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"Cupid's Arrow"
An Avengers Fanfiction
The twelfth 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
April 1965
Steed is pursued. Emma won't be denied.
Emma peered casually over the fur collar of her light spring coat as the Bentley rocketed down the M4 at nearly one hundred miles per hour. She watched Steed guide the car with one hand, the gusts over the windscreen ruffling his dark hair. Truth be told, he was a fine driver, though perhaps not as good as herself; and the antique racer was a fine car, though perhaps not as good as her Elan. Mile markers flashed past on the side.
"Careful," she teased. "I was almost able to read that sign."
"It wasn't important," Steed said jovially. "Something about a maximum recommended velocity."
"Which you interpreted as a minimum, no doubt."
He patted the dashboard lovingly. "This car was quite the competitor back in the day."
"We're not in the 24 Heures du Mans," Emma remarked. "You'd best be mindful of your crankshaft."
"Your concern for my equipment is appreciated," Steed grinned. "You want to make it to Swansea by dinnertime, don't you?"
"Yes, but in one piece," she chided.
"So what is this egghead get-together tomorrow?"
She ignored the barb. "Rita's hosting a medical symposium on pharmaceutical prospects of the Amazon Basin."
Steed decelerated as they approached some slower traffic. "The things I remember most from the Amazon were bugs, not drugs," he quipped, "and crooks, not books."
Emma carefully noted his reaction. Rita Fox was now the Research Chair at the University of Wales in Swansea, but before that, she had been the librarian at the Ministry of Defence who assisted Steed last summer. Emma had been looking for Peter's plane in the Amazon when she first met Rita and Steed, supposedly while they were on the trail of some gun-runners. She suspected that the relationship between the two had been more than just government work.
"It's not going to be awkward, seeing her again?" she ventured tactfully.
"Of course not. Rita's one of my favorite people," Steed answered. "Smart as a whip."
Emma noticed he didn't call her Miss Fox. "When she asked me to co-author a literature survey with her for The Lancet, I just couldn't say no. After all, she did help me out of a jam back in the jungle." Emma gave Steed a warm glance. "You both did."
"When you two start talking science, I feel like such a dim-wit," Steed confessed. "Honestly, I don't know how you both put up with me."
Emma smiled genuinely. "Nonsense. We'll still be tending to you when you're old and gray."
"In that case, it's nice to be patronized."
"Just me, Rita, and the two blondes," she added cattily.
"How do you know about the blondes?"
"You mentioned them in Paris."
"Unlikely they'll ever be nursing me," Steed offered. "One of them is living in the Colonies; the other is probably singing on a boat somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic."
"'The Colonies'? If you mean America, why don't you say 'America'?"
"Like any good Imperialist, I've never forgiven them for that Tea Party." Steed once again floored the accelerator as the other cars let him pass.
"You have other qualities beside your intellect," Emma added breezily. "And you're actually quite clever in a pinch."
Steed looked at her and smiled. "Pinch me and see."
-oOo-
The luxurious office was paneled in mahogany; the walls were lined with bookshelves. At a desk in the center of the room, a woman was bent in concentration over an IBM Selectric, rapidly typing away. She had fiery red-auburn hair that was held in place by two cloisonné clips. A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," she called without looking up. Another woman walked in with a businesslike stride, her footsteps echoing on the polished floor.
The redhead displayed a look of irritation in response to the intrusion, but she didn't take her eyes off her work. "I'm giving a lecture at a very important symposium tomorrow, so please get to the point quickly," she said brusquely.
"Miss Fox? Miss Rita Fox?"
"Doctor Fox." Rita looked up for the first time to assess the visitor. The woman was barely twenty, with short, dark hair that was so immaculately coiffed it might be a wig. She wore a plain blue miniskirt with thigh-high stockings in a complementary robin's egg color. Her ample chest strained against a white satin blouse.
"I'm from the Ministry," the stranger explained.
"What Ministry?"
"The Ministry. The one that secured you this position here."
Rita sniffed haughtily. "I am beholden to no one. I achieved this position by dint of my expertise in the field of library science."
"Is that what you think, Dr. Fox?" The visitor's eyes showed amusement, but she remained respectful. Her next question came from the blue.
"How's your Russian?"
"I specialize in European languages, but I can converse adequately in Russian," Rita answered. "Why does that matter?"
The woman took a tentative step closer. "The Ministry is creating a training facility here in Swansea. We want you to instruct, and occasionally participate." She came to a stop against the desk. "Are you familiar with Marina Irinova, the Russian Olympic swimmer?"
Rita frowned. "She's staying in my flat with me, as a favor to a friend. What is she to you?"
The dark-haired woman nodded evenly. "We knew she was with you. The Ministry has given her asylum. In return, she will help you teach Russian."
"Teach to whom?"
"The academy here will be for women agents only. Far from the distractions of London."
"By distractions, you mean 'fun' and 'men'," Rita pointed out.
"Yes," the young woman replied. "Mother thought it would be best."
"Mother?"
"That's his code name."
"His?" Rita offered. "Mother is a man?"
"The name is symbolic."
"Do we have code names?"
"Yes," the visitor continued matter-of-factly. "We're to be his Angels." She sat on the corner of the desk.
"Mother's Angels." Rita purposely jostled the desk to send the visitor back to her feet. "Just the three of us?"
"Yes; you, Marina, and I."
"And just who the devil are you?"
"My name is Tara," she answered with a smile. "Tara King."
-oOo-
The limousine deposited Ambassador Sergei Brodny on the front steps of a sprawling manor house near the outskirts of London. The diplomat raised the lapels of his expensive wool coat to fend off the morning chill. He had been summoned here by no less than General Anatol Gogol, Chairman of the KGB, to a location used only by the top operatives of the Secret Police, like Colonel Psev. It could not be a good thing.
Brodny was shown into a back room that had been set up as a makeshift lab. He had never met the head of the KGB before, but one look at the familiar sword and shield emblem in the center of the man's cap was sufficient to alert him that he was in the presence of one of the most powerful and feared leaders of the Soviet Union. Brodny effusively shook the hand that was offered to him.
"How is it that you are able to visit this lovely city of London unnoticed, great leader?"
Gogol arched his eyebrows. "We have our ways. I can come and go as I please. Surely, you didn't think that you were out of our reach just because you dine with the capitalists?"
Brodny shifted uncomfortably and tried to change the subject. "How are things with the Komitet?" he asked timidly.
The KGB head ignored the question. "We know exactly what you are doing here, pasol," he continued smugly. "Where you go, who you talk to, how much money you receive. You are afraid of me, perhaps?"
The ambassador broke down. "Terrified! Please, tovarisch, do not send me to the gulag!"
The chairman smiled evilly. "I intend nothing of the sort, dear Brodny. It is only your guilty conscience that betrays you. I have called you here for a small demonstration." Gogol whipped a cloth off an oblong shape on the table in front of them.
Two white mice were scampering in a cage. The head of the KGB put his hand in and carefully goaded them onto separate sides, lowering a partition between them. Then he picked up a nearby gas cylinder and displayed it to the ambassador.
"Oxygen compounds can have a significant effect upon mammalian physiology," Gogol began. "You have heard of carbon monoxide?"
Brodny nodded. "A deadly poison."
"And perhaps, dinitrogen monoxide? Also known as nitrous oxide."
"Laughing gas?" Brodny looked nervously at the metal cylinder that Gogol now held.
"They both have something in common," the KGB chairman said. "They belong to a family of compounds that are more readily absorbed by the bloodstream than the oxygen in the air. And then there is this." Gogol twisted the valve on the canister and watched with relish as Brodny's eyes widened in panic. A low hissing noise filled the room.
Brodny fidgeted nervously. "Shouldn't we be wearing gas masks, greatest leader?"
"I cannot be affected by the gas," Gogol replied casually, grinning at the ambassador's discomfiture. After a few seconds, when he judged that Brodny had suffered enough anxiety, he added, "Nor can you."
The substance was causing a marked reaction in one of the mice. It started hopping frantically around its side of the cage. Gogol reached down and removed the partition. The agitated rodent immediately lunged for its cage-mate, beginning a circular pursuit around the outer boundaries of the confined space.
"What do you see, Brodny?"
The ambassador moved closer with interest. "The one mouse has become most aggressive! He looks as if he will not stop until he catches the other mouse."
"Not he," Gogol smiled. "She."
Aided by the superior stamina imparted by the chemical, the energetic female mouse leaped onto the male and wrestled him down onto the cedar shavings. He landed on his back with his legs splayed. She was immediately on top of him, running her nose over his body, licking the fur on his abdomen. The male mouse surrendered to her attentions, eventually twitching and rocking with ecstasy. Seeing that the male was finally helpless and under her control, she used her paws to flip him back over prone. Brodny almost imagined he saw a smirk on the female's face as she maneuvered herself directly beneath the male, into the classic rodent mating position.
"But... what is she doing?"
"You are correct, dear Brodny. She is mad with lust." He threw the cloth back over the cage to give the coupling animals some privacy. "The gas I exposed her to is called Aphrodisiox."
"Aphrodisiox? What is it, some sort of love potion?"
"More like a sex potion," Gogol said smoothly.
"And it only works on mice?" Brodny asked.
"No, you idiot. Pay attention! It only works on women. What use would it be to us if it only worked on mice?" He calmed for a moment before continuing. "The gas significantly increases the sexual drive while decreasing any psychological inhibitions."
"I see," said Brodny, not seeing at all.
Gogol shook his head at the ambassador's thickness. "During the throes of passion," he explained, "the woman is totally compliant. She will tell anything, without restriction."
As if on cue, a loud, ecstatic chittering came from the cage to emphasize his point. The chairman continued.
"But the best side effect is short term memory loss—complete amnesia from a minute or two before the time of exposure. The victim doesn't even know she's given up vital information."
Enlightenment finally dawned on Brodny. "How long does it last?"
"Only about an hour from the time it enters the bloodstream. Enough time for a quick cuddle or two."
"If the British ever got hold of this..."
"They invented it. We managed to smuggle the formula out several years ago," Gogol replied. "Unfortunately, it is not very useful, since most of their agents are men. But we have just received intelligence that they are opening a training facility in Wales strictly for women."
A lascivious grin spread across Brodny's face. "Now I understand your plan, comrade. I give this to the women at the spy school, and they will all want to go to bed with me!"
Gogol shook his head and sighed in annoyance. "It's not a magic bullet, Brodny. The woman must already be attracted to you." He looked scornfully at the bald head and thinning sides of the man in front of him. "And it's hard to imagine that will ever be the case."
"So how can we use it?"
"There's one man that every British woman seems to be attracted to. The Perfect English Gentleman."
Brodny's face lit up. "You must mean John Steed."
Gogol nodded. "Of course."
"How can we get him to work for us?"
"We don't need John Steed; we just need someone who looks like him."
"Where would you find such a man?"
The door to the lab swung open slowly with a dramatic creak. A shadowed figure stepped into the room. The silhouette showed a man dressed in a custom-tailored suit with a bowler hat. As he emerged into the light, Brodny could see the vacuous ice-blue eyes.
"Squadron Leader Peel!" he whispered in awe. "I thought you were killed in the crash!"
"His real name is Pyotr Pehlovich; he is one of the sleeper agents that we sent into England as a child," the chairman explained. "And you must admit, he looks remarkably like Steed."
Brodny noticed beads of sweat on Peel's forehead and a slight tremor in his movements. "Are you ill?" he asked the pilot.
"He is still getting used to the warmth here," Gogol replied.
"But it is not yet summer. The spring has been fairly cool."
The figure finally spoke. "A balmy eighty degrees warmer than the Northern wastes of the Kamchatka," Pehlovich said impassively.
Now it was Brodny's turn to tremble. "You have been in... Si— Si—"
"Siberia," Pyotr finished. "Gulag. For three months. But I'm back now."
The ambassador was once again on the verge of breaking down. "What is it that you want me to do?"
Gogol smiled. "You will go to Swansea with Pyotr. You will expose the women there to the gas. Pyotr will then seduce them and elicit information about the school. Any woman who is attracted to Steed should also be attracted to him, due to the physical similarity. He does not have to be perfectly like Steed, because the Aphrodisiox drives all rationality from their mind; they can only think of making love. Afterward, they will have no memory of it." Gogol handed Brodny a thin stainless-steel cylinder with a valve and short nozzle. "The system is foolproof. It can even be used on his wife, Emma, since she will never remember later that she has seen her husband alive."
"Do you think it is wise, comrades, to use this substance on the beautiful Mrs. Peel?" the ambassador ventured.
"I have secretly used it on her many times before," Pehlovich said. "My Emma is not naturally a very affectionate woman, so she needs help."
"But your wife," Brodny said glibly, "seems to be most affectionate with Steed—"
Gogol interrupted, "Please do not mention that ever again, dear Brodny. It is a very sore subject with Pyotr."
The ambassador looked confused. "So Mrs. Peel will be at the spy school?"
Pehlovich nodded. "Emma is on her way to Swansea for a 'medical conference.' Undoubtedly that is a cover story, and she will be involved with this new training facility. Steed must have sweet-talked her into working for the Ministry."
"Will Steed be with her?"
"Surely not; but one never knows."
"But they are always together," Brodny protested innocently. "At dinner parties, horse races, Crufts..."
Gogol cleared his throat as he saw the anger rise in Pehlovich. "Go", the KGB head ordered Brodny. "Wait for us in the entryway." The ambassador left the room.
Pehlovich pulled the chairman aside. "Does he know about my identity as The Ladja?"
Gogol shook his head. "Until this moment, he only knew you as Peter Peel. He has no clue about your activities with us."
"Are you sure he is up to the task?"
"He only needs to spray some gas into a woman's face. Even an idiot could accomplish that," the chairman offered. "Besides, as our ambassador, he is partially trusted, or at least considered harmless, by all of the Ministry employees."
A fiery look filled Pehlovich's ice-blue eyes. "To hold Emma in my arms again, to feel her between my loins," he said.
Gogol patted him on the arm.
"Now, now, Pyotr; you have wanted your chance to get even with Steed, and now you shall have it. Not by killing him, but by once again bedding your beloved wife."
-oOo-