For all his size, I was impressed at how silently Eddie could move. When I said it would only take a few minutes for me to check on Osney boatyard's most recently arrived motor cruiser, he'd looked dreadfully offended and suggested, somewhat stiffly, that he be permitted to do his job.

We'd made the return trip back up the A4013 in much better time than the drive down to Henley; the unusual amount of traffic that day had all but cleared the road of melting snow, which helped enormously. As soon as it was clear we needed to get to the boatyard if there was any chance of tracking the South African, I told Eddie to head directly there since we couldn't be entirely sure when our prey would arrive. I was confident Judas Fisher would show up at some point: for all its grand name of 'marina', it really was more of a boatyard on a side-water of the river and somewhat off the beaten track for non-locals. It would have been amazing if anyone else from the church gathering had even heard of the place, let alone knew what or where it was. Bonneville clearly had some idea of what was likely to happen when he asked me to handle this little jaunt since no stranger to the city would have any idea of where to look for things others wanted kept secret. Being a Merton man himself, Fisher would possess precisely the same information and once again, I tipped a mental hat to Sir David's prescience.

The light was gone by the time we made it back to Oxford, though one of the new pieces of tech being fitted to all the cars in our department enabled Eddie to see exactly where he needed to go. I'd never used one of the modern satellite navigation devices before but he waxed lyrical about the thing all the way through the dark streets until we arrived at the boatyard's gates.

I had no idea what Sherlock had been up to in the last few days or nights but was intensely relieved when he announced his intention to sleep for the drive back up to town. Getting no argument from me, he promptly stretched out his legs, folded his arms and dropped off almost immediately into a slumber unaffected by anything in or outside of the Jaguar. His sleep provided an opportunity for me to once again study his face and features; the fine lines around his eyes and mouth relaxing in sleep until I could once more see the younger brother I'd left behind when I went up to college. At the time, I'd dreaded leaving him without anyone close enough to quell the worst of his intellectual rampages and clearly something had gone very wrong if he was now dabbling in drugs. I say 'dabble' as his face did not yet exhibit the awful waxy-pale complexion of an habitué, nor had his eyes lost their usual clarity or focus though if my brother was using regularly, such changes could only be a matter of time. I desperately wanted to talk with him about this but dared not broach the subject until I was clear of my current obligation and had time to give him what support I could. I was horribly torn between my job and my family and realised, with sudden insight, that this would not be the last time I faced such a dilemma. For a dark moment, I questioned my entire role in the scheme of things.

In the middle of my existential crisis, Eddie brought the car to a gentle halt at the side of the road outside the main boatyard gates. While the big double-gates across the road were padlocked, I could see the small side-gate was unchained as it normally was until midnight and it was at this point that I unwittingly upset my driver. Fortunately, Sherlock was still sound asleep; his rest for the last few days must have been minimal indeed. I decided to leave him exactly where he was and, after closing the door with the softest of clicks, exited the car to stand beside the affronted Eddie.

"I need to see for myself," I said quietly. For all Eddie was large, I was tall and not about to be told what to do by anyone other than Bonneville. "Though I welcome your backup," I raised my eyebrows and gauged his reaction. With a slow blink, he acquiesced, pulling a matt-black pistol from inside his coat. In utter silence and keeping to the unlit shadows, we skirted the edge of the boatyard, alert for the slightest signs of life.

The boatyard itself was, in reality, a minor side stream of the Isis, the name by which all Oxfordians knew the Thames as it flowed through their fair city. At this time of the evening, with the bitter wind picking up and snow still lying in miserable drifts around the sides of a few low buildings, it was highly improbable we'd meet anyone here at all. Any movement whatsoever would either be from a local, checking on a moored boat; the likelihood of that being rather slim, or it would be our man Fisher. Not for the briefest moment did I consider I had reached an incorrect deduction; I simply knew Fisher would be arriving here tonight. Eddie and I took what little shelter we could in the lee of a brick wall, though it afforded us precious little sanctuary from the increasingly gusty arctic air.

The wind held such an icy bite that the temptation to go back and wait in the car was very real. But the Jaguar was too far away from the riverside to see what was happening and I could not risk missing the South African merely because my feet were cold. I reminded myself that Bonneville would have been doing this himself had I not been available and I was certain he would have endured the inclement conditions without comment. I gritted my teeth, tried to stand deeper into the shelter of the wall and assumed a stoicism my mother would have applauded.

I have little recollection of the time Eddie and I spent huddled against the wind in that dreadful spot, it felt like hours but was probably not more than forty-five minutes at most. Thank god I had brought my silk-lined leather gloves with me or my fingers would have made a closer acquaintance with frostbite than was good for them. Eddie seemed impervious to the entire ordeal, his gaze flickering backwards and forwards along the boundary of the boatyard and its environs.

There was the faintest mutter of sound above the wind and I stopped thinking about how many toes I was going to lose and started thinking about how big an engine would make that level of noise. It certainly wasn't excessively loud, but the wind held its own gusty orchestra and it was difficult to hear anything above it.

"There," Eddie nudged me to look at the furthest left-hand entrance of the river into the yard. A vaguely lighter patch of darkness seemed to be edging fractionally forward towards one of the empty berths. It was almost pitch black now and, though my eyes had accustomed themselves to the absence of light, I was still too far away to see the edge of the river as plainly as I would have preferred. Was it a small white cruiser? The silence became louder as the craft's engine was suddenly cut and it pressed gently into the woven rope bollards. The boat was very carefully unlit; clearly a deliberate choice in order to maintain as low a profile as possible.

Edging as close to the end of the wall as I possibly could, I was able to observe two men step cautiously onto the dock, one of them carrying a large briefcase. Both men were tall and rugged up against the chill of the evening, with heavy coats, knitted caps and scarves. Wait ... scarves. If there had only been sufficient light on the dock for me to see the scarf of the man with the case. I was confident Judas Fisher would still be wearing his old Merton scarf and the bright cerise would be immediately obvious. There was one feeble street light near the gate but if Eddie and I waited where we were, there was too much of a chance Fisher would see us; we had to withdraw back towards the entrance of the boatyard and find new cover. Hopefully, I'd get to see if it was Fisher once way or the other as soon as the men neared the street light. Just as they were about to reach the halo of dim illumination, the sound of another car engine approached the street side of the boatyard gates. As soon as they came within sight of the Jaguar, the engine dropped in revs, telling me the car was idling and not going anywhere. This immediately argued a number of things, none of them terribly cheering.

It might be a police car, checking for unlawful activates or a local checking on their boat. Not that Eddie and I were doing anything illegal, but I could not afford to be spotted by anyone who might alert Fisher, if he was the man with the case. Alternately, if it wasn't the police or a conscientious boat-owner, then the only reason anyone would idle their car right at that spot was because they'd seen the Jag and were coming to some conclusions of their own. This probably meant whoever was in that car had also been in St Mary's that morning and, if so, then I had no desire to meet them, whoever they might be. Fortunately, our new hiding place was well out of sight of both the road and the boatyard gate. If I could only confirm one of the men from the boat was Fisher ...

"Quick, this way." The taller of the two men I'd observed debarking the cruiser had obviously heard the car engine and pulled his associate away from the gate. As they headed into deeper shadow around the corner of one of the few buildings in the immediate vicinity, I remembered there was a smaller, secondary entrance at that end of the yard. I was both relieved and concerned. Relieved, because the voice I'd just heard was unmistakably that of Judas Fisher and at least he had an escape route if whoever it was in the other car had come gunning for him. Concerned, because I didn't want Judas and his colleague making a hasty departure from the boatyard unless I was able to follow and, right now, that was an impossibility if I wanted to remain unseen.

Fisher and the other man were now moving further away on the other side of the yard, directly opposite where Eddie and I were standing. Between us and them was the main boatyard entrance, complete with street lamp and a watcher beyond the gate. If I attempted to cross the space from this side of the yard to the other side, I'd be spotted instantly. I needed to move and yet I dared not do so. There were a series of quiet noises from the far side of the yard as Fisher and his friend made off in the direction of the far gate. I had to move! I had to follow Judas Fisher or lose the entire advantage I'd taken such care to achieve. Just as I was about to risk being seen by whoever it was standing on the outside of the gate, I caught the guttural sounds of a Russian whisper. Pavel Zima's voice. How in god's name had Zima been able to work out where to find Fisher? The obvious answer of course, was that he hadn't followed Fisher at all, but had someone put trackers put on every car in the church carpark while we were all inside. Assuming by now that everyone else was tucked away cosily in some warm Oxford hotel, he had followed the Jaguar as we skulked around the city. There was absolutely no way I could afford to have Zima know Fisher was here with the diary; the Russian's style would be to go after the South African with all guns blazing and that spelled disaster. This was an intolerable situation; I daren't move and I couldn't stay. I was well and truly stuck.

Momentarily lost in my own crumbling plan that I barely felt Eddie's fingers nudge the back of my shoulder. The second time he did so, I looked into his face and saw his eyes flick across to the corner of the building across the yard, the same one Fisher had used as cover. Narrowing my eyes to see more clearly in the feeble light, I made out a faint movement. Had Fisher returned? The movement was visible a second time; a hand waving briefly in the night. Wondering why Judas Fisher was waving at me, I reached the awful realisation that it wasn't Fisher at all.

Sherlock. Waving the palm of one hand until he knew he had my attention, his hand-gestures were sufficiently visible to advise me he was going to trail the two men from the boat. There was something small and dark in his palm and I realised he was holding his mobile phone. Sherlock already knew what Fisher looked like from the description I gave him in Henley and he could see I risked discovery if I were to move an inch, thus he had made a unilateral decision to trail Judas Fisher on my behalf and report back to me by phone. It was a capable yet horrifying plan though I suppose from my brother's perspective, it must have seemed perfectly logical and sensible. I had literally one second to decide what I wanted to risk less: my brother or the operation. Lose track of Fisher and the diary or let my brother follow and potentially risk his life?

I let Sherlock go after the briefcase.

###

Eddie and I waited for a further eight agonising minutes before we heard the slam of car doors and the careful reversing of an engine. I had no idea where my brother was by now or even if he had managed to locate and follow Fisher. The instant the car engine faded from hearing, I ran towards the Jaguar, pulling out my phone as I did, though my fingers were numb with cold and I couldn't make them properly press the buttons. One of the other items of new tech installed in all the cars now was an electronic transponder key. No fussing around with cold steel anymore; just a swift press of a little button on a fob and voila, lights flashed and with a soft beep, we had an unlocked car. Both of us threw ourselves into the front seats, slamming the doors hard behind us. Eddie had the engine on and the heater up to full in a second and the pair of us spent several moments groaning and swearing as our fingers and toes fizzed and burned in exquisite agony as bloodflow returned.

The next decision was to call Sherlock or wait until he called me? Assuming he was indeed trailing Fisher, his phone would almost certainly be heard if it were to ring, however, there was a silent vibration option and I would have been surprised if my brother had not adopted it the second he discovered its existence. I decided to leave things for a further seven minutes before I rang, allowing Sherlock ample time to track Fisher, if not to the man's final destination, then at least to his next mode of transport. Fortunately, I wasn't required to wait so long; within a minute, my own phone rang softly in my jacket pocket. Despite my still-clumsy fingers, I had it up to my ear in a heartbeat.

"Sherlock!" I kept my voice calm. "Where are you and is everything alright?"

"Your man's gone to earth at your old stamping grounds, Brother."

I kept my sigh of relief silent. "Tell me," I said, my heart thudding.

"There were two cars waiting; the unknown man got into one of them and Fisher got into the other. Given that it was Fisher you were so interested in earlier, I stole a bicycle and followed the car. Fortunately, he wasn't able to drive terribly quickly in the dark streets, so it wasn't too difficult a job to stay with him. He's just turned into one of the college gates off a place called Rose Lane, if that makes any sense to you, which it should, since you studied here."

Rose Lane. The only places up at that end of the college grounds was the Warden's Lodgings and the music rooms and theatre. I consulted my internal map of my alma mater and remembered that there was one other building at the very top corner, North Lodge. Of course ... as an alumni, Fisher would be entitled to board and lodgings as a guest of the college, especially if he was waving a juicy bequest beneath the Warden's nose. Judas Fisher had picked probably the safest place in Oxford to shelter. No outsider would be able to navigate their way through the maze of narrow lanes, quads and walks around the campus. How fortunate then, that I was no outsider. I knew precisely where to find my quarry.

"Excellent, Sherlock," I permitted relief to warm my words. "That's immensely good news. Stay where you are and I'll be there momentarily to pick you up."

"And then what?" my brother was clearly in no mood to call it a night. "You get me a cab back to Cambridge and send me to bed like a good little boy? Nothing doing, Mycroft. I want to be in on the kill. Metaphorically speaking."

"There is not going to be a kill of any description, Sherlock," I felt the relief of my brother's safety fading rapidly in the face of his pugnacity. "Nor was I intending to send you back to your college at this time of night," I paused, realising I had little choice in the matter now. "I'd thought you'd prefer to take advantage of my hotel suite tonight and make your way back to Cambridge in the morning by whatever means suits you best."

Given that it was getting late, that he had eaten nothing since lunchtime, and that he'd spent the last fifteen minutes in a bitter freezing winter's gale, I imagined my brother might consider spending the night in a good-quality hotel a less than intolerable event.

"And are you going to head back to your hotel?"

Damn his eyes. This was not the sort of question I needed at this point in time. Of course I wasn't returning to the hotel, no matter how compelling the siren song of a hot bath and a decent meal. Now that Sherlock was safe, the Judas diary was my first and only concern and I rather wanted to keep it that way. My brother had absolutely no need to be told of my plan to locate Fisher's quarters, break in and steal the item in question.

"As soon as I have verified Fisher's location, yes, of course I'll be coming to the hotel," I lied, just as the Jaguar pulled into the top end of Rose Lane and I saw Sherlock bent almost double to keep out of the cutting wind. Springing out of the front seat, I had the back door opened and bundled him inside, following close behind.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I turned both heater vents in his direction. "You have made my life immeasurably simpler by tracking Fisher. I'm not sure what I would have done had we lost him completely."

"Then let me to come with you," a pair of bright blue eyes turned my way, advising me my dissembling had been of no value. "I know when you're lying, Mycroft. You have no intention of returning to the hotel. What is your plan? You must have one." I had always known I was smarter than my brother, but not by much and it was at moments like this that the negligibility of that different became clear.

"Sherlock ..." I hesitated, seeking the best words. "You can't come with me. This is a dangerous situation; there may be violence or gunfire and you are trained for neither."

"And you are?" his dark eyebrows lowered in an irritated scowl.

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"You cannot possibly expect me to just leave all the good bits for you now," Sherlock glared. "We've come this far. I feel it only fair that you allow me to see the end of the adventure."

"It's not an adventure," I could hear the growing exasperation in my voice. I had little time to argue the toss with him. "This is serious, Sherlock. I cannot permit a civilian into an operation such as this."

"Even though you already have?" he argued with impeccable logic.

"Mummy would never forgive either of us if you were hurt," though fatuous, I felt the statement worth a try.

Sherlock had the door open and was outside before I could raise a hand. I had little choice but to go after him.

"With me," I ordered, leaping through the still open-door, knowing Eddie needed no other invitation. Though it was the true dark of night, I saw Sherlock's darker figure pull himself over the closed white-painted gates of the lodge. In less than two seconds, I had followed. The slamming of my driver's door told me I was not alone.

Even though Sherlock had no idea of Merton's geography or layout, it was clear he knew precisely where to go as he ran at full tilt around the corner of the building, heading towards the dimly-lit front porch in the blocky, two-story building. Even as I watched, he had the door open and was already inside the deeply recessed doorway. There was little I could do but follow, damn him. There was no time to see if Eddie was behind me; I just had to hope.

The sound of running footsteps ceased suddenly, not far from where I stood. The inside of the building was dark, save for a few low-wattage lightbulbs hanging in the corridors off the entrance hall.

"This way," Sherlock pointed to a series of semi-damp footprints on the stone flags of the old building. He was about to head off up the stairs when I grabbed his arm and wrenched him back against the wall.

"No," I hissed. "You will stay here."

My brother is tall, but I was taller. Not only that, I was already developing a man's weight, whereas Sherlock still had the lithe and lightweight mass of a teenager. If things came to a physical tussle, there would be no contest. Realising this as quickly as I did, he slumped back against the wall and offered no further resistance.

"I need to get the briefcase he was carrying," I whispered. "If you want to help me, you can, but we will do this my way or I'll have my driver knock you out and lock you in the boot for the rest of the night," I paused, unable to see the expression on his face but knowing by Sherlock's slowed breathing that he was thinking.

A draft of freezing air told me Eddie had arrived.

"There may be others in the room beside Fisher," there was no need to offer further explanation. "I want the book in the briefcase. If we cannot take it with us tonight, I want it completely destroyed. If I cannot have it, then nobody else can have it either, is that understood?" I felt Sherlock nod and I heard the softest of clicks as Eddie eased the safety catch off his pistol.

"We go upstairs together," I added. "Sherlock, you are the drunken student, looking for his friend. Eddie and I will gain entrance to the room as soon as Fisher opens the door. Once we are inside, there will be no noise and as little violence as possible. Is that understood?" Sherlock nodded again and I had no need to worry about my driver. This was his area of expertise.

Relaxing my hold, I took a deep breath. Whatever happened now would have an enormous effect on my future career. If I was able to obtain the diary, all well and good. If I had to see it destroyed, that was also acceptable. The one thing I could not do was fail.

The staircase was carpeted and thus noiseless as we ascended. It was still possible to track faint signs of unabsorbed water on the surface of the wool leading us to a doorway close to the head of the stairs. Judas Fisher's room. The light up here was still dim, though better than downstairs. I gripped Sherlock's arm and he brushed my fingers with his own in reassurance as he walked back down to the bottom of the stairs.

"Trevor?" the loudness of my brother's voice shattered the silence of the old building. "Treeevooor," he sang, mounting the stairs. "I know you're in here mate, you owe me a pint, you bastard," Sherlock's impression of drunkenness was so good, I wondered if he had considered a career on the stage. Stumbling up the stairs, he staggered beyond Eddie and I until he leaned bodily against Fisher's door. "Trevor, you sod. Come down to the Union!" He rested the side of his face against the door, right beside the small security peephole.

"There's no Trevor here. Go away." There was still the faintest South African drawl in Fisher's voice.

"Awww, Trevor, don' be like that," Sherlock turned a inane grin against the peephole.

The door was wrenched open and an arm thrust out, ready to dislodge the intruder and things happened quickly.

Sherlock stood, suddenly sober, grabbing the arm intending to shove him away. I reached for Fisher's other arm and between us, we walked the man back into his room. So startled was he that Judas Fisher had no time to protest. Eddie was in behind us, door closed and drawn pistol pointed directly at the South African's forehead. The whole operation had taken less than three seconds.

"Good evening, Mr Fisher," I smiled briefly. Despite the situation, there was no need to be uncivilised. "Sir David Bonneville sends his regards." As soon as he heard Bonneville's name, Fisher relaxed, permitting Sherlock and I to release his arms.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, stepping back in order to stare warily at the three of us. "I'm unarmed," he said, nodding at Eddie's gun. "You don't need that." Eddie didn't move.

"You know why I'm here of course," I said, peeling off my gloves, looking around the small room. The briefcase was not visible, but there were only a few places it could be hidden. The wardrobe was an obvious choice, but if Fisher wanted to get at it quickly, he'd put it somewhere ... of course. I lifted the edge of the bed's heavy coverlet with the toe of my shoe. The case lay on the floor beneath the bed.

"You've come for the diary?" Fisher's tone was part curious, part disgust. "I never thought David would steal from an old friend."

"I'm not here to steal anything," I turned and faced the man. "I simply do not have time to go through a farce of an auction for your amusement," I inhaled slowly. "Name your price."

"And you'll pay whatever I ask?" Judas raised both eyebrows and grinned the same grin I had seen in the faded old photograph. I said nothing, waiting.

"I'd get at least five million from the Eurocrats," he mused. "And the Russians would outbid the Yankees at the drop of a hat ..."

"Your price?" I repeated.

"Ten million dollars US," Fisher lifted his chin and folded his arms.

"Done," I offered him my hand to close the deal.

"Damn," Fisher's eyes met mine directly. "I should have asked for fifteen."

I smiled politely. Given the current exchange rate, I would have paid twenty. "The diary?"

"Here," Fisher bent and pulled the case out from under the bed. Laying it on top of the covers, he dialled in a triple set of combinations before opening the case and withdrawing a large Perspex box. The diary lay in the centre.

"It's Argon-filled," Sherlock stepped forward, unable to remain silent. "Not a good sign for the longevity of the contents."

"We have methods of reading even the most faded of inks," I faced Fisher. "I take it a wired transfer of cash to the same Swiss account will suffice?" I asked, already on the phone to Bonneville. It was answered almost immediately. "We have the diary," I said. "Mr Fisher has agreed to sell for ten million US dollars." Bonneville was pleased. He didn't say much but the tone of his voice told me everything. "The payment should be wired through to the same account as the deposit."

Sherlock was sitting on the bed, examining the Perspex case. "I don't suppose I can open this?" he looked hopeful. I nodded at Eddie who relieved my brother of the precious box.

"Thank you, Sherlock," I began putting my gloves back on. "We should go now," I turned to Fisher. "I imagine you'd like to be far away from here before the morning?" I asked. "What of your family?" Fisher was already shrugging into a heavy winter coat.

"My son and his mother are already enroute to a safe place a very long way from Oxford," he grinned his irrepressible grin. "And besides, I have some excellent insurance."

The small mobile phone on the bedside table rang. Fisher picked it up, listened, nodded and smiled. "Bring the car," he said. "I'm, leaving tonight."

It sounded very much as though the money had already been transferred. I wondered what he had meant about the insurance.

###

"Well done, my boy," Sir David smiled as he poured me a snifter of cognac. "According to our analysts, so far the contents of the diary are everything we'd hoped to have and more," he nodded thoughtfully. "You handled the situation well."

I accepted the drink and sipped the smooth spirit, enjoying the warm burn over my palate. It was the 1961 Hennessey XO which suggested Sir David was very pleased indeed. And really, despite my little brother's interference, things had gone remarkable well. Eddie and I had made an appearance at the designated location for the auction the following morning after seeing Sherlock off in a cab back to Cambridge. Zima and Ramanchuk were both predictably livid, storming off in a massive eastern European strop, though the rest of the would-be bidders seemed philosophical. Apparently everyone's deposits had been returned overnight. I managed to appear suitably disappointed yet stoically British.

I sat in Bonneville's stately office, sipping excellent brandy and patting myself on the back for a job well done when the internal desk-phone rang.

"Yes?" Sir David's smile faded fractionally as he replaced the phone in its receiver. He took another sip from his glass before sitting back in his ample chair.

"Something the matter?" I knew how to read my mentor now. Something was up.

"You said Judas Fisher mentioned insurance?" he lifted his glass again and sipped meditatively.

"He did, though he gave no specifics."

"That was the lab; they've completed scanning and reading the contents of the diary and there's a bit of a problem."

I lifted my eyebrows. Had the entire thing been a contrivance? A fake?

"The document is everything it purports to be," Bonneville said, seeing my reaction. "But the last entry was written in the December of 1975. We're fifteen years short." Fisher's insurance policy was immediately clear.

There was a second volume.

No wonder the man had felt sufficiently safe to play such a game with us all. He knew the eventual purchasers of the diary would never reveal their ownership to the world, while everyone else would be constantly wondering if Fisher had even sold the thing or had changed his mind and kept it for himself. Either way, nobody would touch him.

Sir David started laughing, sitting forward and raising his glass. "To Judas Fisher, consummate conman."

I drank the toast with reservations, knowing things would not be so easy at the next appearance of the Judas diary.