A/N: I do not own any of the characters from either I Spy or The Avengers. I just thought it would be a good idea to introduce them. This is a story I wrote several years ago; hope you enjoy it.
Paris, 1966
"Scotty…"
Kelly's voice sounded preoccupied – which was certainly possible, even likely. He really got into his work. And when that work came in the form of a comely brunette with a killer backhand, so much the better. "Hey, how you doin', ace?" Scotty replied into the telephone, trying to sound casual. "She got the info we need?"
The high arched window of the opulent hotel room afforded a panoramic view of the splendor that was Paris. To Kelly Robinson, it all looked very far away. He cradled the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, leaving both hands free to spread a sheet over the body on the bed. "Not exactly," he responded, lips tight with unspoken fury. The sheet showed a crimson stain where blood had already begun to soak through.
There was a lot of blood. Stabbing did that to a person. "You better get over here."
Regina Spenser, age twenty-eight, height five feet six inches… the statistics ran through Kelly's head like an endless litany. She was dead – murdered – and if that weren't enough, she'd been killed before she could pass on vital information.
Kelly and the beautiful British agent had been half of a mixed doubles match to be played at Versailles that weekend. They'd used the cover before – but this time, Regina wasn't going to make it. Tennis players weren't common targets for murder. Spies, however, were. And whether or not her killer had extracted any information from her before she had died, she had still returned her last serve.
Scotty arrived promptly, but having him there didn't change anything. He was simply one more pair of eyes to go through the hotel suite and make sure there was nothing 'sensitive' left around for the unfriendlies to get hold of – if they hadn't already. Only after the two agents made certain nothing in the room could lead the authorities to believe she had been anything other than the quintessential amateur tennis player would they contact the gendarmes.
It was more or less a courtesy at that point. Evidence had been disturbed, items in the room moved, some wiped clean – all those things the movies tell people never to do.
Once Kelly and Scotty were satisfied, they made themselves scarce, then placed their anonymous call from the pay phone at the local tabac. No use getting themselves involved, risking their cover and whatever was left of their assignment. There was still the little matter of the information Regina had been carrying. Someone had wanted to prevent her from relaying it – wanted it badly enough to kill her.
London
John Steed inspected his reflection in the gilt glass – impeccable, as always. Any little surprises life had in store for him were seldom presented in the mirror.
The knock on the door of his flat was no surprise either. He opened it for the equally impeccable Emma Peel, who greeted him with a slight smile as she made a minute adjustment to his collar.
"Sorry," he offered, re-examining his reflection in the glass.
"Perspective," she replied.
"Better?"
"Much."
"Mrs. Peel?"
"Yes?"
"We're needed."