Vandeveer spluttered, then hissed like a megalomaniacal kettle. 'And just who do you think you are?'

Von Trapp was busily opening the briefcase and sifting through some papers. 'I am the local operator, Vandeveer,' he said without looking up. 'And I'm here because my superiors are unhappy with your progress. We have invested a considerable amount in your operation, but now we are stepping things up a gear.

Vandeveer blanched. 'Our plans are proceeding apace. Soon you will have all that you asked for.'

'Everything but one,' Von Trapp said. 'This was kept secret from you because it was need-to-know only and you didn't need to know.'

'How dare you?' Vandeveer spluttered.

'Riding lessons,' Von Trapp shot back. Vandeveer was silenced through gritted teeth.

Von Trapp handed Sreka and Vandeveer two thin manila folders. 'This is your new objective.'

Vandeveer teased open the folder and began to leaf through various documents. Copies of blueprints, security timetables, pictures of a building in some leafy city street.... 'What is all this?' Vandeveer asked, looking back up at von Trapp incredulously.

'Surely it is not beyond your wit to work it out,' Von Trapp said scornfully. 'We are in Switzerland, one of the most profitable places to secure valuable items, and we are going to rob a bank.'

'Why?' Vandeveer asked agitatedly.

'That,' von Trapp replied with a thin-lipped smirk, 'you still don't need to know.'

Arthur was pacing around on the green when his earpiece buzzed and a tiny voice addressed him.

'This is London calling, London calling, do you read?'

'Go on...'

'This chap you wanted us to track? The handglider johnny? We have his location. Are you feeling all right, old man? Not under too much stress?'

The agent sniffed. 'What are you talking about?'

'This von Trapp fellow... according to our scans, you're, aha, standing on his head... would that be, aha, accurate?'

Arthur tuned the earpiece out. His gaze strayed down to the ground beneath his feet. He was stood on a ventilation shaft set into the fairway.

Sreka let out some noise between a laugh and a bark. 'Oh, yes. In my time, Herr Trapp, I have infiltrated many places. I have penetrated the defences of ICBM silos, palaces, museums, fortresses, oil rigs, fortified trains, archives, mansions and military bases — y'know, those ones where you have to sneak around and break the guards' necks.... I have personally broken into the White House twice. Now what makes you think, aha, that I should condescend to robbing a bank? Sakry Kolyma, I thought I was being employed by people of calibre...'

Von Trapp scratched his lower lip, and said quietly, 'Your friend makes a valid point,' as if to suggest Vandeveer was too dim to see what was so obvious. 'Our target, gentlemen, is the Turquoise Moon.'

Vandeveer, through his frustration at being condescended to, made a little squeaky noise that didn't sit well with his villainous persona.

Arthur listened intently, with his ear pressed to the grille.

'What did he say?' hissed X. 'A turquoise...?'

The Russian was unimpressed. 'What is a Turquoise Moon?'

'It is a diamond,' said a voice from within the cell behind them. They all turned to look at Sfret. 'It is said that the Turquoise Moon is utterly flawless and a naturally perfect sphere, not shaped by any hand of man. It is legend amongst the Cult, isn't that so, von Trapp?'

'Silence!'

Sfret returned to his drawings solemnly.

'I had heard of it,' Vandeveer managed at last. 'I had come to believe it was a fable. That such a thing did not exist.'

Von Trapp was rooting around in the briefcase again. '...the last reference we have been able to find to the Moon's location' is over one hundred years old. It only came into our possession a few weeks ago...aha...'

Sreka took the yellowing manuscript and squinted.

'From the personal effects of Dr John Watson, MD.'

'What is this tripe, Herr Trapp? I am a practical man...' Sreka demanded impatiently.

'Just read the manuscript,' Von Trapp urged.

The Adventure of the Turquoise Moon

On consulting my notes for the baking summer of 1887, I find one case which, in respect of the queer nature of its particulars, may be of interest to the public. It happened that one evening I was in the sitting-room of my friend Sherlock Holmes at 221b Baker Street. Holmes, as was his custom on summer evenings, was methodically going through the newspaper, no doubt sifting it for pertinent information with his great computational brain, as a prelude to his nine o' clock injection of that demon-drug which I had tried so fruitlessly to wean him from.

The racket of a cab pulling to outside announced the arrival of a visitor, and Holmes looked up with half-lidded eyes.

'In this weather, Watson, all active diversions are welcome. And what diversion could be more worthwhile than the assistance of some wronged party? Ah, from our man's step you may of course infer that he is of late middle-age, of military background, officer class; that he wears black leather shoes, favours a monocle, has traveled far to reach us here, has at some point in his life visited Bruges, has a tidily-trimmed moustache, invests largely in cotton and pork-bellies, keeps a substantial staff of servants, one of whom is called 'Douglas', and, most obviously, that he is coming to our door.'

As a rule, I try to follow my friend's deductive reasoning. But in the dead heat my Afghan wound was troubling me so that, I must confess, I merely nodded, fanned my head with the War supplement and evinced no surprise when a figure matching Holmes' description in every instance entered our rooms. It was the renowned member of the House of Lords.

'Mr Holmes!' he bellowed. 'I am a desperate man! It has been stolen — the Turquoise Moon has been stolen!'

I may at this point have made some interrogatory noises, for Holmes turned to me with that didactic air he was apt to take on matters of insignificance.

'The Turquoise Moon is a large, multi-faceted, flawless diamond, my dear Watson, a perfect sphere of incalculable value, which is, I understand, the chief heirloom of the Lords' inheritance. What is more, it is said to be more cursed than the sum total of the other cursed diamonds in the entire world, more unlucky to its owners than a thousand Koh-i-Noors. It has, according to legend, left a trail of crime, murder, betrayal and madness behind it from its shadowy origins among the tribes of Darkest Africa through Palestine, Asia, the Indian sub-continent and now, it seems, the heart of civilised England. Any details you could furnish us with would be appreciated, my Lord.' Holmes leaned forward, his face aglow with that energy I marked in him upon the commencement of any case which promised to test his deductive skills.

The details of the theft were such as to excite even the most jaded imagination, and I found myself sitting up to hear more clearly. The Lord's seat was the grand old house of Cholmondley-Warner in Surrey and the Turquoise Moon, as befitted its immense value and reputation, was kept in a triple-locked trunk amidst the heraldic decorations in the study. The trouble seems to have begun with the visit of a certain strange party to the house, enquiring after the diamond.

'A rum little lizard of a man,' said the peer. 'He had rather odd grey eyes and a little bobbing head, and he told me he represented a firm — a firm! I say, as in trade! — that could give a reasonable sum for the Turquoise Moon. As any self-respecting Christian would have done, I set the hounds upon him. That pleased him less than fully, I may tell you. The following morning, the case was found by the Baroness, broken open seemingly by brute strength and empty.'

Several suggestive details emerged upon Holmes' close questioning. The carpet around the trunk had been scuffed and muddied, as by several feet. One of the panels of the French windows was found to be broken — this seemed the point of ingress. A black handkerchief lay nearby on the floor. The gamekeeper to the Lord swore that he could detect a lingering odour of cloves.

Holmes sat back at the end of this interrogation with that satisfied air which, in my experience, presaged a revelation. 'The case is quite simple, my Lord. I need not even leave the comforts of London to point out the culprit. Tell me what the details suggest to you — the crude entry, the dirty floor, the praeter-human animal strength, the black bandana, the smell of spices...'

'Gypsies!' I cried.

'Precisely!' said Holmes, his face flushed with excitement.

'Swarthy foreign devils!' growled the peer. 'Yes, I have no doubt that we have several encampments near Cholmondley-Warner.'

'I would advise you to consult them on the matter of your missing heirloom, my Lord,' said Holmes, striking a match for his pipe.

The peer's face was as dark as night. 'Consult them! Yes, ha. Your reputation is well deserved, Mr Holmes — you have the thanks of Her Majesty's government for your assistance in this matter. If you will excuse me, I have some "consulting" to do...'

With that, he made his farewells and was on his way.

'Well, Holmes,' I cried, attempting to delay the inevitable "fix" I knew him to be contemplating. 'A very worthwhile evening's work, indeed. Your appetite for deduction is satisfied, and the peer shall have his diamond back.'

'On the contrary, Watson,' he replied with a Sphinx-like smile. 'The good Lord will never see the Turquoise Moon again.'

My surprise may be imagined. 'Why the devil not?' I demanded.

'Why — because I have it here!' With a flourish he drew a glittering orb from his dressing-gown sleeve and set it upon the coffee-table. 'Let me anticipate your objections, stout Watson,' he said, eyes bright with mischief. 'Yes, it was I who, two nights ago, entered the study at Cholmondley-Warner, opened, through several scientific methods I am not inclined to delve into, the trunk, planted the clues and made off with the diamond. I often thought that I might have a flair for the criminal, you know.'

'But in God's name, Holmes, why?' I pleaded. 'Do you need money? Is it that damn three percent solution you insist on sticking in your arm? I could have given you money...'

He laughed loud and long. 'Watson, did you not recognise in the description of the Lord's lizard-like visitor my illustrious nemesis Professor Moriarty? For it was he, I tell you. Now.' His manner became more sober. 'Moriarty, as well as being the Napoleon of crime here in England, is a representative here of a certain massive criminal enterprise which I have only been able to identify as the 'Cult'. A nefarious enterprise, to be sure, with its base somewhere in central Europe, it boasts many great names among its members including, I believe, the former German Chancellor Bismarck. It is this Cult which has earned the Turquoise Moon its cursed reputation, as they have pursued it across centuries and continents, killing and ruining the owners. Yet somehow it slips away from them, again and again... it is most curious.'

I detected the onset of that headache which comes upon me when too much exposition is consigned to one paragraph. Holmes took a puff from his pipe and, his breath regained, continued with his strange declamation.

'I represent and advise, on a part-time basis, a certain agency of the British government which involves itself in matters of this stripe. I was alerted via the offices of my brother Mycroft that Moriarty was moving in on the diamond and, as it is our policy to foil them at every turn, I took steps to remove it from danger.'

My bafflement was scarcely alleviated by Holmes' explanation, yet I nodded in comprehension in the hope that he might return to his newspaper. I was not so fortunate.

'And now the Turquoise Moon will go to a very reliable Swiss banking firm of my acquaintance, the family Phffeingstohler. I have often thought I should like to visit Switzerland, to see the singular mountains and waterfalls...' He picked up the priceless gewgaw and held it up to the light. A reflective look came upon his poetic features. 'Why do they want it, eh Watson? What is so unique about it? I have been unable to deduce this, and it is infuriating. Well, well.' He returned the diamond to his pocket. 'To Switzerland it will go, there to remain until the end of the world.'

Holmes turned to me with eyes again bright with anticipation. 'Now, my good man, could you hand me my medical case?'

Sreka also read aloud the comments pencilled in the margins.

'Needs revision before publication. Too obtuse. Rather implausible. Sherlock was probably tripping that day. Take out cult rubbish, make diamond bigger, turn Lord into a breathless, beautiful young bit-o'-fancy, add murder or two. J Watson MD.'

The Russian handed the manuscript back to von Trapp and knuckled his red eyes. 'So, basically it's a diamond.'

Von Trapp grimaced. 'Yes. Well. Basically.'

Arthur sat back of the svelte greenway of the golf-club turf. 'So The Turquoise Moon is a diamond. What does von Trapp want with a diamond?' he thought. The unmistakable sound of a hammer being cocked into the chamber of a revolver drew Arthur back from his deliberations.

'Dear boy, you are getting sloppy. You should know the routine best of all. Disobey and the girl dies,' said Daltmooreby.

Arthur slowly raised his arms behind his head and interlinked the fingers. 'What girl, Shawn?'

'Don't play coy with me. The one in the hotel room.'

'And my partner?'

'We caught him about five minutes ago... he was snooping around Hole 17 and discovered our secret entrance. One of the lackeys knocked him out and took him downstairs... and now... stand up — slowly.'

Arthur uncrossed his legs and unfurled.

'Good. Now move!' He marched Arthur to Hole 17.

Arthur decided he needed to stall Daltmooreby so, risking immanent death, he stopped and turned around. Daltmooreby leveled the gun and locked eyes with Arthur down the sight of the barrel.

'Are you going to shoot me, Shawn?' Arthur asked.

'I should,' Daltmooreby replied.

'It won't bring her back.'

'You took away my life.'

'She betrayed you.'

'She loved me.'

'It will change nothing,' Arthur said solemnly.

'I've dreamt of seeing the light fade from your eyes every night for the last 20 years,' Daltmooreby hissed, levelling the gun at Arthur. His finger hovered over the trigger.

'Daltmooreby!!!' Daltmooreby wistfully collected a radio from his waistband. 'Have you located the Agents?'

'Yes.' He struggled to get past the rage.

'Bring them down to me!'

'I... I will,' Daltmooreby said, taking gulps of breath as the anger subsided.

'Pick up the Number One Dunlop that is lying beside you,' he ordered Arthur.

Arthur bent down to pick up the ball, but found he could not lift it. Suddenly it gave a twist and a section of turf off towards rough lifted up out of the ground.

'Vandeveer... he is forgetful, you know... so he built himself a back door.'

'To his secret base?' asked Arthur, looking unimpressed.

'I know. We've both been here before, sneaking in through the back doors of the hideouts of maniacs.' He smiled at the memory and quickly resumed his furious sneer. 'If it was me, I certainly wouldn't have included such an obvious flaw and you are right to scorn. However I am not a megalomaniac, I am now a very well-paid traitor and you and your friend are in a lot of trouble, so' — he gestured with the gun to the lift — 'if you would be so kind.'

'Right,' said Arthur, and walked into the lift.

'Button's on your left,' Daltmooreby indicated.

'Another time, Shawn.'

'Yes, another time....'

Arthur stood still and tensed as the soil slid past, transforming swiftly into steel and concrete and finally strip lights that lined the subterranean office of Vandeveer. Arthur stepped out.

'Vell look who it is,' gloated Von Trapp.

'Let's just get this over with,' said Arthur, momentarily allowing his frustration at having been out-manoeuvred so easily to get the better of him.

Von Trapp's eyes squinted in the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes and his demeanour dropped from an insincere welcome to abject loathing. 'Let's. Andrei, put him in the cell with the others.'

'What about Sfret? What if they talk?' asked Sreka, leaning in.

'Well then, see that they don't!'

That was as much incentive as Sreka needed; he reached over and grabbed Arthur by the collar, jerking him forward and off-balance. Andrei, for his frame, moved fast, and Arthur was dragged along a small corridor, unable to gain purchase. With Andre's balled, sweaty fist pressed into his face, Arthur resorted to one of many last resorts: he grabbed hold of the Russian's trunk-like wrist and took a health bite out of his knuckles. Andre stopped and looked down at Arthur. He continued to lock eyes with him as some unspoken message passed between them, and with his other hand unlocked the door to the cell. Then, with immense strength, he lifted Arthur up and closer to him.

'That... hurt.' He threw Arthur into the cell. Arthur's head collided painfully with the stone and he was knocked unconscious and slid into a neat heap at the bottom.

Arthur again opened his eyes to see X and someone he didn't recognise staring down intently at him. '..........oww.' he managed weakly.

'See, I told you he wasn't dead,' said X cheerfully, in the manner of one who has just won a bet. The other figure nodded sagely. He was dressed in a grey cardigan, had thin dark hair that was becoming highlighted with flecks of grey and wore overly large spectacles.

'You were right... if we ever get out of this I'll owe you a drink.'

Arthur was still trying to arrange the jelly-like sensation of all of his muscles into an ability to get up and move when he discovered something quite disturbing.

'....X...I...I...can't feel my legs.'

'Hmm?' said X, looking back down at Arthur unconcerned.

'I said... I can't feel my legs... Sreka... he.'

'Oh no,' said X, that's just Anna. We ran out of chairs.'

Arthur propped himself up on his arms and looked down towards his ankles, bleary-eyed and a bit unfocussed. Anna was sat on his shins, arms folded, looking mad as hell.

'This is all YOUR fault!' she crescendoed.

'Eh?' Arthur squeaked.

'Urgh, men!' Anna whipped her head around to face away from Arthur, her blonde highlights cracking across the spy's face.

A rumbling noise began from above. The four captives looked around nervously. A small golf ball rolled down on a wooden chute out a tiny hole in the wall, passed between the prisoners' legs and disappeared into a similar hole opposite. Light celebration occurred, followed by a muffled broken voice. 'Told you I'd get a hole in one, Deidre!' it said.

'That happens a lot,' said Sfret with a reflective air, sitting back down at his desk. 'I once constructed a rudimentary ball scoop out of pencils bound together with twine that I used for my drawings, to pass back up to the mysterious Surface Gods their mystical Balls. Vandeveer took away my pencils after that — now I use only charcoal.' He interlinked his fingers and rested his hands in front of him.

Arthur shook Anna off his legs and, feeling the blood flowing back down into his ankles, attempted to stand upright, which — with relatively little falling over — he did surprising quickly. 'X, who is this man?'

'My name,' said the man, who clearly didn't like being spoken for, 'is Sfretelanimousopocatepetl the Ninth, 2nd Division Monk in the 7th Order of The Cult of The Dying Pilchard....erm...' — and after some deliberation and a sad nod of his head — 'excommunicated.'

'Excommunicated?' asked Anna.

'I was in charge of designing the Machine for them... glorious, it was.' He developed a wistful and idealistic look in his eyes.'"Bigger than houses. It was my life's work... and then... well, I work for Mr Vandeveer now.' A troubled frown wrinkled his forehead and he instinctively reached out for another stick of charcoal from a collection that were stood upright in a small carved wooden cup like the remains of an umbrella stand after a fire. He began scribbling some more on his sheafs of collected papers.

'Most people just call me Sfret,' he added as an after-thought.

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