Moorish times.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft sounded curious.

"We leave here and turn right, then right again and straight on until we reach Fuentes de Andalucía, and then I can take us across country," she said, turning to smile at the dark-haired man beside her. "Visualising all the roads," she smiled at him. "I know all of them."

"All?"

Stina nodded again. "Yes; I memorised every road and ancient track in the southern half of Spain for the war-game I'm designing. It took a lot of research, but it's almost done now."

"You design games?" Mycroft sounded vaguely surprised. "Tactical war-games?"

"This is the biggest one I've ever attempted," she grinned. "But if I can persuade one of the big companies to let me develop it for them, then I'll finally be independent."

"Well, well," Holmes sounded intrigued. "Multilingual, computer expert, something of an eidetic memory, a considerate friend and fearless in the face of the enemy," he smiled. "Some would argue that you are already independent, my dear. Not to mention something of a wunderkind."

Stina shook her head and made a face. "There's nothing terribly wonderful about me," she looked pained. "And you don't know my father," she said, sighing again and pulling her mobile from her bag. "But you're about to."

###

His Grace, Fernando Martínez de Jaqo-Perez, Grandee of Andalucía and 11th Marquis of Trafalgar, had not been surprised to receive the phone call from Christiana announcing that she would be arriving shortly with two guests, but would be leaving with them as soon as arrangements had been made for alternative transport.

Fernando Martinez was not a bad man, nor even an unfeeling one, however Stina was his only child and as such, she had to realise that certain family responsibilities would inevitably fall on her shoulders.

One of which, of course, was the family succession. He would have to find her a nice young man from a good family and she would soon settle down and forget this nonsense with computers and games. He smiled. Only three days away from home and already she had called to say she was returning. Her return pleased him; she was the future of the family and it was his duty to ensure she was safe and cared for in this life. He wondered about the two guests she said were accompanying her.

Standing in his private study and staring out over the heavy crenelated walls of the ancient keep of the Castillo de Águilas, he waited. In due course, the signs and sounds of a powerful car rose up the winding road to the top of the hill upon which the Castle of the Eagles stood alone and secure against all threat. Knowing the servants would let them in, the marquis took his time in leaving his personal place of calm reflection and walking back down through the long stone passageways of the keep.

From the top of the ancient stone stairway he could hear quiet voices; Anna, his chatelaine and several others. Making his way down to the main hall, the marquis saw the two men first; both tall, though one was uniformed as a driver. The other, a little taller and by far the better dressed, was speaking rapidly but discreetly into a mobile phone. Both Christiana and the driver were watching as he descended the last of the stairs.

"Welcome home, Christiana," his voice boomed a little as stepped forward to embrace his daughter. "I am pleased that you've seen sense so quickly and returned home."

Allowing her father to kiss her on both cheeks, Stina immediately introduced the driver, Richard, and her temporary ... colleague, Mycroft Holmes.

"Delighted to meet you, Your Grace," Mycroft stepped forward, bowed his head briefly and offered his hand in greeting. "The Contessa has been telling me all about the history of your family and how proud she is of everything you've achieved in Zahora."

"She has?" the marquis sounded surprised as he turned to catch Stina's eye. A faint smile curved his lips. "My daughter is not usually so effusive."

Stina felt the situation had turned unexpectedly surreal. What was Holmes doing?

"Doña Christiana is a most exceptional woman," Mycroft turned a half-step in Stina's direction and blinked, almost sleepily. "She has saved our lives at least once today."

"What? What is this?" the tall Spaniard looked vaguely horrified, his gaze darting between the three of them.

"If we might discuss this somewhere more private, Don Fernando?" Mycroft raised a palm in polite request.

"Of course, yes," the marquis was staring at Stina as if she were a total stranger. "You must tell me everything. Of course, you will stay for dinner? We dine late in Spain, so there will be plenty of time for your account."

"I'll have my man check the car, if I may," Mycroft waved indifferently towards Richard who nodded deferentially back before bowing toward both the marquis and Stina and leaving the room, closing the double doors most firmly behind him.

Christiana wondered what the hell was going on. Not once had either Mycroft or Richard behaved like this since she'd met either of them. Nor had the tall Englishman talking to her father shown any such formality to her or anyone else. So what was going on?

Looking across at her father's relaxing and somewhat entranced expression, Stina felt an enormous wave of understanding wash over her. She nearly laughed.

Mycroft was being charming.

And by the look of benign approval on her papa's face, he was doing an exceptional job of it. What a piece of work Holmes was. As the two men walked on ahead, she had a real problem controlling the grin that shaped her mouth.

By the time Mycroft had explained their situation to the marquis, it was already beginning to get dark and Anna had returned to inform them dinner was ready to be served. Taking their places at the formally-set table, there was a spicy tomato soup with flatbreads followed by fish and roasted sweet onions. A fresh fruit sorbet cleansed their palates.

As coffee was served, Mycroft savoured the last of a dark red and decently aged Alenza, the fragrant wine one of his favourites.

"So as you can understand, Don Fernando," he said, "not only has your daughter saved our lives, but her swift thinking has brought us to a place of sanctuary until I am able to arrange for something of a rescue to deliver us back to London."

"Though Christiana will be staying, yes?" her father raised his eyebrows and looked pleased. "You may a wise choice to return," he smiled at her warmly.

"I cannot stay, Papa," Stina shook her head. "I have responsibilities in London now."

"You have responsibilities here," the marquis stiffened, his smile fading. "You will stay, Christiana."

"I will do as I please, Papa," she stood suddenly, her face flushing in embarrassment that Mycroft Holmes was witness to the family drama. Throwing her table napkin down, she stormed to the door, slipping through and into the blessed emptiness of the main hall. Hot anger filling her veins, Stina headed mindlessly towards the kitchens deciding to find Richard and ensure he had been given dinner as well. And if a few doors were slammed along the way, then so much the better.

###

"Children these days," the marquis sighed heavily and shook his head as he poured them both a balloon of Oro Solera. The lights glinted off his large and ornate signet ring stamped with the Jaqo-Perez coat of arms.

"With respect, Your Grace, Doña Christiana is hardly a child," Mycroft swirled the fine cognac, allowing its perfume to fill the air. "Nor is the Contessa like most people; her composure today under very trying circumstances was exceptional."

"Stina will soon see sense once she's married," Don Fernando sipped his brandy. "I have already made the appropriate arrangements."

"You plan to marry her off?" Mycroft put the heavy crystal glass down. His eyes, when they met those of the older man, were narrowed and oddly flat. "That might be a waste of a very fine intellect and character, and then there is the matter of her future ambitions in the software industry."

"My daughter will soon forget all that nonsense once she has a family," the Spaniard waved a dismissive hand. "She is not the type to look for more when there is a man in her life and a babe in her arms."

"Even though the lady might wish to choose her own destiny?"

"Even so," the marquis cradled his glass, a bland smile on his face.

Mycroft blinked slowly as he stood, a mild expression on his face. "I must check that my car has been properly prepared before we continue on our journey," he bowed fractionally. "Please accept both my thanks and gratitude for a wonderful dinner and the safety of your home," he said. "You are most generous."

"And you have my thanks, Señor Holmes, for returning my daughter to her rightful place."

The smile on Mycroft's face rose no higher than his mouth as he turned to leave the august presence of the marquis. An unusual tension gripped him knowing it had been he who had facilitated Christiana's return to this place ... to the man in the room he'd just left.

He located his driver sitting in the kitchen, a massive stone edifice on several split-levels each separated by broad stone steps. Richard had his jacket off and sleeves rolled up with the remains of an enormous meal before him.

"One trusts such gluttony will not result in excessive postprandial somnolence?" Mycroft looked around the place, but they were alone. Evidently the cook had better things to do than watch her master's guest plunge himself wholeheartedly into a food-coma.

"If you're looking for Miss Christina, she stomped off for a crafty smoke on one of the balconies thataway," Richard gestured vaguely towards one of the upper-level doors as he stretched himself out to ease his full stomach.

"Christiana," Mycroft corrected.

"Christina is more British and her mum's British is what she told me," Richard folded his arms and closed his eyes. "Sir."

"Indeed?"

"Balcony's that way, Mr Holmes," the driver added, pointing without opening his eyes.

"Relax while you can, "Mycroft headed towards the door to the balcony. "We'll be leaving within the hour."

"Sir," Richard sank lower in the chair and allowed the warmth of the kitchen and the knowledge of a great dinner lull him into a light doze.

She wasn't difficult to find; the tang of tobacco-smoke was a trail a blind man could follow. As the final rays of the glowing sun sank beneath the horizon, he discovered her leaning against one of the chest-high walls overlooking the main courtyard of the castle, a newly-lit cigarette in her fingers.

"Your father is an interesting man," he said by way of conversation.

"My father is interested only in himself," Stina muttered, inhaling viciously only to cough as too much smoke hit her unaccustomed lungs. Mycroft took the cigarette from her shuddering fingers and placed it between his own lips. "These things are very bad for you, you know," he said, savouring the aromatic smoke.

"I don't care about anything anymore," Christiana folded her arms and rested her back against the still-warm stone. "If he has his way I'm going to be nothing but a brood mare for some effete Grandee; someone indolent and flat broke but with a name that stretches all the way back to the Renaissance and a family history of getting male heirs."

"And you would prefer a different future?" Mycroft looked around the dusk-laden castle ramparts. In a far window, the faint glint of light off something small and bright caught his eye; on the same level as they but on the far side of the square parapet. Someone was watching them. Someone wearing a large, shiny ring.

"I would rather almost anything than that," Christiana sighed bleakly. "But no matter how hard I try to get away, I seem to end up being trapped here."

And this time, it was he who had brought her to this position.

"That need not be the case, you realise," Mycroft ground out the cigarette beneath his shoe, realising this was a perfect moment for the woman to discover something about herself. All she needed was a little push ...

"There are always alternatives, and, by the way, you should know your Papa is watching us."

"Is he?" Stina felt her rage rise once more. "Is he really?"

"Window, far side of this rampart, no," Mycroft halted her movement." Don't look. Let him think he's invisible."

"Why?" she hissed, staring up at him in the growing dimness. "I'm so angry, I don't care what he thinks he's seeing."

"How angry?" the tone in the Englishman's voice was subtly provoking. "What would you do?"

"Angry enough to do this," Christiana sucked in a huge breath as she stood on tip-toe and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him down into a teeth-grating kiss. If her father wanted her to have a lover, then let him see her with this one. She held tight and kissed the Englishman hard even as her brain reached an awareness that the body she was embracing with such passion had frozen into utter stillness.

Sweet mother of god ...

Instantly shocked at herself, Stina released the unmoving man standing calmly in front of her. "I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes," she whispered, scalded with embarrassment. "I don't usually ... this is not something I ..."

"That's not how you should kiss someone for the first time, you know," Mycroft's voice was oddly soft.

Her mind now wholly blank with mortification, Stina had no idea where this conversation was headed. "It isn't?"

"No."

Moving closer, he slid long, cool fingers delicately up the side of her face and into the heavy darkness of her hair. His other hand gliding around her shoulders, Stina felt herself pulled gently into the long line of his body as he hovered over her, his height far more obvious at such close quarters.

"But this is," he murmured, tipping her head back until his dark eyes gazed momentarily into hers, before finding her lips with his own in a kiss of great delicacy and reserved sensuality.

Barely able to breathe, Christiana felt her body relax incrementally within the circle of his arms as the kiss grew experimental and teasing. After the universe had rotated several times, he lifted his head and she could see his smile faintly illuminated by the lights from the windows.

"I really do think you can call me Mycroft now, don't you?" he said, softly.

"Mycroft?" Stina whispered. "Please be careful ... my father gets angry very easil ..." her words were lost as she was pulled back into an embrace that this time was neither delicate nor playful, but seethed with barely controlled sexuality. Her heart raced and her head throbbed.

The rest of her burned.

"How angry?" Mycroft's wicked whisper was in her ear as he nibbled the lobe.

"He'll have a heart attack and die and that'll make me the heir which I don't want and ..." Stina's complaint was cut short as his mouth took her words again and kissed them into oblivion.

And suddenly she didn't care.

Let her father watch. Let him explode into a zillion tiny pieces and fly away into the warm Spanish night. She didn't give a damn, not while she could feel this way in the arms of an almost-stranger. A tiny core of serenity blossomed inside her, as if everything was in slow-motion and silent and the all-consuming passion of the man in whose arms she smouldered was exactly as it should be.

After another whirl around the galaxy, she felt his embrace ease slightly as Mycroft sighed and straightened.

"Better?"

She smiled up at him. "I feel quite wonderful," Stina laughed softly, her voice entirely foreign to her ears. She sounded breathless and husky and very possibly seductive.

"And how do you feel about your father now?" he asked, watching her expression in the faint light.

"He'll probably cut me out of his will and never speak to me again which is perfectly fine," Stina grinned. "Please say I can return to London with you."

"Wouldn't dream of deserting one of Her Majesty's newly employed Civil Servants, my dear. Can you be ready to leave in about ... " he consulted the heavy silver fob watch linked to his waistcoat. "Ten minutes? It would be remiss of me not to bid farewell to your parent."

"And I must do the same," Stina stepped back, straightening her braid which had become surprisingly dishevelled. "It's time Papa heard me say farewell properly."

Mycroft observed the absence of concern on her face and heard the note of calm determination in her voice. He smiled inwardly. Amazing the difference a touch of extra confidence could make.

"He might be a little waspish," he offered Christiana his arm. "A reluctance to abandon his ambition of empire through marriage."

"Papa's still relatively youthful," Stina felt an enormous weight had somehow slipped from her shoulders as she realised there was nothing her father could do to her now. "I'm sure he could find an aristocratic widow somewhere who'd have him."

Finding her father standing at a window overlooking the ocean, Christiana walked up to him and kissed him lightly on one cheek.

"I am returning to London now, Papa, but I'll probably be back in a few months. Is there any message you'd like to send to my mother?"

Turning his gaze from the darkened bay of Zahora, the marquis focused his eyes on his child. And he saw again, what he'd already witnessed on the unlit balcony; that she really was no longer a child, but an independent woman, with plans and dreams of her own. She was becoming more and more like her mother, the tighter his grasp, the less he held. How had he not seen this before? The sudden knowledge shook him; he was surprised at the pang of regret knowing he was going to lose her too, now.

"You will return here at some point?" Don Fernando stared down into a pair of dark brown eyes so like his own.

Even to her ears, his voice sounded strangely uncertain.

"Of course, Papa," Stina felt an unaccustomed wave of affection for the old man. "Perhaps after I have been to the GamesCon in Germany in August," she smiled. "I may have something to celebrate."

Looking over her head into the eyes of the tall, dark Englishman who seemed to be on an entirely too intimate a level with a Spanish Countess, the marquis raised a single eloquent eyebrow. It said many things.

Do not hurt my daughter for she is my only child and though she is headstrong, she is my heart and I will protect her with everything that I am and have.

Lifting his chin, Mycroft blinked slowly, allowing one side of his mouth to curve upwards.

"You are a most gracious host, Don Fernando," he nodded fractionally. "Until we meet again, Your Grace," bowing at the neck, Mycroft turned to Christiana. "Are you ready, Contessa?"

"Absolutely, Mr Holmes," Stina grinned up at him, ready for the next leg of the adventure.

###

"Thus all we need do now is drive to Gibraltar where our plane awaits, and we shall be in London some three hours after that," Mycroft returned his phone to an inner pocket of his suit jacket. It was not the most satisfying conclusion to what had been an entirely inconvenient day, especially since neither he nor his security people back in London had yet been able to pinpoint those behind the suspicious pair of Mercedes.

There had to be a connection to the Panama situation; it was simply too obvious for there not to be, however that was a problem for another day. The meeting would need to be rescheduled in London. Mycroft smiled thinly; at least he now had the perfect excuse to demand that the various interested parties come to him; it would keep his security team happy if nothing else.

And then there was the matter of Christiana Helling y Jaqo, or, as Richard had made clear given the woman's British heritage, Christina Helling as she might be known. Despite the fact that she had assumed the role of his assistant under somewhat false pretences, she had certainly fulfilled its mandate under the most pressing of circumstances. It would be unlikely he'd find a convenient replacement with her skillset in the time available.

He would consider the situation before they returned to Whitehall. The domain of British security was rarefied and demanding, and she had already proved her worth several times over.

"From Zahora to Gibraltar by the main motorway will take up just over an hour," Stina hunted for her seat-belt. "Though if you wanted a less visible route, there's one that takes us right through the middle of Los Alcornocales."

"Which is ..?" Mycroft turned to look at Christiana's face. She had given up on the braid and taken her hair down; it fell in a heavy dark brown swag to her shoulders. Rather attractive, he thought.

"A big national park that sits right in the middle of the route between us and Gibraltar," she nodded. "The roads are narrower and somewhat slower, but it's very pretty in the daytime."

Flicking his eyes through the Jaguar's window into the pitch dark of the Andalusian night, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I shall take that under consideration the next time I'm driving in this area during the day," he said, dryly.

"It was only a suggestion," Stina smiled to herself as she watched the lights of Zahora fade behind them. For the first time in her life, she felt wonderfully free, even though she had no real idea what was likely to come up next, for once, she'd simply play everything by ear and take life as it happened.

They were already on the narrow main road, heading towards La Zarzuela and the freeway that would take them to Gibraltar in an hour, when Richard cleared his throat.

"I don't want to alarm anyone," he said, "but if you look ahead, you'll see two sets of headlights coming our way, one right behind the other. I can speed up or turn around, but tell me in the next ten seconds or there's no choice."

Mycroft felt a stir of alarm. Could it possibly be the two Mercedes? Was it conceivable they had managed to scour the entire area for the Jaguar, only to meet them, virtually by accident, on this remote coastal road?

"Turn around and head back to the castle," he said. "We'll take no chances, whoever it might be."

In the next moment, Richard had pulled the wheel around and the great car, so sensitive to command, circled with barely a protest. In far less than the required ten-seconds, they were heading back, at some speed, towards the castle of the eagles.

The sound of the first bullet against the hardened steel of the vehicle was so odd, that Stina wasn't sure what she'd heard.

"Down!" Mycroft's left hand was already between her shoulders, pushing her head as far towards her knees as it would go. "Richard, get us out of here."

"Hold on!" the driver stamped down hard on the accelerator and the big black cat leaped forward, tearing down the dark road, back toward sanctuary.

"We can't lead them to the castle," Christiana shouted over the din of the engine and the rapid clang of bullets now striking the reinforced rear of the car. "We can run away, but the people there can't," she yelled. "We need to out run them!"

"There's no way we can get clear on this road," Mycroft responded, his phone at his ear. "We need to find a place flat enough for a helicopter to pick us up in about fifteen minutes; somewhere nearby that's open and flat. Ideas?"

Thinking rapidly, Stina allowed a dozen or more images fly though her mind. Somewhere big enough and open enough, but far enough away that they might lose the two cars. There was only one place that might do.

"The reservoir!" she cried. "Almodóva reservoir; about ten minutes away ... the top of the dam is a huge stretch of flat concrete and far enough away that we have the chance to lose them in the dark!"

"Which way from here, Miss?" Richard shouted back over his shoulder.

In the pitch-black of night and even worse, head down in the back seat of the Jaguar, Christiana had no idea where they were or which way the car was currently headed. There was only one thing she could do.

Slipping the clasp of her seatbelt, and despite Mycroft's attempt to pull her back down, she threw herself into the front of the car and wriggled awkwardly into the passenger seat beside Richard, trying not to kick him unconscious as she did.

"Slumming it, eh?" the man grinned as he wrenched the car's wheel across the road and back, anything to break the line of fire from the two Mercedes. Fortunately, the road here was literally only wide enough for one car at a time, so only the foremost Merc had a clear line of sight, and they were still far enough away as to make their target practice more erratic than effective.

Finally managing to do up the seat belt and ignoring Mycroft's stern advice that she return to the rear of the car for her own safety, Christiana stared ahead and tried to work out exactly where they were.

A large, square farmhouse flashed by on the left, and she knew instantly what to do.

"Turn off the lights and slow down; there's a small road turning coming up on the left in a few seconds, take it and go as far as you can with the lights off," she shouted. "Do it now!"

Without so much as a word, Richard did exactly as she said. The junction was upon them in moments and even in the dark, the pale grey of the small side road was still clear enough to see, as long as he kept the speed down. But if the two following cars took the same route, it would be all over in less than a minute.

Staring out through the rear window, it was only seconds later that first one, and then a second set of bright headlights flew past the junction, heading straight for Zahora. It wouldn't be long, however, before the drivers of the two Mercedes realised their error and backtracked to this point.

But there might be just enough time to get to the dam before they did.

"Keep going on this road as fast as you can," Stina pointed ahead as Richard flicked the lights back on. The road was relatively straight and flat, and he took off as fast as the Jaguar would permit.

"I'm not used to having my assistants disobey a direct order, Miss Helling," Mycroft's voice was chilly to the point of freezing. "If you are injured I shall be most displeased; I give you fair warning."

"Understood, Mr Holmes," Stina called back over her shoulder as she kept her eyes on the road. A long hedge ran down the right-hand side of the road.

"We need to do a little cross-country here," she pointed out a gap in the hedge where a farm gate once hung. "The terrain is fairly level, there was an enormous battle here several hundred years ago and the whole area was flattened, so I know the car will be okay if you take it easy."

"You're the boss," Richard muttered, taking the Jaguar off-road.

Immediately the ground grew a little bumpy, but nothing yet to seriously challenge the car's shock-absorbers.

Knowing he had to be being tossed around in the back, Stina refrained from checking up on her erstwhile superior. It was likely her job with him, such as it was, would be over after tonight in any case, so she took a deep breath and fed Richard additional directions.

"We could have followed the road, but this is a major short-cut," she said to nobody in particular. "There's another road coming up at the far side of this field that will take us directly into the park and towards the dam," she added, scanning the darkened horizon for the slightest sign of headlights coming their way.

The far gate appeared, and as there was still an absence of other traffic, Christiana allowed herself to relax just a little. They were now heading due east, away from the town and towards the park.

"It's about fifteen kilometres to the dam," she spoke aloud. "The roads are pretty good around here so it shouldn't take long to get there, should it?"

"I've called for the helicopter to rendezvous with us there as soon as they can, which should be about the same time we arrive," Mycroft sounded resigned though still somewhat disgruntled. "Fast as you can, Richard."

With its lights back on, the Jaguar surged ahead, spitting dust from its rear tyres as Stina settled back in the comfortable seat. They were only minutes away from collection by helicopter; the menacing Mercedes were nowhere in sight and safety and a journey back to London was within their grasp. Flicking her eyes ahead, she looked for any familiar landmarks, but it was too dark. Her peripheral vision caught the merest flash of ...

Light. There was a blink of light in the mirror.

"Company," she groaned, wondering how on earth they could be tracked like this.

"Someone has a satellite on us," Mycroft's voice from the rear seat was bitter and cold. "Someone has laid out a substantial sum to catch us and I'm fairly convinced I now know who it is," he added. "The rendezvous with all speed, Richard, please."

The following car, and there was only the one, was driving recklessly fast behind them.

"Looks like they split up to cover more ground," Richard observed as he swerved to miss a pothole. "And we just passed a sign that said two klicks to the reservoir, by the way."

"Are they going to catch up with us before we get there?" Stina stared in the mirror at the approaching car headlights.

"Not if I have any say in it; hold on!" Richard roared, gritting his teeth and stamped harder on the accelerator until the Jaguar growled with effort.

And then they were rising up a hill and in seconds, they were there: the wide, flat apron of concrete and the glint of moonlight on water ahead of them.

But the place was as barren as a desert. There were no trees or rocks or buildings behind which to conceal themselves. Until the helicopter arrived, the Jaguar was a sitting duck.

"Hold on!" Richard leaned across and grabbed Stina's arm as the Mercedes burst out into the open and headed straight for them.

Without slowing down.

The impact of the speeding car as it struck the reinforced structure of the big Jaguar was immense, carrying both vehicles far across the concrete plain; too far and too fast, in fact, for either to steer or in any way correct the trajectory the impact had created for them both.

In less than a handful of seconds, both cars careered over to the edge of the rock-solid dam and, in the next instant, broke through the heavy-duty retaining wall and vanished over the brink.

###

As the sickening feeling of the car flipping over the top of the dam had her stomach heaving, in the same split-second, Stina felt an almighty thump as the Jaguar halted, banging down hard as the front wheels hit one of the four massive support columns that braced the front of the spillway, several feet below the rim of the dam itself. The rear of the vehicle must have caught on a projection and now it simply hung there, engine whining uselessly, lights shining down into deep black water. And then all the airbags exploded open and all she could see was white.

It was at that point that Christiana realised she was probably going to die.

In the moment they had gone over the edge of the dam, everything had fallen silent; nothing made it through her awareness except the knowledge that they had just been hit by another car at speed and had been pushed over the edge of the dam. The lights of the Mercedes spun off, falling away from them as the faces of its driver and passenger looked white and horrified in the glare of the Jaguar's own headlamps.

Looking to one side, Christiana saw that Richard was out cold; a thin trickle of blood coming from his nose. He must have cracked his head on something despite the airbags deploying to the front and side.

But at least he didn't look dead.

The car, even on the inside, was a mess. There was glass everywhere, and a chill breeze insinuated itself throughout the interior of the vehicle.

"Christiana? Are you alive?" behind her, Mycroft sounded worried but not in agony.

"Not if these bloody balloons have their way," she muttered, batting them away from her face as the faint hiss of escaping air deflated the obstructions.

But now she could see, Stina would have welcomed the large white barricades back.

The Jaguar was pointing almost straight down into dark swirling waters at least thirty meters below. If they went in now, there was almost no chance they'd be able to get out.

"I'm fine, but Richard is unconscious; looks like he hit his head on something," she answered. "I don't think I can get out; my door's all banged up," she added, "and the windows are smashed."

"Don't try to move ," Mycroft's long fingers snaked over the back of the seat and squeezed her shoulder. "The helicopter should be here any ... ah."

The incredibly welcome sound of heavy rotor-blades cut through the still of the night. It could only have been a matter of seconds, though it felt a hundred times longer, that Stina heard voices of men shouting, and the vibration of something being attached to the rear of the Jaguar.

Massive engines roared back into life and with a heart-sickening jolt, the car began to move slowly backwards, back up and over the parapet of the dam and back down onto deliciously smooth and wonderful concrete. Back on the level, Christiana had the sudden urge to weep as all the fear went away. This was ridiculous; she hadn't felt remotely like crying when a cold and horrible certain death had been right beneath them.

The Jaguar shook and shimmied as the men outside worked on freeing the doors on both sides, managing to get Richard to stir from his unplanned nap. He lifted his head and immediately winced, a hand rising to hold the side of his face.

In less than a minute, they were all standing in the rapidly cooling night air, a man in a flight-helmet and a high-visibility jacket wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders and shone a small torch into each eye several times until she blinked and pushed the light away.

Apparently, and despite the fact her knees wanted to move in different directions, she was essentially fine. As was Mycroft. Only Richard had taken any kind of a knock, but even he was able to walk to the helicopter unaided. Thank God, the Jaguar had been so strongly reinforced. Several of the rescuers remained behind to ensure the car would stay inviolate until she was shipped off back to London.

The trip in the chopper to the Gibraltar airbase was uneventful and mercifully brief. Christiana felt immensely weary as she was helped down onto the tarmac of the international airport, where the same plane that had flown them all over awaited their pleasure.

As if by magic, a black and stately car drew up beside them. Not a Jaguar, this time, but an imperial-age, classic Bentley, post-war and dignified in a very grand kind of way. It was the kind of car her father might favour. Stina raised her eyebrows, smiling.

"It was either this or an ambulance," Mycroft looked innocent as he opened the nearside rear door for Christiana to enter. Inside there was not only sufficient room for a small dinner party, but a seat that folded down, long enough for Richard to sleep on as the painkillers went to work.

There were no seatbelts in this particular model and Stina, still wrapped in the garish emergency blanket, found herself sliding towards the Englishman on a number of occasions as the great car swept in a wide circle before carefully manoeuvring onto the plane for the journey home.

In the end, after several such incidental collisions, Mycroft pulled her close to his side and looped a long arm around her shoulders.

"The things one does for Queen and country," he murmured as she laid her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes in almost instant sleep.

###

Fortunately, Lourdes appeared to have slept the day through, so that when Stina finally made it to the apartment, her cousin was feeling well enough to have had a shower and made some tea.

"Long day?" Lulu still sounded snuffly, but was clearly much better.

Christiana flopped down onto the nearest kitchen chair and laughed until she got the hiccups.

"You have no idea," she squeaked, eventually. "They know I'm not you, but it looks like we might both have a job, which is great," she said, sipping the tea and deciding she might actually get to like the stuff.

"So we can both go in tomorrow morning?" Lourdes sneezed and looked suddenly tired again.

"Not yet for you, I think," Stina put her cup down. "Off you go; back to bed. Want something to eat?"

"It's too late to eat," Lulu was slightly surprised at her friend's unusual assertiveness. "But I am still a little weary. I guess another day won't make much difference. What are you going to do?"

"I'm going back in tomorrow," Christiana grinned. "As me. Looks like I might have a job of my own."

###

And as she passed through the security gates the next morning, stepping once again into the towering marble entrance-hall, Stina realised she still had no idea how to get back to Mycroft's office.

So it was just as well he was waiting for her beside one of the heavy iron gates.

"Glad to see you've taken no permanent damage," he smiled fleetingly, looking her up and down.

"Right as rain," Stina laughed at her own joke as she followed the tall Englishman back to his office, remembering to remember the way, this time.

"And you'll need one of these," he handed her a slim black device, one of the new Blackberry phones. "Apart from it being an effective communication device, apparently one may play all manner of computer games on it," he paused, searching her face. "And you'll have to sign a great deal of paperwork for HR before I can speak to you again, so please get it all over with as soon as you can so we can deal with the maniac who nearly had us all in the drink last night."

"Yes, Mr Holmes," she couldn't help the way her mouth wanted to curl upwards.

"And it would be wise not to use your everyday name in the office," he added. "Best if nobody knows who we really are, if possible," he said. "As I recall, you have several to choose from."

"I've always liked Andrea," Christiana had managed to switch the Blackberry on and was already playing with the many tiny buttons, just to see what it might do. If she could use it to work on her own war games as well as his, it might be worth having.

"Or maybe some other name beginning with A," she stood, long dark hair curving down to her shoulders, tapping away at the tiny keypad.

"And call me Mycroft," he turned, an eyebrow raised.

"Of course, Mr Holmes."

At his faint sigh, Stina smiled again, knowing that her work with Mycroft Holmes was only just beginning.

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THE END

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NEW STORY - The Memoirs of Mycroft Holmes

A romance. Conspiracy, collusion, home-reconstruction and the getting of wisdom. A Cate and Mycroft story.

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