Chapter 10

CATE Shows Off – Conceivably, War – Proof of the Poison Pen – The Treasure of Portobello Road – A Resignation – Shall We Play? – Not Exactly Cricket – A Different Resignation – Return of the Professor – Mystical Contact.

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"Is the system ready, Ms Ibarra?" Mycroft stood off to one side, hands clasped behind his back as he waited, slightly apart from his security service contemporaries.

"Whenever you are, Sir," Elly Ibarra turned to Bobby who smiled back, blissfully relaxed and happy. He had an idea that this was going to be fun of the highest scale. Elly and he had talked about what was very likely to happen, and what contingencies they'd need to have built-in. He had helped her do the things she wanted. Then he'd gone away and done a few extra things that he wanted. But everyone was being so serious about the test that Bobby tried very hard not to look as if he were enjoying himself.

The anticipated visitors had arrived: the Home Secretary, Philip Evans; Donald Parker, Director-General of MI5, and Davis Morgan, current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, once again face-to-face across the floor of Mycroft's operations room. Standing relaxed at the rear of the group was the lanky form of Greg Lestrade, flanked by two of his IT specialists.

Mycroft considered these court cards: a King; two Knaves and a hidden Ace. Not quite a full-house, but more than sufficient for what lay ahead.

"Then please begin the demonstration," Mycroft smiled slightly, turning to look at his guests. "Gentlemen," he said, benignly. "CATE awaits."

"Less of the ringmaster, Holmes," Evans sounded irritated. "Just show us the damn thing."

Indicating upwards towards a series of extra-large plasma screens, Mycroft looked mild. "Then observe," he said.

Immediately, a series of flow-charts indicating CATE's parameters, goals and abilities flickered into being. Projecting everything from concept to implementation, CATE's innermost functions and interfaces were laid out for all to see and understand.

"All very well and good," Parker noted. "But does it actually work?"

Lifting his eyebrows fractionally, Mycroft turned towards Elly Ibarra with a miniscule nod.

Taking her cue, Elly initiated the series of contiguous challenges, each designed by herself and Bobby to test thoroughly CATE's ability to detect, identify and appropriately respond to any given form of incoming communication.

First, a rapid-fire sequence of incoming hostiles of various forms: emails with hidden packages; viruses, malware; spyware, encoded worms. Each one was instantly quarantined, identified for what it was and, after the key features and the location of its origin had been recorded for future analysis and general information, immediately destroyed.

"But these are tame threats," Davis Morgan was less than impressed. "Your system has already been set up to deal with such knowns. We need to see how it deals with something out of left-field; something unexpected."

Mycroft's face remained unmoving, but his eyes flickered at Elly. She got the message.

"Initiating Quadrate Test One," she advised, hitting a single key, setting an unusual suite of actions into train.

On the plasmas above their heads, Mycroft's guests watched a strange schematic appear. Showing a central point: CATE's server, there were four arrows, each one pointing to a different destination. The destination labels were intriguing: the Home Office; MI5, MI6 and New Scotland Yard. A fifth line curved back towards CATE.

"What in hell's name ..?" the Home Secretary stared uneasily at the diagram, as a small red light moved at an extreme speed out from CATE and along the arrowed lines towards each of the four destinations.

"An identical hostile has just been sent to each of your respective networks," Mycroft sounded complacent, relaxed. "It has been designed to select, at random, several elements from a variety of aggressive functions, any one of which is capable of crashing the most secure of firewalls and security barriers; although I have no idea which unfriendly combination of elements it may choose."

"How do you know all of this?" Donald Parker looked and sounded indignant.

"I know this," Mycroft smiled a faint smile of easy knowledge. "Because I sent it." He looked down, briefly inspecting the shine of his shoe.

"But please don't rely upon my advice," he said, softly. "You may wish to verify this by contacting your own people."

There was a brief flurry of activity as four mobiles were extracted from four pockets. Several hushed, though urgent, conversations ensued.

Greg Lestrade was the first to react.

"You better have a damn good justification for this, Mycroft," he muttered. "The whole Yard's just gone into a mad bloody flap with the entire network crashing around everybody's ears." Lestrade looked him directly in the eye. "If there is any permanent damage to anything, I will personally supply the handcuffs."

"Calm yourself, Inspector," Mycroft looked pacific. "This is a demonstration only: the hostile has been programmed to self-destruct after sixty seconds, at which point all systems default to their previous extancy."

"It's done what?" with his phone still plastered to his ear, Morgan's head jerked around to stare in Mycroft's direction. "Then stop it from doing that," he insisted, listening. "Because it's your bloody job, is how," he scowled at the phone in his hand, before fixing his stare upon Mycroft.

"You've attempted to hack MI6?" he sounded incredulous.

"Attempted?" Mycroft blinked slowly.

"You go too far, Holmes," Evans shoved his mobile back into his jacket. "There will be repercussions."

"I sincerely hope so, Minister," Mycroft snapped. "Watch."

Pointing up to the screen, all the swift red dots had reached their locations, including the one marked 'CATE', which was now a flashing yellow circle, but nothing had gone down; no security crisis had been activated.

"Please observe closely, gentlemen," Mycroft nodded once again in Ibarra's direction. Touching a couple of keys, Elly brought up CATE's current configuration and status. Everything was green across the board; everything except the flash of yellow.

"Hostile checked; identified; isolated; dissected and …" she turned to Mycroft with a gleeful grin, "rectified," she said.

"Rectified?" the Home Secretary demanded? "What gibberish is this?"

"Merely an indication that CATE had dealt with the unknown incoming hostile in a manner which permits us to not only track the attack from its point of origin but," Mycroft looked particularly smug, "to respond in an equally belligerent manner if we so desire."

"Meaning?" Parker's tone was curious rather than sharp. Mycroft smiled inwardly: he had at least one potential convert.

"Meaning," he said. "That we can retaliate at whatever level we deem appropriate; whenever, wherever and at whomsoever we decide."

Evans still looked confused. Mycroft sighed.

"We can fight back, Minister," he said.

Donald Parker started to look very interested.

"Still don't credit your system as being God's gift, Holmes," Philip Evans was being his usual antagonistic self. Really, Mycroft wondered; how on earth the man was ever elected, let along appointed to a Ministerial seat, amazed him: he was completely lacking in either insight or judgement.

A light cough interrupted their conversation: Ibarra was looking oddly at her young colleague.

"Apparently there are other tests, Sir," she said, frowning at her genius friend. "Bobby's tests."

Raising a solitary brow, Mycroft turned thoughtfully in the young man's direction.

"Are they safe tests?" he asked.

Bobby considered the question for a moment before screwing up half his face and nodding slowly. "Safe but dangerous," he said, eventually.

"Dangerous for whom?" Lestrade walked across to stare down at the boy. "For my systems?"

"No Sir," Bobby shook his head. "For CATE's systems."

"Then by all means, let's have at it," Evans demanded. Clearly he wanted to reduce any perceived advantage Mycroft's department might have accumulated.

Taking a slow breath, Mycroft nodded: impossible to back away now. CATE would either fly high, or, like Icarus, chance too close to the sun, and perish.

"Do it," he said.

Nodding, Bobby swivelled around to his keyboard, rapidly typing in several strings of command. Flicking a single key, he sat back, a satisfied smile across his face.

"Now CATE gets to play," he said.

Fearing the worst, Mycroft maintained an immobile expression as he, along with everyone else, turned to watch the action on the large screens above their heads.

It began to look like a firework display.

The images had changed to indicate CATE in the centre of the screen, surrounded, not only by her four counterparts of the Yard, MI5, MI6 and the Home Office, but now also including Interpol; the French Deuxième Bureau; the American CIA as well as the FBI; Mossad and the German Bundeswehr, among others. Dotted lines of arrows emanated out from the center towards each one, with small red blips flashing outwards.

Mycroft's muscles tensed a little as he realised that, should anything go wrong now, he might have initiated a massive international incident. Conceivably, war.

The series of red dots reached their targets and immediately bounced back towards CATE. There were at least twelve simultaneous, incoming signals. It would look as if all twelve incoming objects had originated from the disparate locations. CATE would not be able to tell if they were friendly or otherwise.

"These are all hostile, Sir," Bobby said. "Very hostile."

Relaxing slightly once he saw that his young technology whizz had not, in fact, instigated world-conflict, Mycroft focused upon the new threat.

"How dangerous?" he asked.

Shrugging, Bobby looked excited. "Everything CATE has," he said.

Returning his eyes to the screen, Mycroft took a deep breath.

"Gentlemen," he announced. "Your wish is granted." Every eye was fixed upon the incoming strikes as they achieved their target: CATE's central nexus. Almost everyone anticipated an immediate crashing of communications, failing systems and the annihilation of all functioning technology.

Nothing happened.

The air remained completely quiet and undisturbed. Not a peep, not a flickering screen, not even the ringing of a phone. The silence was utter and profound. Only the single flashing yellow dot suggested anything had changed at all.

"Multiple attacks successfully negated, Sir," Ibarra could hardly believe what she was seeing. "CATE asks what you want to do with their cargo."

"Destroy it," Mycroft's smile was inscrutable and elusive. CATE was a success.

"I demand access to that system," Parker was the first to speak. "Today, if possible."

Turning to glance across at the remaining visitors, Mycroft watched the desire for CATE dawn across their faces like the rising sun, and felt a momentary flicker of ascendancy. Now he had them.

He had them all.

###

At almost precisely the same time that Mycroft was basking in the afterglow of CATE's unparalleled triumph, Cate was storming across the Quad, heading directly for the Offices of the Vice Chancellor, a single sheet of paper clenched between her fingers. The look of dire reproach on her face did not bode well for the intended recipient of her wrath. She was practically steaming with anger.

Unwilling to wait for the lift to take her to the second floor suite of executive offices, Cate threw herself up the stairs and charged out through the emergency doors at the top. About to launch herself bodily through the very solid portal that opened into the rarefied atmosphere of the VC's world, Cate suddenly felt a strong arm grab her around the middle and drag her to a standing halt, then back into the stairwell. Immediately, she struggled to get herself free, only to hear John's voice suggesting she stop.

"Cate, Cate," he muttered, holding her still. "You can't go storming in there."

Taking a huge lungful of air to calm her pounding heart and incipient fury, she batted at John's arm.

"Let me go," she growled through gritted teeth.

"If I let you go in there and anything happened to you, your husband would skin me alive and have me for cat food," John sounded quite serious.

The unlikely image of Mycroft being cross with John was so absurd; Cate stopped struggling and almost smiled.

"I know who sent me that letter," she said.

"So do we," Sherlock slipped through the stairwell doors to join them. "And if you go throwing yourself at them, without any proof, or the means to achieve such proof, they'll have you on a count of common assault. Therefore," he added, "I strongly recommend you think before taking further action."

"I received another note," Cate waved the offending article under Sherlock's nose. "And I don't give a shit about assault charges," she hissed. "I want to kick some serious arse here."

Unable to avoid grinning, John relaxed his arm as he sensed Cate's body stand down from Defcon One.

"You really don't want to do that," Sherlock murmured, lifting the crumpled note from her fingers, glancing at the single line of text. "There's a better way."

"What better way?" she snapped, unmollified.

Sherlock told her.

A minute later, all three of them entered the portal to Mahogany Row, as the executive offices were sometime less-than-affectionately known. Though internally simmering, Cate was at least outwardly calm.

At the very far end of the long corridor, the entrance to the VC's office stood in isolated splendour: they walked towards it, stopping at a door about halfway down on the left.

The door's plate read simply 'Office of the Bursar – Dr Ruth Howells'.

They entered without knocking, Cate waving at the administrative assistant typing away at her own desk in the foyer to the main office.

"No need to announce us," she said. "Ruth's expecting me."

Sweeping through, Cate opened the inner door that lead directly into Ruth Howell's private office.

Dr Howells looked up, an odd expression on her face, quickly changing to one of bewilderment.

"Cate ..?" she said, looking at the three of them. "I wasn't to meet with you, was I?"

Plonking herself down into one of the large seats before the desk, Cate smiled grimly.

"No," she said. "I don't think you were."

Nodding at Sherlock and John, Cate narrowed her eyes. "Investigators," she said, quietly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two separate pieces of folded white paper, exactly the same kind of paper used around the whole university. Cate laid both pieces, still folded, upon Ruth's desk.

"I think you need to explain these," she murmured.

Ruth shook her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands resting along the front of Dr Howell's desk.

"We know you wrote these," he said, nodding at the papers. "We want to know why you wrote them."

Still defiant, Howells stared them down. Like Cate, she was a veteran of uncounted political battles and knew exactly how to hold her tongue in a difficult spot.

"Very well, then, Dr Howells," John said, standing up. "We'll have to ask you to accompany us."

From out of nowhere, Sherlock dangled a set of shiny handcuffs. Cate was impressed: she had no idea he kept such esoteric things on his person.

"Unfortunately," he looked apologetic. "We'll have to walk you all the way through the campus as our transport is on the far side of Tottenham Court Road."

"You're going to put me in handcuffs and take me out the long way?" for the first time, Ruth Howells sounded less than happy. "You can't do that."

"Please stand up, Dr Howells," John stepped back and looked officious. "No need to make a fuss about this."

"You're not taking me in handcuffs through the entire campus and out onto the street," Howells shook her head violently. "It would totally ruin my reputation."

"And what of my reputation?" Cate snapped. "Not pleasant when you're on the other end, is it?"

"If you'd played fair, none of this would have happened!" Ruth blazed across her desk. "But, oh no," she made a face, "you had to go and get involved with the one person Charles Shelsher would listen to," she shook her head in disgust. "No wonder you got the Dean's job," Howells looked ill. "Makes me sick to think I once considered you a genuine friend and colleague."

Was that all it was? Cate started to feel unwell herself. Was that really the cause of all this anxiety and misery? Ruth Howells thought she was getting an unfair advantage because she'd married an old friend of the VC?

"I wasn't aware my husband even knew Charles before the Alumni Ball," she said. "And you'd already made me the offer by then."

Dr Howells narrowed her eyes. Could she have been in error? It seemed unlikely.

"So you admit to sending Professor Adin-Holmes the two poison-pen notes?" Sherlock looked and sounded like a policeman.

Exhaling sharply, Dr Howells looked down at her desk before nodding.

"Yes," she said, wearily. "I wanted Cate to resign so that someone more worthy could have the role."

"David Swift, perhaps?" John looked sharp.

"David was a dear friend," Howells was distressed. "He wanted to help me, but he had no idea what I was doing," she looked up. "You have to believe me: David wasn't involved."

"I believe you," John nodded. "I was there when he died."

Looking immediately tragic, Ruth Howells bowed her head, a hand to her face. John fancied there was an entire other story in that gesture.

Cate couldn't stand it. The situation was awful, but she and Ruth had been friends a long time. "I think this needs to end here and now," she murmured. "I don't want to take this any further."

Sherlock looked her in the eye. "I doubt Mycroft will be so forgiving," he said. "He will undoubtable wish to speak with Dr Howells on this matter."

"There's no need," Cate looked down at the quietly sobbing woman. "It's over."

Looking over her head at John, Sherlock blinked expressively. It might be over for her, but his brother was an entirely different matter. Cate clearly had not yet grasped the depth of Mycroft's feelings: Ruth Howells was not going to get off so lightly. Leaning back across the desk, Sherlock retrieved his phone, which he'd set to 'record'. Mycroft could listen to the entire discussion at his leisure. They had their proof now.

###

Once Sherlock and John had gone their own way, and after ensuring the entire file of conference documentation had gone to the relevant administrative people, Cate felt a distinct need to get away from Gower Street. Walking aimlessly down the road, she found herself at the Euston Square tube station. Chewing over the recent revelation of Ruth Howell's aberrant behaviour, Cate wandered through the turnstile, her Oyster card at hand without realising. Taking whatever train arrived and changing mindlessly, Cate found herself emerging at Ladbroke Grove. The nearest place of interest here was Portobello Road, so she wandered along, her thoughts still churning through the things her friend had done from blind misunderstanding. Feeling rotten, Cate meandered down the stalls of the various vendors, looking sightlessly into windowed displays, seeking some solace after this morning's events.

Walking past a small, rather shabby, antique shop, Cate's brain brought her to a stop and reversed her steps. Peering through the somewhat dusty glass, Cate searched for whatever it was that had caused this action, her eyes finally settling on an old wooden box near the back of the window's presented goods. Without hesitation, she opened the door and walked inside. In the mood for a decent argument, Cate hoped the proprietor was up for a good haggle.

An older man trundled forward.

"Good morning," Cate smiled brightly. "I'd like to have a look at this please," she said pointing at the object of her desire.

"You have good taste," he nodded, cheerful at the prospect of such a sale. "Very old," he said. "Very rare." Dusting off the top carving of the box itself, the man lifted the lid to reveal the inner beauty. "Very expensive," he said.

"How expensive?" Cate found herself feeling better already.

###

Finally reaching home, Mycroft didn't know whether he was exhausted from the day's events or from the anticipation of events yet to come.

CATE's unashamed triumph meant that, at last, there was some cohesive security system that each of the various services could use after their own fashion. The Home Office was happy because Philip Evans would be able to sit in front of a barrage of television cameras and announce to the world that Britain was once more a safe place for technology. The MI-sections would undoubtedly attempt to reverse-engineer CATE's programming in order to render it more lethal, although what they would do with such lethality, he had no idea. Greg Lestrade had been the most reasonable-minded about the whole event.

"Saved the day, then?" he said.

"My IT staff are most ingenious," Mycroft nodded approvingly at Elly and the Young Bobby.

"You know Parker's going to try and poach them from you?"

Mycroft looked philosophical. "If that is their choice, then they will leave," he murmured, turning to watch Ibarra as she grabbed Bobby's arm and pulled him away from Donald Parker's proximity. Not enough that he should have direct access to CATE's systems, apparently: the man also wanted CATE's designers. How typically excessive of him.

Mycroft smiled fractionally. Judging by Elly Ibarra's reaction, he need have no immediate worries on that score.

There would be fall-out from today. His department had already received several queries from the various destinations of Bobby's rather impetuous target-practice. Mossad, in particular, had been quite pressing on the issue. No matter: for Mycroft, pouring oil on the troubled waters of international accord was all in a day's work.

But then there had been the problematic interview with Ruth Howells.

Sherlock had made it clear on the phone that Cate did not wish the situation to become any worse for the woman, but Mycroft deemed the discussion unavoidable. It had not only been Cate in the firing line, although she had taken the brunt of the broadside.

The meeting with Dr Howells had been brief and brutal. Mycroft had replayed the recorded conversation.

"You freely admit your responsibility in this matter?" he asked her.

"Yes," she muttered. "Although nothing happened the way I thought it would."

"You understand I cannot permit my reputation to be slandered like this without some recourse?"

Howells nodded. "You want my resignation," she acknowledged.

"Actually, were I to have a choice, I'd have you in gaol," he said.

Ruth Howells looked up, shocked.

"Apart from an indiscriminate and utterly ill-conceived campaign of hate," he said, "you went one step too far."

Looking at him in quiet fear, Dr Howells was afraid to ask.

"You made my wife cry," Mycroft's eyes were cold and without compassion.

Leaving the woman to consider her situation, Mycroft had exited the room and told the guards to let her go in an hour. She would resign the next day.

And now he could relax: Cate's turn to cook this evening and he wanted a strong Scotch and a hot bath. The night had turned unexpectedly chilly and Mycroft sought the comforts of his hearth.

The entrance hall was again dimmed and dark, the flickering lit of candles setting a path from the front door through to the dining room table. Hearing the sound of his key, Cate emerged from the kitchen. Taking one look at his face, she smiled.

"I think somebody needs a drink and a soak," she said. "Go on up and I'll bring you a malt."

Kissing her neck affectionately but without passion, Mycroft headed upstairs. Carrying two crystal tumblers of his favourite smoky Ardbeg, Cate walked into the bathroom to see her husband neck-deep in sudsy water.

"My love," she smiled again, placing both tumblers within his easy reach. "Dinner in about an hour?"

Lifting a dripping hand to catch her fingers, Mycroft brought them to his lips.

"Perfect," he murmured, relaxing deeper as the heat eased the stiffness of his neck and shoulders.

Back downstairs, Cate was grinning to herself. Once he had soaked, Mycroft was usually rested and more alert. Dinner tonight was one of his favourites: roasted lemon-rosemary chicken with vegetables and a divine Australian chardonnay. Cate had even lit a fire in the main lounge: Mycroft enjoyed a cognac beside the fire.

And then she had a little surprise for him. She grinned again.

Clad in somewhat more casual clothes; refreshed by his bath and restored by the peaty Scotch, Mycroft felt pretty much on top of the world as he headed down to dinner.

Kissing Cate more warmly this time, Mycroft slid his arms around her, nibbling her ear.

"A hot bath," he said. "My favourite malt, a roaring fire and now," he added, sniffing, "one of my favourite meals?" Turning to look Cate in the eyes, he smiled. "What have you done this time?

"What makes you assume I've done anything?" she demanded, indignant. "Really, Mycroft, you're too suspicious by half."

Reserving his judgement, and enjoying a delicious dinner, Mycroft decided against telling Cate of his conversation with her friend. Her probable ex-friend. Time enough in the morning for that.

"Shall we go into the lounge?" Cate linked her fingers through his. "I have a surprise for you."

Smiling again, Mycroft had an 'ahah' moment. Now he would see the reason behind all of her preparations.

In the half-lit room, on a small table close enough to the fire for comfort, was a magnificent chessboard and set of pieces. Glowing in the ambient light of the flames, fractions of each piece cast tiny reflections against its peers. Walking over, Mycroft could not resist picking up one of the knights. It filled his hand; heavy and solid, the carving skilfully fine and detailed. He could see immediately that this was an old set; probably made sometime in the late eighteenth-century: the artisan who crafted it had taken his time and created a thing of rare beauty. Of silver and heavy dark wood emblazoned with gold filigree, ivory inlay and curiously tinted veneers, it was the most lovely thing imaginable. And Cate had brought it home. For him.

"It's exquisite," he murmured, turning the piece in his fingers. "Where did you find it?"

Enjoying her husband's pleasure as he caressed the knight, Cate smiled.

"Found it in an old antiques place off Portobello Road," she said. "I needed cheering up."

Understanding her reference, Mycroft decided again against pursuing that particular conversation tonight.

"Shall we play?" he asked looking agreeably optimistic.

"That was my idea," Cate smiled, although I have to go and change my top," she said. "Spilled wine on it," walking out of the room. "Won't be a tick."

Using Cate's absence to set the board up more to his liking and ensuring they would both have a good light to see what they were doing, Mycroft realised that this would be the first time they had sat down together for a real game. He fully realised Cate was a complete novice, but it would be pleasurable to watch her become a more confident player. It was his hope that she might one day really be able to offer him a challenge.

Hearing Cate return to the room, Mycroft got up to pour them both a cognac, when he realised that she had indeed changed her clothes. She was back as the Black Queen. His mouth twitched.

"Allying yourself with the Gods of Chess, my love?" he smiled, handing over a glass, staring at the changes she wrought in a few minutes. Cosmetics: her lips were a dark and fetching red; her eyes shadowed and alluring. She'd also thought to bedeck herself in his favourite sapphire-and-diamond necklace and earrings. She looked absurdly enticing and with more than a hint of the courtesan. Parts of him began to sit up and take closer notice.

"Oh, I'm being a little more pragmatic than that, darling," she swished into her chair. "Thought we might make this game as interesting as we could," she added cryptically.

"Meaning?" Mycroft sipped his brandy, willing his heart-rate to slow a little.

"Meaning that for every one of the major pieces we lose, we remove an item of clothing."

Looking at Cate's perfectly straight expression, Mycroft found it impossible not to be amused. "Strip chess?" he asked. "Haven't done that since Oxford."

"Really?" Cate's eyebrows shot up. "I expect a full confession from you later, in that case," she laughed. "With whom were you playing?"

"We were both drunk as lords," Mycroft smiled at the recollection. "It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea at the time."

Cate's eyes were still wide and anticipatory.

"Charles Shelsher." Mycroft rubbed his nose in slight embarrassment.

"You were drunk and played strip chess with the Vice-Chancellor of the University College of London?" Cate's voice went up and up, as, deliciously scandalised, the image he'd just supplied percolated around her brain. "How unspeakably fabulous."

"We were both undergraduates at the time," he said, "although Charles was quite a bit older than I. I won, of course," he added. "I distinctly remember winning that night."

"Don't tell me any more," Cate's eyes were closed as a newer image, that of a naked VC floated around her imagination. "I do not want that picture in my head."

"Never thought there'd be an opportunity to play it again," Mycroft's voice was quietly smiling.

"I thought it might defray some of my nerves," Cate wrinkled her nose.

"Are you nervous about playing me at chess?" Mycroft looked curious.

"A little," Cate admitted.

"Darling," Mycroft reached over for her hand. "Never, ever feel that way," he smiled. "It's a game and intended to be an enjoyable pursuit."

All very well for you to say, Cate thought. "So, are you up for it?" she asked, a slight grin on her lips.

A deceptive nonchalance crossed Mycroft's features. "You know I could have you naked in eight moves," his voice was coolly assured.

"I think I can do better than that, my love," Cate leaned towards him, looking deep into his eyes as she touched her lips to the rim of her glass. "I believe I could achieve my objective in less than that."

Narrowing his gaze, Mycroft knew she was up to something. There was no possibility of Cate beating his game in less than eight legal moves. Therefore, she was clearly considering something illicit. He found himself strangely aroused at the idea of his wife cheating in order to further her seduction of him.

"In fact," Cate said, "I'm so confident of my ability to win this, that I'll even give you a head start." Standing, she put down her glass and reached behind her neck to undo the knot that held the black sheen of fabric together. It came away, dropping to the floor in a whisper of silk.

Mycroft's chest thudded as he realise that Cate wasn't quite naked beneath the material, although that would depend very much on one's definition of the concept of naked. His wife was wearing – if wearing was actually the correct term – a scanty, and totally transparent black lace camisole that barely reached beneath her breasts, and the tiniest froth of the same black lace around her hips. Coughing as the cognac took that exact moment to go down the wrong way, Mycroft felt the roof of his mouth dry. He swallowed again.

Smiling as if nothing untoward was going on, Cate retook her seat, leaning back down for her glass. The way the lace moved with her body and stretched around her shape … the curved shadows of her breasts … Mycroft knew that whatever game his wife was playing, it was hardly chess. Not exactly cricket, either.

"Problem with the cognac, darling?" she inquired, all eyes and innocence.

Looking instead down at his white chessmen, Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Queen's pawn to d4," he said, moving the piece.

"King's knight to f6," Cate responded.

"Pawn to c4."

"Pawn to g6."

Mycroft suddenly began to feel genuinely interested. This reminded him of a Kasparov defence. He wondered what Cate had been reading. Looking across the table into her face, his eyes interrogated her thoughts. What was she planning?

"Knight to c3," he said.

"Pawn to d5."

"Knight takes pawn at d5."

"Bishop to g7."

"Bishop to a6."

Cate looked down. Mycroft had just taken one of her bishops. Ah well … to the victor, the spoils. She stood, stepping close to his chair. His hand slid automatically up the smooth skin of her thigh.

"Choose your forfeit," she smiled down at him. "Top or bottom?"

Swallowing hard, Mycroft breathed out. "Top," he whispered.

Lifting her arms above her head. Cate wriggled out of the close-fitting lace, draping the wisp of fabric over her husband's shoulder. Stretching elegantly, she relaxed back into her chair, sipping daintily from her glass.

Mycroft looked thunderstruck, his face a microcosm of his feelings. His wife was sitting, within arms reach, practically naked in a fragment of black lace and fabulous jewellry, and he was considering playing chess? It hadn't been like this at Oxford. He would have remembered. He forced his mind back to the game.

"Queen to a4," he mumbled.

"Queen to c8," Cate smiled, relaxing back into her chair, her fingers idly stroking the soft skin of her neck. Mycroft swallowed again. It was very warm in here with the fire.

"Bishop to g5," he whispered, taking another of her major pieces.

"Looks like you win, my love," Cate stood slowly, coming to stand so close to his chair he could feel the heat of her skin. Again, his fingers automatically slipped up the smooth expanse of her thigh towards the fragment of black lace. He felt his heart began to thud beyond control. He stood, suddenly, sliding an arm around Cate's back, bringing her tight against his chest as his lips sought hers. Kissing her with a maddening passion, his fingers found the lace and began to grasp the line of it as Cate groaned softly against this mouth. Losing any thought of self-control, Mycroft crushed her to him, his arms steel around her back, his mouth hard and demanding.

"But the game ..?" Cate murmured, plaintively, breathlessly.

Leaning backwards, Mycroft knocked his king flat. "Damn the bloody game," he growled, pulling her down with him to the softness of the fireside rug.

"Stop," she whispered. "I have to take the jewels off."

"Leave them on," he groaned softly. "Oh God," he ground out through a clenched jaw, "leave them on." His fingers kept her mouth to his own, claiming her in front of the fire, making her lips his. Cate felt her inner temperature exceed that of the flames: she loved this man more than sanity itself. Swirling in the heat and delicious frenzy of desire, Cate managed a smile.

Less than eight moves. She had been quite right.

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# Almost the end #

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The following morning, Cate was sitting in the kitchen sipping a strong coffee, when Mycroft came in.

"Sleepy-head," she grinned up at him. Usually he was the first to waken and achieve alertness. Not this morning, however.

Wrapping both arms around her, Mycroft gently bit her neck. "Evil, immoral, wanton hussy," he muttered against her skin.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she laughed softly, her fingers resting along his arm.

"Never," he held her tight, breathing in her smell and enjoying the warm sensation of her.

Pouring him a coffee, Cate looked serious.

"I've reached a decision about this Dean's job," she said, slowly, staring into her cup. "I'm not going to continue with it." Turning to look into his eyes. "I'd rather stay a Professor and teach."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft realised this was a significant decision. It wasn't the kind of job one was usually offered more than once.

"Now that the arrangements for the Bilbao Conference are back in the hands of the administrative experts," Cate rolled her eyes are the remembrance of all those arrangements, "I realised that, while I am perfectly capable of doing the work, I am not one of nature's more enthusiastic administrators," she said, shrugging. "All that paperwork is simply too boring for words."

"What will you do now?" Mycroft inhaled the rich scent of Arabica.

"I have to speak with Shelsher about this, and then," Cate sighed, "I should be able to revert back to my old job." Lifting her eyebrows, she looked thoughtful. "I'm going to have a lot more time on my hands."

Mycroft smiled. He could guess what was coming next.

"And therefore you have decided to do what, exactly?" he asked, good-humouredly.

"After that horrible man in Spain," she said, recalling the event, "I've decided I need to be able to defend my honour in a more practical manner."

"Meaning?"

"Hapkido," she said, biting the rim of her cup. "I want to chose when I shall be grabbed and by whom."

"Hapkido can be dangerous," Mycroft looked doubtful. "It's not a gentle thing."

"Neither am I," Cate slid her arms around his middle. "I like the idea of dangerous."

"And grabbing you can be unsafe?" he looked down, a half-smile on his lips.

"Only for the wrong grabee," she said, softly.

"And where does that leave me?" he murmured against her ear.

"I may have to practice on you," she breathed against him.

"Practice?"

"Arcane and mystical physical contact …"

Smiling against her skin, Mycroft managed not to laugh. "When do you plan to begin this mystical contact?"

Sliding her fingers up between his shoulder-blades, Cate pulled herself closer against him.

"Already happening," she murmured, pressing her mouth to his.

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THE END

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NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes and The Trivium Protocol

A romance. Desire, danger and death. International mayhem; romantic conspiracy and outrageous fortune. A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story. You are very kind and your comments are most appreciated.

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