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"Spanish Tango"
An Avengers Fanfiction
The fourth in a series of adventures designed to bridge the year and a half between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964), and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965)
Disclaimer: Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed
July 1964
Steed is unmasked. Rita meets a suave thief.
Rita Fox strolled briskly past the statue of Diego Velazquez towards the main promenade entrance of the Museo Del Prado in Madrid. It was early evening, and the fading sun painted the stone facades with a purplish hue. Streetlamps were starting to cast pools of light on the pavement. Most areas of the museum had already closed, but this didn't deter her; she had a private showing arranged with one of the assistant curators. Her goal this evening was to examine a nineteenth-century manuscript.
She had originally planned to have a getaway with Steed this weekend to visit one of his friend's estates in Essex, where he had promised to take her horseback riding. But when the chance came up to have a private after-hours showing of the document here in Madrid, she had begged off. Steed would still be around when she got back to London; this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Rita entered the museum and followed the signs to the curator's department. Most of the staff had already left for the day, but a middle-aged balding man in a rumpled suit sat at one of the desks. She approached him and cleared her throat to gain his attention.
The assistant curator looked up at the woman who stood there. She wore black high heels, a knee-length gray wool skirt, and a shiny white satin blouse. The relative plainness of the outfit was contrasted by the woman's hair: a beautiful swirl of red held in place by two metal-and-enamel hair clips. He rose from his desk and extended a hand in greeting. Rita spoke first.
"I'm here to see the Zorrilla manuscript," she began. She shook the hand he had offered.
"You must be Senorita Fox," he said. "My name is Senor Monado."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Monado."
"Did you know that 'Zorrilla' is Spanish for 'little fox'?" he said wryly.
"Yo hablo espanol," Rita said with a perfect Castilian accent. "Actually, I thought it was Spanish for 'skunk'."
The casting of one of Spain's greatest dramatists as a smelly rodent did not appeal to the assistant curator. He frowned slightly. "A skunk is a 'zorilla', not a 'zorrilla'. The difference is in the way one rolls the 'r'."
"Of course," Rita gave in curtly. She had been wrong, but she never liked being told so.
Monado led her to an unoccupied wing of the museum near the back. It was unnerving to walk through The Prado, normally bustling with visitors, and hear no noise. They arrived at an exhibit hall that was filled with documents in glass cases.
The assistant curator gestured grandly at a case in the center of the room. "There it is," he said. "The original manuscript of one of the most beloved plays in Spanish history: Jose Zorrilla y Moral's Don Juan Tenorio."
"Written in 1844," Rita said in a hushed, reverent voice. Even Senor Monado had to admire the passion with which she seemed to regard the document.
"It is a tradition that the play is performed every year in Spain," he added.
"On All Saint's Day, yes," Rita said absently. "Could I be permitted to handle the document?"
"Yes. I have a study area set up where you may examine the manuscript, using gloves, of course," Monado said. "I'll just contact security to deactivate the alarms—"
Senor Monado sensed that something was wrong. Rita followed his gaze to see two guards lying on the floor in the far corner of the room. Monado's eyes went wide with fear as he stared at the area behind the display case.
A masked figure in black descended from overhead on a single strand of cord, like a spider. He turned and pointed something at Monado, and there was a loud hiss. The assistant curator collapsed as Rita looked on helplessly. The thief reached the floor and disconnected his harness.
Rita bent over the prone form of Senor Monado. A small feathered dart protruded from his neck. This meant the thief wasn't using bullets; she still had a chance to escape. She immediately jumped to her feet and ran for the door. The masked man made it there first and grabbed her.
He was tall and strong, but Rita had some experience with hand-to-hand fighting. After a second of grappling, Rita managed to maneuver her knee between his legs. She thrust upward with all her might, but the thief squeezed his thighs together in time to block the attack. Then he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back, and put his mouth close to her ear.
"Now, that's no way for a young lady to act," he said in a charming British accent.
Rita struggled against his hold. She felt the cold steel of a gun barrel press against the warm flesh behind her right ear.
"I regret that I'm all out of tranquilizer darts," the smooth voice continued. "The only thing left are real bullets. I would hate to use one on such a beautiful little red fox."
Rita stopped struggling. She panted heavily with exertion.
"You're going to be a good girl now?" he asked gently.
Rita nodded her head and submitted. She would wait for another opportunity to escape.
The thief marched Rita over to the case containing the Zorrilla manuscript and opened it, keeping the gun on her the whole time. He used a gloved hand to carefully remove the delicate pages, storing them in a rigid foam-lined satchel that hung from a strap slung across his shoulder. He then turned and placed a small business card in the empty glass case. It contained no writing, only a simply drawn stick figure. To her surprise, he removed his mask and smiled at her, but didn't lower the gun.
The face was not the face of a thug at all; it was a model of perfection. The intelligent eyes seemed warm and inviting, and his dimpled smile seemed incapable of malice or violence. Rita found she was staring at him with admiration in spite of herself. He looked at her and patted the satchel.
"You're an expert on this manuscript," he began. It was a statement, not a question.
Rita shrugged innocently. "Me?" she lied nervously. "I'm just the curator's girlfriend."
The thief inclined his head towards Monado on the floor. "You came all the way from London to date him? Haven't you heard long-distance relationships never work, Dr. Fox?"
She flinched involuntarily at hearing her name. "So you know who I am."
"Yes. I'm afraid I arranged this private showing for you," he explained. "I wanted to create an opportunity for the Zorrilla to be removed from its case, legitimately. I sent a letter to the curator from you, requesting a viewing, and a letter to you from him, granting you a viewing. It was all quite simple."
"If you knew I would be here, why didn't you have enough tranquilizer darts?" she asked.
The thief ignored her question. "Put your hands in front of you, palms together," he ordered.
Rita briefly considered resisting, but until she knew more about this man, she thought it best not to test his marksmanship. After seeing his face, she was more intrigued than frightened. She obediently extended her hands, all the while looking deeply into his eyes.
He took a small bit of cord from an outer pocket of the satchel and tied it around her wrists. "I have a car waiting outside," he said. "We'd best get away quickly before the tranquilizers wear off." He indicated a door in the far corner of the exhibit hall. The sign over it read: FIRE EXIT ONLY—ALARM WILL SOUND. Rita walked over to it and happily pushed the door open with her shoulder. Disappointment was visible on her face when nothing happened.
The thief grinned. "I disconnected all the alarms in this room, including the door. That's my car over there." He motioned to a white 1962 Volvo. As they approached the car, Rita turned to confront him.
"I've seen your face and your car, so I'll certainly be able to identify you," she said evenly. "You might as well tell me your name."
"As you wish." He opened the passenger side door for her, waiting until she was seated to grant her request. An angelic expression crossed his face as he looked at her with a broad smile.
"My name is Simon Templar." He briefly cast his eyes skyward to check the balconies for guards.
-oOo-
The next morning, Steed was leaning against a railing overlooking the Thames, one of his standard meeting places for Ministry contacts. He was reading a newspaper folded over to display the second page. The headline read:
Saint Steals Spanish Script
An older man wearing a derby approached him. He looked over Steed's shoulder at the headline.
"Dreadful alliteration," One-Ten commented.
"Sensationalist story," Steed quipped.
"Actually, it's what I've come to talk to you about."
Steed arched an eyebrow. "You're saying that the Ministry is getting involved in this?"
"Templar is a British citizen," One-Ten answered. "It's only proper that we help the Spanish authorities recover the manuscript."
"Doesn't sound like there's much evidence that it was really him," Steed commented.
"There was his calling card, a stick figure with a halo, left at the scene," One-Ten reminded him.
"Easily forged by anyone," Steed said dismissively. "It doesn't sound like there's any proof that would hold up in a court of law."
"Ah, but you're only going by the account given in the article. There was one detail that we managed to keep out of the papers," One-Ten said. "An eyewitness at the scene should be able to positively identify Templar."
"Well, let the police apprehend Templar, and they can trot this eyewitness forward at the trial," Steed said reasonably. "Hardly sounds like the kind of thing the Ministry needs to look into."
"The witness was taken hostage at the scene."
"I wish the police luck in rescuing him."
One-Ten smiled knowingly. "You're going to Madrid," he announced.
"All the way to Spain?" Steed frowned. "I'm not really interested in investigating a foreign theft and kidnapping. And it's probably best if Templar and I never cross paths."
"Then perhaps you may be interested in this," One-Ten began casually. "Don Juan Tenorio was written in 1844, and by coincidence, one of our historical researchers was there to study the manuscript—one who specializes in nineteenth century literature. The researcher disappeared at the time of the theft, and since then we've been unable to make contact. She was the witness that was taken hostage."
"She?"
"That's right, Steed. We must assume that Rita Fox is currently being held prisoner by Simon Templar."
-oOo-
The night before, Simon Templar's Volvo had pulled to a stop at a small villa several miles outside of Madrid. He turned to Rita and noticed that one of her cloisonne clips had come loose. A single red curl dipped below her eye. She held her breath as he reached over and tucked it back in, readjusting the clip. His touch was gentle and delicate.
"This way, Dr. Fox." He led her from the car up a stone walkway towards the main entrance. When Templar opened the front door for her, she caught her breath in awe at the main salon.
The room was built on a floor that was formed from a mostly-smooth single piece of polished granite, punctuated at intervals with hand-woven carpet. The ceiling was inset with wooden beams, and several skylights allowed the moon to reflect off the floor. Four rough-cut stone pillars divided the room into ninths. The outer walls were punctuated with alcoves of glass block, and in each alcove a stone pot sprouted brightly colored petals of exotic flowers. Rita was so impressed she hardly noticed when Templar untied her hands.
"You must steal a lot of stuff to afford a place like this," she commented.
Templar frowned. "This place was financed by money taken from the ungodly."
"You don't count yourself among that group?" she countered.
Templar didn't respond. He walked over to the far wall and pressed a button. The curtains were automatically swept aside to reveal a fifteen-foot high wall of floor-to-ceiling glass, providing a spectacular view overlooking a vegetated arroyo. It looked like a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more down to the modest stream that cut through it.
As she approached the glass wall to admire the view, Rita could smell the aroma of a savory stew filling the room. Templar gestured to the kitchen, where a pot was simmering on low heat on the stove.
"You must be hungry," he offered. "I know I am."
"Robbing museums will do that to you," she said testily.
Templar merely smiled and led her gently by the arm into the kitchen. He opened a bottle of chilled fruit sangria from the refrigerator. Rita watched with uncertainty, but she accepted the glass that he offered. Pulling some wooden bowls from one of the cabinets, Templar dished out some supper for Rita and himself. He had put his gun in a shoulder holster; Rita still didn't feel confident enough to test his draw and aim. And where could she run to, on foot, in the countryside miles outside of Madrid? If she were to escape, she would need to steal the car as well, and that meant overpowering Templar for the keys.
As they ate at a large oak table in the dining area, her gaze was drawn to his innocent blue eyes and a countenance that hardly seemed capable of anything evil. Why had he taken the manuscript? Why had he taken her?
"Do you like the stew?" he asked.
"It's good," Rita answered begrudgingly. Eventually, she had finished off the entire pot with Templar. She pitched in gathering up the dishes; helping with the simple domestic chores made her feel less like a prisoner and more like a guest.
"I have a place for you to stay the night," Templar said. "I hope it's to your liking. Follow me." He led her down a hallway to the far end of the villa.
"When are you going to let me go?" she asked quietly.
"Your bed is in here," Templar announced, dodging the question. Rita looked at the doorway that he indicated.
The outside of the door contained an elaborate lock suitable for shutting someone in. It was not something that would normally be in a house. Realization dawned on her.
"You intended to kidnap me all along," she announced. "That's why you didn't shoot me with a tranquilizer dart. You didn't want to have to carry me to the car."
Templar looked at her steadily. "I must ask that you remain my enforced guest for a few days."
"You mean until you have a chance to fence the manuscript," Rita countered.
"In a manner of speaking," Templar said cryptically.
"I came to Madrid to examine the manuscript," Rita said boldly. "I'd appreciate getting a chance to see it before you deprive the world of a great literary treasure."
"Of course," Templar said agreeably. His expression became stern. "But not until tomorrow. Tonight, you sleep here without causing any trouble. The bathroom window overlooks a drop of a hundred feet or more, so don't get any ideas about escaping." He shut the door and locked it behind him.
Rita sighed as she looked around the exquisitely decorated bedroom and the generous bathroom off to one side. She didn't like being confined, but she certainly couldn't have asked for a more attractive jail. Or jailor.
-oOo-