located. We might be able to pass a warning note to the security guards on the door, or something.’
‘Do you know where his office is?’
‘Lubyanka Square.’ Stone smiled mirthlessly. ‘It’s a well-known address in Moscow, although few people who get in ever get out again.’ He checked his watch. ‘We haven’t got much time. If Wormersley’s timings were correct, Mycroft will be brought in to see Shuvalov in about twenty minutes.’
Sherlock looked around. ‘I don’t see any cabs!’
‘No time to wait,’ Stone said. ‘And we can get there faster on foot by cutting through alleyways.’
Stone led the way, running through the alleys and streets as if he’d lived in Moscow all his life. Sherlock sprinted after him. Buildings flashed past: different colours, but similar blocky architecture. People moved out of their way as they ran, not willing to make eye contact. Flocks of starlings and sparrows took flight as the two of them plunged in among them. The air was bitterly cold, and even as Sherlock felt warm sweat trickling down his ribs and spine from the exertion he could also feel his face tingling as the snow crystals in the wind whipped against his skin. He imagined that his cheeks were covered by thousands of tiny cuts left by the crystals. The thought reminded him of Mr Kyte’s face, and the small cuts around his eyes, cheeks and nose. What had caused them? he wondered. He supposed he would never know.
His heart pounded in time with his footsteps. He’d run races at school, but they had been short and intense – just a dash for the ribbon. This was a marathon: unending, almost unendurable.
The thudding of his footsteps vibrated up his legs, rattling every bone in his body. Snow was underfoot everywhere. At one point, while racing across a road and dodging the various carriages and wagons, Sherlock’s foot hit a patch of ice and skidded backwards. For one terrible moment he thought he was going to fall. His arms windmilled helplessly as his body pitched forward and he tried to keep his balance. The moment seemed to last forever, but finally he bumped into a passing Russian woman, bundled up in layers of clothes, and managed to regain his stability. ‘Sorry!’ he called back over his shoulder.
He tried to force his legs to move faster. Stone was well ahead of him.
The fluttering of startled starlings and sparrows taking flight around him became mixed up with a fluttering in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes. The world seemed to close in on itself as he chased the fleeting shape that was Rufus Stone.
Eventually, Stone began to slow down. It took the length of an entire alleyway for him to come to a stop. Sherlock drew up beside him, lungs burning. He sucked in great breaths of air, bending over with his hands on his knees. It was like breathing fire. Stone was leaning against a nearby wall, coughing.
After a minute or so both of them had recovered enough to talk.
‘We’re on Lubyanka Square,’ Stone puffed. He jerked his head, indicating the building across the road. ‘That’s the Headquarters of Section Three.’
Sherlock let his gaze run up the building. It was more like a fortress: small, narrow windows with bars in front of the glass, smooth red stonework that nobody could climb, turret-like towers on the corners from which guards would have a good view along the sides of the building and could, presumably, fire at any attacking mob.
Across the road was a handful of wagons, carriages and carts, pulled up against the pavement so that their drivers could rest. Presumably too, so that any important and therefore high-tipping Russians leaving the building could be assured of finding transport straight away.
‘Which office belongs to Count Shuvalov?’ Sherlock asked hoarsely.
Stone’s eyes scanned the various windows. ‘I won’t point,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to attract any more attention than we’ve already managed with our little athletic display. Let your gaze fall on the tower to the left, then let it drift along the edge of the roof until you come to an open window that’s larger than the rest and set out slightly from the building. That’s his office.’ He paused to cough again. ‘Note the extra bars, and the fact that there’s no way to get to it from below, the side or above. No ledges. The glass is darkened so that nobody outside could aim at a target inside, and if you look around you’ll notice that it’s the tallest building in the vicinity. There’s no vantage point for a marksman. Inside is just as bad: reports are that you have to go through six different security checkpoints before you get to the guards outside the door of his office – and they are hand-picked by Shuvalov himself. I really can’t see how Wormersley can hope to assassinate the man.’
Sherlock stared up at the office window. He checked his watch. Nearly three o’clock! If the Paradol Chamber were correct – and he suspected they were always correct – Mycroft would be on his way to the office right now!
He glanced around, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything that might give a hint as to what was going to happen next.
And he noticed something.
‘No birds,’ he pointed out.
‘What?’
‘No birds. This city is full of starlings and sparrows, but where are they now? I can’t see any.’
Stone glanced around. ‘You’re right, but I’m not sure what point you’re making.’
‘What frightens birds away?’
The violinist shrugged. ‘Cats?’
‘Cats, yes, and other birds. Birds of prey.’
Stone frowned, then his eyes widened in understanding. ‘That falcon Mycroft told me about, back in the museum in London! You think that’s Wormersley’s plan?’
‘Look at the office window,’ Sherlock urged. ‘Nobody could get to it, not from the outside and not from the inside, from what you’ve said. But a bird could fly there.’
‘And do what? The bird isn’t going to able to stab or shoot Shuvalov, and if it just attacks him with its claws then there’s no way Wormersley can make it look like Mycroft’s responsible for the attack.’
Sherlock’s thoughts were firing off in all directions. ‘When that falcon attacked me in the museum, it had something attached to its claws – some kind of sharp blade. Imagine that Mycroft has been taken to Shuvalov’s office, through all those security checks. It’s just Shuvalov and Mycroft in the office. Wormersley’s trained falcon flies in through the open window and makes straight for Shuvalov. It slashes the blade across his throat, cutting deeply, then it flies out again. Shuvalov cries out, perhaps, or maybe Mycroft calls for help. Shuvalov’s guards run in. All they see is Shuvalov bleeding to death from a cut throat and Mycroft standing there, in a room where no other person could get in or out!’
‘But Mycroft won’t have a knife,’ Stone pointed out.
‘It doesn’t matter. All the evidence is against him. They’ll assume he just threw the knife, or the razor blade, or whatever, out of the window!’
‘I’m not sure… What if the window was closed?’
‘Then they would probably use a slingshot and stone to smash it so that the falcon would fly inside. In the confusion afterwards they would assume that Mycroft had smashed it trying to escape. This is the Paradol Chamber. They think of everything! It makes sense! I never understood why I was attacked with a falcon of all things. Who takes a live falcon to a museum of stuffed birds? They must have been training it there, using the museum as a base of operations.’
A memory flashed up in his mind, and he plunged his hand into his jacket pocket. There, nestling next to the glass bottle from the Diogenes Club, the one from the dead man’s jacket, was the small shape of the dead mouse he’d found in the train on the way from Dunkerque to Moscow and forgotten about. It fitted perfectly into his palm. ‘And this must have come from its food supply,’ he said urgently. ‘I found it on the train. Mr Kyte must have been looking after the bird – that’s why he spent so much time in his compartment during the journey. He was keeping it calm and fed, making sure it didn’t escape.’
‘Let’s assume you’re right.’ Stone glanced around. ‘Where will they be flying it from?’
‘Somewhere close at hand. Possibly a building – if they could get access to the roof or an empty room.’ Sherlock looked around urgently. ‘Or somewhere on the street, maybe.’
His gazed snagged on a black carriage that was stationary on the other side of the street. It was just like the other carriages that rattled past, but something about it drew Sherlock’s attention. Perhaps it was the bulk of the driver, or the unsuccessful way he was trying to hide his bushy red beard beneath a scarf.
‘Over there,’ he said urgently. ‘That carriage.’
Stone followed his gaze. ‘That’s Mr Kyte.’
