Chapter 2
The Porsche was moving slowly through the thick snow on the outskirts of Geneva. Recent plowing had caused wall-like banks to form on either side of the road, giving the impression that the car was traveling through a corridor. Emma sighed at the view out of the passenger window; she couldn't see any landscape, only dirty white ice.
They crested a hill and suddenly the valley was spread out below them. There was a small town composed of comfortable cottages with plumes of smoke coming from their chimneys. Steed drove down the main street and pulled to a stop in front of a quaint Swiss chalet. The faded lettering on the sign above the door spelled out 'CLOCKS', then below that, 'Ezekial Toch, Proprietor'.
Steed held the wooden door open for Emma as they entered a brightly-lit interior filled with shelves full of clocks. A wooden counter ran the entire length of the opposite wall. In the center, a short man with jeweler's-loupe goggles was hunched over a complicated mechanism. He looked up, saw Steed's bowler, and immediately addressed them in English.
"My name's Ezekial Toch," he said cheerily. "Rhymes with Bach."
Emma arched her eyebrow in skepticism. "Is that your real name?"
"Indeed it is, Madam. Excuse me, but will you hold this perfectly still for a moment?" He handed her the clock he was working on and pulled up a folding section of the counter. He trotted over to a coat rack and donned a pair of earmuffs before returning to his original spot.
"Are your ears susceptible to the cold, Mr. Toch?" Emma asked.
"3... 2... 1...," he counted under his breath.
The room was instantly filled with sound as every clock went off simultaneously. There were bells, buzzers, Westminster chimes, and enough cuckoos to fill a small aviary. Emma winced, but she dared not shake the clock she had been handed. Steed gallantly stepped forward and covered her ears with his hands, pressing in on her auburn hair until the din had subsided.
Mr. Toch removed his earmuffs and reached over to take the clock back from Emma. "Noon is always the toughest," he said.
"You could have warned me," she answered tartly.
"Sorry; it's every man for himself at the top of the hour. Now, what can I do for you two?"
Steed leaned casually against the counter. "I'm John Steed. This is Mrs. Peel."
"Out shopping on Christmas Eve, I see. Looking for that last-minute gift?"
"I need a new clock for my sideboard," Steed continued. "The old one is running seventeen minutes too slow."
"Seventeen, eh?" Ezekial grinned. "I've been expecting you." He searched through a drawer until he found a manila envelope. "Z Branch in Zurich has information that the KGB is making an exchange at an air museum just a few miles north of here."
"Exchange? Of what?" Emma asked.
"That's the question, isn't it?" He went back to fixing his clock. "We don't know."
Steed examined the contents of the envelope. "What can you tell us about this air museum?"
"It's an old Swiss Air Force base that was converted for public shows. There's an RAF exhibit there this week—vintage planes from both World Wars."
Steed raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps I'll see some of my old squadron there."
Emma looked surprised. "You were in the RAF?"
"I have been many things in many places, Mrs. Peel." He gently placed his hand on the small of her back to guide her towards the door.
Mr. Toch didn't look up from his work. "Good luck," he said brightly in way of farewell.
-oOo-
Steed had pulled the Porsche around to the military entrance to the airfield. The credentials he supplied to the guards were sufficient to cause the gate to be immediately raised.
"Who did you tell them you were?" Emma teased.
"Air Marshall Johann Von Steed."
"And they believed you?"
"I have a very trustworthy face."
"Oh, if they only knew you like I do," she said in mock lament.
A row of quonset huts were all marked with the white cross in a red circle of the Swiss Air Force. Steed drove past them and parked just behind the largest of the aircraft hangars. The airfield was filled with a collection of planes from the Wars: Avro and Nieuport biplanes, Sopwith Camels, Supermarine Spitfires, Hawker Hurricanes, Bristol Beaufighters, and even a Lancaster Bomber.
Emma linked her arm through Steed's as he led the way to the main hangar. She looked excitedly at all of the aircraft.
"Which of these can you fly?" she asked.
"I'm sure I could get any of them into the air," Steed answered wryly. "It's the landing I wouldn't be too certain about."
The flight equipment on the display tables caught Emma's eye as they entered the exhibit area. "I never really thought much about the history of flying before. Whenever I went to the base with Peter, all I ever saw were jets," she commented. "What are we looking for, anyway? Or should I say who?"
"There was a photo in the envelope of the KGB's contact here—a pilot," Steed explained.
"You should have shown it to me," she scolded.
"No need," Steed said evenly. "There he is."
In a deserted corner of the hangar, a man in a pilot's uniform was talking to someone. The other man had dark hair and wore a trenchcoat, but his back was turned so neither Steed nor Emma could see his face. In one hand he held a large canvas sack; he let the pilot peek inside. No doubt the contents were the items to be smuggled. Emma unlinked her arm from Steed's and started moving stealthily along the wall, hiding behind some storage crates as she neared the two men. Steed approached them with a smile on his face.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," he said by way of distraction. The pilot immediately ran, while the other reached inside his coat for a weapon as he prepared to turn and fire. Emma quickly stepped in and chopped his neck with the edge of her hand, then dropped into a low crouch and swung her leg in a roundhouse kick, sweeping his feet out from under him. The man hit the ground and groaned once before passing out. Emma stood and brushed the dust from her leather pants as Steed kneeled down beside the motionless figure.
"Is it him?" she asked eagerly. The thought that she might have captured The Ladja had made her giddy.
"Wrong eye color," Steed said. "And he has a moustache. An old friend of ours, I think." He briefly turned the man's head so Emma could see his face.
"The KGB man from Tokyo and Paris," she declared. "And one of the Ladja's top henchmen."
"Don't forget Vasily."
"He may be waiting nearby. Mr. Toch's information was certainly spot on. What about the pilot?" Emma asked.
"He's probably phoning The Ladja right now, assuming that our diabolical mastermind isn't already here somewhere. We'd better not tarry too long." Steed picked up the canvas sack and peered inside. A boyish grin crept across his face, but he didn't say a word. He playfully extended the open bag for Emma to dip her hand inside.
"Go ahead," he prompted with a smile. "They won't bite."
Emma's eyes widened as she reached in and pulled out two large diamonds. She gazed at them in wonder for a moment before holding one up to each of her delectable lobes. "What do you think, Steed? Dangles, or posts?"
"Both. One for casual, one for best."
"How many are in there?"
Steed shook his head in amazement. "Must be a million pounds worth."
"And he's just toting them around in a gunnysack."
"It certainly doesn't draw any attention to them, like a velvet-lined leather briefcase would," Steed reasoned. He examined a tag attached to the drawstring on the bag, then showed it to Mrs. Peel.
"What's that mean?" she asked. "K-4807?"
Steed gave her a thoughtful look. "Locker number? Safe deposit box?"
"I think I might be able to persuade our KGB friend to give us a hint," Emma offered, casually nudging the prone body with her toe.
"You'll have to wait until he regains consciousness first," Steed grinned. He scanned the hangar. "Maybe it's something nearby."
Emma started checking the labels on the storage crates while Steed took the lockers on the far wall. He returned after a few minutes.
"Nothing," he said tonelessly.
But Emma was looking off in the distance, through the hangar door. Her attention was focused on an antiquated biplane at the far end of the tarmac.
"Steed, I've hit the jackpot."
He followed her eyes, then nodded as he saw what she had seen. "Remind me to buy you a ticket in the next Irish Sweepstakes." He strolled towards the plane that had 'K-4807' painted boldly on its side.
"What do you know," he mused. "A pipeline in the sky."
Emma briefly considered tying up the KGB man, then decided he would be out for at least another ten minutes. She sprinted along after Steed.
"What is this, a World War I biplane?" she asked.
"World War II, actually. We used these as trainers in the RAF."
"You fought in World War II?"
"A lad so young, I had to sit on a copy of War and Peace to see the controls," Steed answered jovially. "This is a Tiger Moth. Pilot sits in back, trainee in the front."
Emma climbed a wheeled stair to peer into the rear cockpit. "The plan must have been for the courier and the pilot to fly to the next exchange point."
Steed nodded as he shouldered in beside her. "I think you're right. This plane has been modified for winter conditions. Too bad the cockpit isn't enclosed," he added.
"What's this?" Emma had climbed off the stair and noticed a piece of paper wedged in one of the front wing struts. It was rolled up around a small wooden item. She unwrapped it and raised her eyebrows knowingly as she showed it to Steed. It was a chess piece—a black rook.
Steed took the paper and examined it. "These are directions to the next checkpoint," he declared. "How are you at aerial navigation, Mrs. Peel?"
"If you know how to fly this thing by compass, I can get you there," she said confidently. "Does this old piece of junk have the range to make it?"
"It must, or The Ladja wouldn't have made it available," Steed reasoned. "We'll take over and pick up the pipeline from here. There should be instructions at every stop."
Emma gave him a level stare. "Until we get to the Iron Curtain?"
Steed grinned. "Maybe we'll stop just outside, on the Iron Windowsill." He climbed down from the stair and started for the hangar. "You stay here. I'll rummage around and pick up a few things we'll need."
Emma had reached into the cockpit and pulled out a flight manual entitled 'Your DeHavilland DH82A'. She called pointedly after him, "Make sure our diamond-toting friend isn't about to become active again."
Steed checked the hangar; the KGB man was still out. There was an exhibit of World War II flying equipment nearby, where he was able to scavenge up a few necessities. When he returned to Mrs. Peel on the tarmac, his bowler had been replaced with a leather flying helmet and goggles. He also wore a leather flight jacket with a jaunty green scarf.
Emma smiled as he handed her similar accoutrement. "Planning on doing much barnstorming?" she asked.
"It'll be quite cold up there. And this engine probably throws off enough oil to fully lubricate the rear rudder. Best to be prepared." He hung his bowler on a nearby fuel cart.
"Smuggling, 1930's-style," she said as she wrapped a blue wool scarf around her neck. Steed stowed the sack of diamonds in the cockpit.
"It does allow one to dispense with passports, customs, that sort of bother," he said reasonably. "A biplane is too small and usually flies too low to show up on radar, yet can avoid all of the heavily guarded routes by going 'as the crow flies'."
Emma looked up at the wings and the cowling in front of the cockpit. "Where are the machine guns?" she asked wryly.
"We're not likely to encounter the Red Baron," he grinned. "Anyway, without the proper equipment, we'd only shoot off our own propeller."
"I don't suppose this thing requires an ignition key?" she asked.
"You've seen the movies, Mrs. Peel. You'll have to help me start it. Give you another chance to use those lithe muscles of yours."
She wrinkled her mouth as she took up a position by the front propeller. Steed slid into the rear cockpit and started working with the instruments.
"Switches off, petrol on, throttle closed," he called out. "Give the propeller a few turns to suck in some fuel."
Emma pulled on the prop. It stopped halfway around, and she had to give it another tug to complete the revolution. She rotated it a few more times.
"Magneto on. Contact", Steed said mechanically. "Big heave this time, Mrs. Peel."
She gave it a full-force tug, making sure to swing her arms free from the propeller's path. The motor burst suddenly to life as a puff of smoke rose from the manifold. Noticing the plane starting to bump at the chocks in front of the tires, Emma quickly pulled them away. Steed opened the throttle and the noise grew steadily to a roar.
A loud bang like an engine backfire startled Emma. It took her a moment to realize it was a gunshot. She turned her head and saw the KGB man with the moustache running towards them from the hangar. She cursed silently to herself; they had forgotten to search him and take his weapon.
"Trouble," she sang out to Steed.
"He'll be here before we're ready to taxi," he cautioned. "See if you can't divert him."
"I'll divert him all right," she said resolutely, taking a few steps away from the plane. Apparently the gunman had been conservative for fear of damaging the plane; now that she was clear, he opened fire.
Emma instinctively sprinted for cover, away from the Tiger Moth. Less than two-dozen yards away was a large red tanker truck. She ducked behind the front bonnet, then a broad grin crossed her face as she looked down the length of the vehicle. It was a fire truck. She quickly uncoiled a hose from the side and spun the handle on the valve. The pressure rose immediately, and she jumped out from her cover just as the KGB man reached her.
"You again!" he cried.
"We have to stop meeting like this," Emma teased, aiming a solid stream of white foam at his legs. His feet were immediately swept out from under him and the gun was flung from his hand, just like in Tokyo. She stepped closer to cocoon his entire body in the thick fire suppressant. The KGB man spluttered angrily as he thrashed around in an attempt to stand, but couldn't raise himself from the slippery tarmac. He finally resigned himself to curling up in a ball to avoid the soaking.
Emma smirked as she shut off the hose. "You, sir, need to take up another line of work." The only answer was a soft groan of agreement from beneath the blanket of foam.
Steed had the engine going at full throttle as he taxied over to the tanker. Emma adjusted her helmet and jumped onto the wing to crawl into the front seat. She had barely managed to get strapped in before the biplane was barreling down the runway at eighty miles per hour. Then she felt the weight pressing her down as she suddenly realized they were airborne.
-oOo-
The Ladja stalked angrily towards the rear of the hangar with Vasily at his side. The KGB courier was standing there with drooping moustache, his teeth chattering, his body covered with foam.
Pehlovich shook his head as he turned to Vasily. "Problems with the pack animals," he said. "Good help is hard to find. Why don't you fly on ahead to Prague." It was an order, not a question.
"Do we know who it was?" Vasily asked. "Swiss authorities, or Interpol?"
"The pilot didn't know, and I haven't been able to get a coherent word out of him," Pehlovich answered, gesturing towards the KGB man. "But it doesn't matter; I'll take care of things from this end." Then, out of the corner of his eye, he spied the bowler hanging on the crossbrace of a nearby fuel cart. He stormed over and took it in his hands.
"Steed!" he hissed. "I should have guessed."
Vasily nodded grimly. "So he must still be alive."
"A situation I will rectify immediately. I'll meet up with you as soon as I can." Pehlovich turned back towards the hangar.
"What are you going to do?" Vasily asked.
The Ladja smiled.
"Change into my uniform."
-oOo-
Emma looked down to see the shadow of the Tiger Moth gliding across an unbroken field of white snow. Ahead loomed the Alps, towering as high as the service ceiling of the biplane; Steed would need to follow her instructions precisely to wend his way through. She had no qualms about the passage; The Ladja wouldn't have made the route so difficult that he would run any risk of losing the diamonds.
"Where to next, Mrs. Peel?" Steed called over the wind noise.
The chart in front of her indicated a direction change was required, and Emma reeled off a new compass bearing. "Stay on that course until we pass between those two peaks," she advised. "The total trip will be about three hundred miles. Can we make that?"
"We'll be running on vapor when we land," Steed answered. "No chance for sightseeing. You'll have to visit the Matterhorn some other time."
"Just as well," Emma said wryly. "I don't have my skis." She checked the map again. "Turn now," she commanded.
The buzz of the engine rose in pitch as Steed banked the aircraft into a turn that would take them directly towards the mountain range.
-oOo-
Two military policeman were guarding the main exhibit hangar when a smartly dressed officer approached them. They both snapped to attention and saluted. One of them recognized his superior, and the surprise was evident in his voice.
"Flight Lieutenant Peel!" he exclaimed. "I thought you were missing."
The Ladja smiled. "Actually, it's Squadron Leader now, Jimmy. My disappearance was part of a secret mission so I could drop off the enemy's radar. Mum's the word if anyone asks about me." His British accent was flawless.
"Of course, sir."
Pehlovich strolled over to the row of vintage biplanes parked in a row near the hangar. "I'm looking for a little recreation today. Are any of these antiques airworthy?"
"We just fixed up the Bristol Bulldog. I'm sure the Group Captain would have no problem with a test pilot such as yourself taking one out for a spin, if you so order it."
"I do so order," Pehlovich said with a smile. "I promise to bring it back in one piece."
The corporal moved closer and noticed something different about Peel. "Your skin is a bit red, sir."
Pehlovich winked. "I know, Jimmy. It's all part of the disguise. I've been thinking of dying my hair as well." He turned towards the plane. The soldier threw him a parting salute.
"Clear skies, Squadron Leader."
"Thanks, Corporal." The Ladja grabbed a flying helmet and goggles from a nearby table. When both guards had turned away, he slung two large ammo belts for the Vickers machine gun over his shoulder before climbing into the cockpit.
-oOo-
