p
"From Russia With Leov"
An Avengers Fanfiction
The fourteenth 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
A quick recap of the saga so far. Hotshot pilot Squadron Leader Peter Peel is an undercover operative for the British Ministry of Defence when an experimental Russian prototype plane he is stealing goes down in the Amazon. In actuality, Peel is deep-cover KGB agent Pyotr Pehlovich, brought up in England from an early age, and instructed to marry Emma Knight, daughter of the wealthy industrialist. His wife knows nothing of his secret life as an agent for either government; she thinks he is merely a test pilot for the RAF. When Pehlovich learns that the higher-ups in the Ministry have discovered that he is a double agent, he stages the crash in the Amazon to fake his own death. He then assumes the identity of 'The Ladja' ('The Rook') and begins operating directly for the KGB.
After a brief exile in Siberia, The Ladja returns to England. While investigating a murder plot involving a tontine, Steed and Emma discover that Peter Peel's commanding officer, Group Captain Willcombe-Smythe, is a double agent both working for and embezzling from the KGB. He is assassinated by The Ladja, but with his dying breath, he tries to identify his killer with the words "Peel is a traitor." Steed mistakenly assumes the phrase is a spiteful act to cast suspicion on Emma.
May 1965
Steed learns how to die. Emma meets her match.
The streetlights of London flashed past as a lone rider guided a motorcycle through the heart of Chelsea. The bike was a 1965 Triumph Bonneville, 650 cubic centimeters fed by twin carburetors, with the trademark chrome basketweave symbol emblazoned on the body. The rider's knees were pressed into the vinyl pads to each side of the blue metallic fuel tank, allowing the machine to lean into the curves with breathtaking precision. The trip was a familiar nightly ritual, but it was about to be interrupted.
A group of unruly men had completely blocked off an alleyway that the rider had been navigating like a maze. They must have spilled out of a nearby bar called Petrushka. The motorcyclist was forced to stop to avoid a collision; the visor on the helmet flipped up to reveal a pert face framed by auburn hair.
"Out of the way, please," Emma Peel commanded tersely.
The leader of the men grinned lasciviously. "That's a bonny Bonnie," he remarked. The other two men fanned out, one to each side of the motorcycle. As they started to move closer, Emma could detect the faint odor of vodka. The younger one puckered his lips. "Give us a kiss, love," he leered.
He hooked an arm around her small waist and pulled her towards him. Emma didn't resist as he dragged her off the bike, waiting until she was completely clear of the machine so it wouldn't interfere with her moves.
The instant her feet hit the pavement, she twisted and fired an elbow into his ribs. The man cried out in pain and released his grip; his partner tried to come to his aid, but was turned back when Emma removed her helmet and flung it into his face, smacking him painfully on the nose. They each shot a glance at their leader for a moment, confused.
Emma could tell by their reflexes and attack plan that they were either drunk or the most inept muggers in London. The two men attempted a flanking maneuver, one on each side hoping to grab an arm and take her prisoner.
She dropped to one knee and vigorously thrust both her fists straight outwards, catching each one in the pit of the stomach. They doubled over in unison, and she quickly rose and used both hands to chop the backs of their necks. As they fell to the ground, the leader closed to striking distance. That works both ways, Emma thought, flashing her foot high to catch him on the side of the head. He staggered back to regroup while the other two men struggled to rise.
From the corner of her eye, Emma saw a young woman watching with interest in the neon glow from the bar. Like Emma, she too was dressed head-to-toe in leather; but her outfit was more risque, with trousers that laced loosely up the sides to reveal a swath of pale skin on each leg from waist to boot-top, and a tight leather bodice that was barely able to contain her buxom chest. Where the lithe body of Emma would have been described by an onlooker as "athletic", this woman's would have been described as "voluptuous." Her hair was a shade of auburn that exactly matched Emma's, although it was braided into a long ponytail that hung over one shoulder.
Emma cursed silently to herself as the two men she had first subdued regained their feet and headed for her. If only she had aimed lower, they might still be incapacitated on the ground. She had been pulling her punches to avoid hurting them too much—they had appeared to be drunks from the bar, and should have yielded to her minimal force.
Once again, the two attackers approached her with such symmetry that she realized she could fell two birds with one stone. Emma launched into a spectacular leaping aerial split, planting a foot into each of the men's chests. They slammed backwards onto the pavement, scuffed and bruised; this time they wouldn't be so quick to recover. She was off-balance for a moment after the jump, and during this time the leader charged up behind her and put her in a hammerlock, with one arm across her shoulder blades and another twisting her wrist behind her back.
Emma sighed in annoyance as he attempted to press her face-first into the brick wall. She had just bent her head downward to avoid nosing into the masonry when a leather boot with a spike stiletto heel flew upwards between her legs and stopped only a millimeter short of her crotch. The woman at the bar must have joined in the fray. A loud groan sounded from behind her, and she knew that the man holding her captive had taken the brunt of the kick in the form of the woman's shin impacting his groin.
The man released Emma's arms and fell to the ground. He tried to crawl away, but the other woman straddled him to trap his neck between her leather-clad thighs. She squeezed her legs together in a strangulating grip. The man lunged in an attempt to throw her off balance, but she bent her knees slightly to lower her center of gravity and continued to apply pressure.
Emma dusted herself off and noticed that the other two men, on seeing their leader defeated, had lost their will to fight. She growled at them menacingly and they took off down the alley. Emma turned her attention to her newly-arrived comrade-in-arms, observing that she had caused the captive leader's face to turn red, soon to be blue.
"Er—I think he's had enough," Emma said wryly. Something about this woman immediately rubbed her the wrong way. This wasn't self-defense; she was needlessly inflicting pain on a disabled opponent. Was she a sadist? "Really, they weren't any trouble for me."
"Why should you have all the fun?" the woman said with a Russian accent. She looked like a cat toying with a mouse as the man clawed desperately at her thighs. But sensing Emma's disapproval, she begrudgingly released the leader, who scrambled away, still nursing his privates.
Emma studied the strange woman who had come to her aid. There was something decidedly decadent about the leather outfit she wore. Her face was flushed and excited, and two sharp points were visible on the slick surface of her bodice, as if she had found the struggle arousing. The woman stepped forward to introduce herself.
"I am Mistress Ursula Leov," she stated formally.
Perhaps it was the Russian accent that set off Emma's instincts. Instead of turning immediately to leave, she thought up a quick lie.
"My name is Linda Herrington," Emma replied. "Thanks for the help, Ursula."
"Call me Mistress Leov," the woman offered genially. She appraised Emma's leather outfit with a smile. "Your fashion sense appeals to me greatly, Linda," she continued, "although I find it not quite revealing enough."
Emma inclined her head in acknowledgement. "I wear these because they're protective and easy to maneuver in, not to entice men sexually."
"But an outfit can be so much more effective if we play upon a man's lower instincts," Leov remarked. She loosened the strings and adjusted her bodice, briefly exposing her generous bosom. Emma couldn't help staring for a moment at the brazen display. Mistress Leov noticed Emma's gaze. "Perhaps even you have some lower instincts, eh?
Emma's cheeks burned red. "I'll be going now." In her hurry to look away from the massive expanse of chest, Emma had almost missed it. A small, black charm was nestled in the Russian woman's cleavage.
Leov smiled again. "You must stay and let me buy you a drink," she crooned delicately.
Emma leaned in closer to examine the necklace. It was a chess piece, a rook carved out of jet-black onyx. Emma subtly arched an eyebrow. The Black Rook was the symbol of her arch-nemesis The Ladja, the Russian KGB operative who had masqueraded for years in England as a double agent. She had first encountered him while working with Steed, and had taken an instant dislike to the man and his methods, even though she had never actually seen his face nor heard him speak. A sudden flash of inspiration hit her.
"I should be the one buying you a drink," Emma acquiesced. "For helping me out, that is."
Even though Emma had driven past the bar many times, she had never pondered the significance of the name Petrushka; she thought it was just meant to sound elegant. But if the bar was truly Russian, what better place for The Ladja to hire labor for his operations in London? Trying to trace the mastermind through his henchmen could have been time-consuming, but fortune may have just smiled on her—she believed that Leov might be The Ladja's recruiter.
The men inside the bar give a wide berth to the two dangerous-looking women dressed in leather. Emma recognized the sound of patrons speaking in Russian; if only she had the ability to understand it, like Steed and Rita. Leov led her to the counter and ordered two vodkas. As if she sensed the object of Emma's interest, she absently fondled the charm between her breasts.
"That's a beautiful necklace," Emma ventured.
"You like it?" Leov smiled. "This was a present from a friend—the only man that I consider my superior. He's a master chess player."
Emma had never really played chess much, until she had met Peter. He had been an excellent chess player.
"You consider yourself superior to all men?"
"Of course," Mistress Leov boasted. "Women are naturally superior, physically and mentally. Look how easily we defeated those muggers in the alley. They didn't even have the sense to keep their legs together to protect their own yaitsa." She took a massive gulp of vodka. "Don't tell me you are one of those women who serves at the beck and call of a man?"
Emma sensed an opening and shook her head. "Men," she snorted. "Bloody trouble, the whole lot of them."
An amused smirk crossed Leov's features. "I know how you feel. Aren't you tired of them swooping in, making sexual advances towards you, ogling your," she swallowed imperceptibly, "fine, athletic body?" She moved closer so that her ample hip rubbed against Emma's.
Emma shifted uncomfortably, but pressed forward with her plan. "But if we don't act subservient to men, how can we make a living?" she asked in resignation. "Unless the only man you consider your superior, the one who gave you the necklace, is also your employer?"
"He is. But I control him in ways that you would find strange, Linda." Leov's hand lightly brushed Emma's. "I sense that you have an animosity towards the opposite sex."
Only one man, Emma thought. The Ladja, your master.
"I hope you won't count that against me," Emma declared innocently. "I'm afraid I've had rather a bad time with men," she added, trying to sound bitter.
"You seem to do well enough for yourself. That's a very nice motorbike you're on."
"It's all I have in the world," Emma said, faking a wistful sigh. "I stole it from the last man who tried to use me."
Leov nodded seriously. "If you're looking for money, I think I have something that might be appropriate."
Yes! Emma thought. "If it suits me," she replied casually.
Leov ordered another vodka. "I am engaged in certain activities around the globe—Paris, Tel Aviv, Moscow—and of course, here in London. And you sound like you have the necessary detachment towards men. Have you ever been married?"
"I'm a widow."
The Mistress smiled. "Stop by my caviar distribution warehouse tomorrow, Mrs. Herrington. Here's the address—it's in London-Over-The-Border." She handed Emma a card with a logo of a small yellow bird and the words CANARY ROE, LTD.
The two women finished their drinks and exited the bar. Emma retrieved her helmet, carefully avoiding any physical contact with Mistress Leov while she mounted the Bonneville. The motorcycle appeared unharmed, and she drove off.
As the twin exhausts of the Triumph roared away into the distance, the lead attacker staggered out of the alley and stood before the Mistress.
"You didn't have to be so rough," he said, still walking gingerly from her attack.
"Shut up," she countered flatly in Russian. "You're lucky Mrs. Peel was so compassionate, or I would have given you much worse."
-oOo-
John Steed strolled through the corridors of Whitehall, idly tapping the door handles with the tip of his umbrella. It was unusual to be summoned to the Ministry after tea-time; even more unusual for the request to come directly from Charles, the Head of Operations. Still, he didn't want to seem too submissive to the organization that funded his undercover adventures. That's why he chose to loiter until two minutes past the appointment time, just to assert his independence.
At the end of the hall, Steed pushed through the door marked OPERATIONS to see a short woman standing at a file cabinet. She had a bright face, brilliant smile, blonde ponytail, and perfectly-formed calves accentuated by high heels.
"Good evening, Miss Pettipound," Steed greeted her cheerily.
"Steed!" she beamed as she shut the drawer and took his hat. "I never get to see you anymore."
He feigned regret. "I've been out in the field."
She moved close enough that her body touched his and straightened his carnation.
"If only I could be in that field with you," she cooed longingly. "The two of us, alone at the riverside, with a picnic hamper." She ran her hands across his chest. "We could go punting afterwards..."
Steed smiled. "I like your idea of 'the field' much better than the one I'm in. Did you have any particular place in mind?"
A strident buzz came from the intercom. The voice of the Head of Operations scratched out of the speaker. "Dispense with any pleasantries and send Steed in as soon as he arrives," he commanded.
Miss Pettipound wrinkled her mouth. "His master's voice," she said. "He must have heard the door."
Steed stepped into the inner office. Charles was leaning back in a desk chair, his large bulk causing it to creak with strain. He was retrieving several sheets from a folder open on his lap; he slid these across the desk to Steed.
"A woman has fallen in love with you," he began.
Steed grinned as he sat down. "A rare occurrence, perhaps, but hardly cause for a national security crisis."
"Her name's Paulina Porzhisni, supposedly a cipher clerk from East Germany. She's managed to escape to England with a Zagadka decoder. Her plan is to use it to buy asylum and protection from the British government. But she'll only hand the device over to you."
"Remarkable!" Steed declared. "How did she fall in love with me?"
"Apparently she saw your picture while encoding the reports about the way you foiled the KGB in Tokyo, Paris, and Switzerland last year. She also knows that you helped Marina Irinova defect at the Summer Olympics. Comrade Porzhisni is convinced you're a man she can trust," Charles explained. He then added disparagingly, "Shows what she knows."
"Does she really exist?"
"We've had intelligence from Moscow that such a woman worked in the East Berlin cipher office, although it could have been manufactured."
"Do we have a picture of this woman?"
Charles shook his head. "They're probably waiting to see if we'll take the bait. Then they'll rustle up some Russian agent to pretend to be Paulina."
"Tell them I'm interested."
Charles snorted. "Do you think I called you in here to give you a choice in the matter?" he said. "I've already responded. If there's any chance of laying our hands on a Zagadka, you're expendable."
"Nice to know my true value," Steed countered. "Less than an electro-mechanical device."
"A Top Secret electro-mechanical device," Charles corrected.
"That makes it better," Steed said wryly. "Thanks for sending me into a trap."
Charles grinned. "Just make sure that if you're captured, you manage to kill yourself before they can torture you." He lit his pipe. "There's a good chap."
-oOo-
The darkened warehouse smelled strongly of fish. A man dressed in overalls stood in a dimly-illuminated spot in the center of the empty space. In one hand he clutched a small leather case, about the size of a typewriter. The workman was startled by a disembodied male voice that suddenly echoed around the metal vats.
The voice boomed, "You asked to meet with me?"
"Yes," the workman said as he turned completely around, trying to discern the source. "You are in charge?" His manner was bold in spite of the intimidating surroundings.
"You contacted the KGB, behind my back," the voice accused.
"Yes," the workman said again. "I was going through the equipment storeroom. I found this." He held up the case.
"Set it down," the voice ordered. The workman did as he was told, taking a few steps back toward the safety of the darkness.
"Your loyalty to the Komitet is admirable," the disembodied voice replied, "but in this case, it will prove your undoing. My current operation is freelance, not under the purview of the Motherland."
"I could not have known," the workman protested. There was no answer from the mystery voice; instead, there was a sinister clicking on the cement floor.
Walking into the dim light, an auburn-haired woman clad entirely in leather was uncoiling a whip. Her stiletto heels sounded like a metronome as she neared the workman.
The man grabbed the case and turned to flee just as a loud crack split the air. He jerked back in reflex, dropping the case. A thin strand of blood trickled across the back of his hand.
Rather than wait to be whipped senseless, the workman did the only thing he could think of: he charged at the woman, hoping his superior size would allow him to defeat her. Even as he approached her, his movements started to slow. He staggered forward and collapsed at her feet.
The sharpened heel of her leather boot hovered precariously above one of his hands. The woman twitched her foot in anticipation, and a sadistic smile traced its way across her lips.
A man in a bowler hat walked quietly up behind her, slipping one hand around her waist while lightly caressing her breasts with the other. The woman tossed her head so that the auburn braid fell across her other shoulder, permitting him to press his lips to the pale flesh at her throat. As he moved his hand down the warm leather of her abdomen, he spoke soothingly.
"Don't kill him."
Mistress Leov turned her head to look into the vacuous, ice-blue eyes. "Why not?" she asked, disappointment creeping into her voice.
"I have need of him later."
"You never let me have any fun, Comrade Peel," she said teasingly, her voice catching slightly from his erotic attentions.
"Pehlovich," he reminded her. "Besides, that could have been dangerous for you. The man is twice your size."
"The paralysis drug in my whip does not work as quickly as I would like," she observed. "But the fast-acting poison on my spike heels kills almost instantly. If you had given me the word, my Ladja, he would have been dead before he hit the floor."
"You're as lethal as you are beautiful," Pehlovich mused between kisses. Leov simply threw her head back in enjoyment.
"What will you do with him?" she asked.
"He'll soon learn where his loyalties should lie," The Ladja answered. "In the meantime, we'll keep him on ice until the plan reaches completion. If there's one thing a caviar-packing plant has, it's plenty of refrigeration."
Mistress Leov tugged the strings on her bodice so that it fell open, allowing her lover easier access. "As you wish, Pyotr."
"I like your hair color," he murmured.
"You made me dye it like this," she reminded him. "I was uncertain at first, but it's starting to grow on me."
"I once had a wife with hair that color," Pehlovich confessed. "But she would never do the things to me that you do."
Leov turned her head so that The Ladja could not see her smile. "I've found a suitable woman to use as a sacrificial lamb, just as you instructed," she said innocently.
"Yes," Pehlovich agreed resolutely. "Part of my plan for the disgrace and destruction of John Steed. Poor, desperate, escaped cipher clerk attempts to buy her safety with top secret decoder machine; Steed seduces her, then ruthlessly murders her and takes the machine," he explained. "Complete dishonor for Steed, and most certainly drummed out of the service. Especially when we submit proof to the Ministry—anonymously, of course—that they were lovers."
"This woman will be believable as his lover," Leov said with a smirk. "I think you will be surprised."
"I like surprises," The Ladja grinned as he stared at the prone body of the workman on the floor of the warehouse. "As long as it ends with John Steed dangling at the end of a rope."
-oOo-