Mrs. Peel walked in her favorite wine store. "What's new, what's new," she muttered. Seeing a likely choice, she walked over to a bottle and picked it up, reading the label aloud, "Chateau Mrs. Peel? How can that be?" She whirled around looking for a certain bowler hatted gentleman.

Steed stepped out from a stack of champagne bottles, "We're needed," he completed the familiar phase.

**************************************************************************** **********

A man sat, melted, in a chair. Mrs. Peel walked around the eerie sight. "Name of the deceased?"

"Frederick R. Whitley," Steed answered. "Head of Counter-Counter Espionage."

"One of them?"

"One of us," Steed informed her. "He defected to this side more than a year ago."

"Could 'they' have exacted revenge against the unlucky fellow," Mrs. Peel queried.

"Well, that could have been possible," Steed admitted, "If only two other gentlemen hadn't been murdered. Ones with no ties whatsoever to Mother Russia."

Mrs. Peel sighed. "Any idea of how this happened?"

"The agent guarding him claims that he was out of the room for only a minute, heard no strange noises, no screams, and saw no signs of a sruggle."

"Interesting," Mrs. Peel mused. "Perhaps we should,"

"Go talk to the agent," Steed asked with a smirk.

**************************************************************************** **********

Steed's antique Bentley pulled up in front of a plain-looking apartment building. "Here we are," Steed announced, as they got out and walked to the door. "The flat of one B. Boris Barker." Steed rang the bell with the tip of his umbrella. "Strange. He doesn't seem to be home."

"And why is that strange?"

"He's been confined to house arrest since his charge was mysteriously murdered," Steed informed her. He rang the bell one last time, before resorting to more drastic measures. Bunching his fist up inside of his tie, Steed smashed through the window beside the door, sticking his hand through to unlock it from the inside. The door opened to reveal he half-melted body of B. Boris Barker in his kitchen.

"Looks like someone had the same idea we did," Steed murmured.

"Four men dead in less than a week," Mrs. Peel mused. "What's the connecting thread?"

"Someone obviously didn't want us to interrogate B. Boris Biddle," Steed stated. "But he couldn't have been a double agent."

"Or could he," Mrs. Peel countered. "I know that the Ministry makes each agent go through rigorous tests, but how often are the agents tested?" Steed shrugged. "I suppose only at the beginning of their careers." He sniffed. "Mrs. Peel, what is that vile stench?"

Mrs. Peel breathed deeply. "It smells like something rotten."

Steed inhaled again. "It smells like burnt rubber."

**************************************************************************** **********

Steed and Mrs. Peel walked out of Biddle's flat. "Strange," he mused.

"What is," Mrs. Peel questioned.

"Well, B. Boris Biddle should have had a guard outside his door-where was he?" Preoccupied with this thought, Steed bumped into a short balding fellow. "Brodney, hello!"

Brodney flinched, his eyes darting around, looking for an escape route, and settling on Mrs. Peel. He gulped, remembering their last meeting-he still had scars. "Hello, Steed, M-mrs. Peel."

"Now, Brodney," Steed laid a hand on his shoulder and guided him beneath a tree. "What are you doing here? The last I'd heard, you'd been sent back to Russia."

"Didn't even get to see the Beatles," Mrs. Peel cut in.

Brodney looked nervous, "Beatles? W-why w-would I be interested in insects?" He laughed feebly.

"Brodney, you always told me you loved British music much better than that stuffy Tchaicovsky."

"D-don't be silly," Brodny replied looking around, checking around for suspicious characters. "He's my favorite composer."

Steed looked confused. "I was certain you preferred John Lennon."

"N-no. No!"

"Oh well, my mistake." Brodney nodded, and began walking away. Steed steered him back around. "So, what are you doing here?"

"Wh-what am I doing he-visiting an old friend."

Steed and Mrs. Peel exchanged glances. "What was his name," Mrs. Peel questioned.

"What was who's name? Oh! My friend.his name was.umm."

"B. Boris Biddle," Steed queried.

"Yes, yes, that's," Brodney paused, looking stricken. "That's not it."

"But just a minute ago, you seemed so certain, Steed persisted.

"It was a mistake," Brodney assured him. "If you would excuse me."

Steed and Mrs. Peel watched him go. "What do you really think he was doing here," Mrs. Peel inquired.

Steed shrugged. "Maybe one of us should,"

"Follow him?"

"Glad you volunteered," Steed smirked and jumped into his Bentley, roaring off. Mrs. Peel glared at his retreating form.