Chapter 4
On the drive back to the Ministry, Emma was her usual self, head held high like a proud cat in the passenger seat of the Bentley. Steed glanced sideways to check his partner.
"Feeling all right, Mrs. Peel?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Her behavior was now back to normal; she was completely aware of his presence. And even though the drug from her apartment must have worn off, she still showed no sign of remembering his intrusion while she was naked. How would he explain that the only reason he stayed around while she was unclothed was to protect her from any attackers?
"The Armourer says he has some answers," Steed announced as he pulled into the lot.
"We were just here this morning," Emma said. "I wonder what he could have come up with?"
Steed held the door as she got out of the car. She looked totally comfortable in her gym attire. If only he could stop thinking about what she was wearing—and not wearing—beneath it...
Emma led the way back downstairs. She had become accustomed to seeing anything when she opened the door, from a bulletproof umbrella to a weaponized robotic Welsh Corgi. This time, there was nothing out of the ordinary, save a stranger wearing a lab coat and thick glasses. Steed came down and stood next to her, nodding a greeting to the two men. The Armourer got straight to the point.
"Someone fired a shot that hit the Minister right under your very noses this morning. And while I have no doubt that Steed could be easily duped, Mrs. Peel is quite perceptive. There is only one possibility: Formula Thirteen."
Steed took the barb in stride. "What exactly is that?"
"An experimental compound developed by the Ministry. A small amount was stolen from a research lab last Tuesday."
Emma frowned. "The night of the dog show?"
"I guess that lets Leov off the hook," Steed mused. "We know where she was."
"But not where her partner was," Emma countered.
"Holding out to the last, Mrs. Peel?" he teased. This time, however, he was starting to agree with her. The hand of the late Ladja was becoming more apparent. Could the dog show have been a diversion for the theft of the secret chemical?
"Formula Thirteen is one of our more promising developments," the Armourer explained. "It's quite valuable for spies. The person wearing it can become virtually invisible when people around him inhale the vapor it produces."
Steed furrowed his brow. Wearing it? Wasn't Mrs. Peel's apartment filled with the gas?
"However, it can be defeated," the Armourer added.
Steed tapped the handle of his umbrella. "There's an antidote?"
"No, but the vapor can be rendered ineffective."
"Don't breathe?" Emma smirked.
"There's an easier way," the Armourer said. "I'll let the specialist explain. Dr. Crenshaw?"
The man in the lab coat stepped forward and adjusted his glasses. "So, this is Mrs. Peel," he said, staring intently at Emma. "Married? But she's not wearing a ring. Conclusion: Divorced or widowed."
"Her husband is dead," the Armourer confirmed.
"Missing," Emma corrected.
"Excellent physique—undoubtedly martial arts training," the doctor said as he continued to look her over. "And fencing. You can tell by the way she moves her feet. She probably was interrupted on the way to the gym, judging from her sports clothes. Lives in town, drives a Lotus Elan..."
"You've seen her out and about," Steed accused.
"Never. You can clearly see hanging out of her purse the distinctive yellow and green of a Lotus key fob. Her hair is blown back just slightly at the bang line, indicative of slower-speed city driving, rather than country driving, in a convertible. Conclusion: Elan."
"Actually, she was riding in my Bentley," Steed corrected.
"I drove my car this morning," Emma reminded him. "And it is an Elan."
"You've showered since," Steed said. "His conclusion could have been completely wrong."
Crenshaw ignored them as he circled Emma appraisingly. "Height, 174 centimeters; weight, just under eight and a half stone."
"You're one of those carnival chaps," she said.
"Measurements 34-25-36, cup size C. Although she's not wearing a bra under that top now, just a drape, a camisole. Creates very little strap outline, probably satin—"
Mrs. Peel crossed her arms over her chest as if being violated by X-ray vision. Dr. Crenshaw moved his head next to Steed's and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
"But then, you already know what she's wearing under that. You were in the room when she put it on."
"What?" Emma retorted indignantly. "You've completely missed the mark with that one. Tell him, Steed. I had just finished dressing when you showed up."
Steed turned to Crenshaw and pursed his lips. "How did you know?"
"You still have traces of Formula Thirteen on you. I recognize the scent."
"I would have thought it was odorless," Steed said.
"Oh, no; it has an odor, but it's not easily noticed."
Emma interrupted, "So what he said was true? About you being present when I dressed?" She had a wry smile, but Steed knew he would be in deep trouble later.
Dr. Crenshaw turned to Emma. "Do you think you could have detected Steed in your bedroom?"
"Of course."
"You've been looking at me since I walked in. How many times have I blinked? Crossed the room? Put my finger to my lips in thought?"
Emma was taken aback. "I... didn't notice."
"That's because it's completely unremarkable, like the sound of your own breathing, or the drone of traffic noise. Imagine that you could be made to consider my voice unremarkable, like a random conversation on the subway, or even my presence itself to be completely forgettable, like a face in a crowd."
She frowned. "That seems unlikely."
Crenshaw smiled. "Did you see the sign on the Armoury door when you walked in?"
"Danger—explosives?" Emma ventured
"No. You're guessing. It was a warning sign, not meant to be ignored. But you can't seem to remember it. Why?"
She hesitated. "It wasn't important to me. Besides, I'd seen it many times before."
"So familiarity made it seem less remarkable," he prompted. "Then what establishes the importance of an item?"
Emma shrugged. "Memory? Logic?"
"When we see something familiar, chemical signals are released in the brain indicating that it is entirely ordinary, not worthy of notice," Crenshaw explained. "Inhaling Formula Thirteen increases the level of these chemical signals. The person wearing the formula can drop completely below the threshold of perception."
He turned to Steed. "How did you become doused with Formula Thirteen?"
"It must have been at Groslov's shop," Steed said.
Emma arched an eyebrow at him. "You went to see Groslov without me?"
Steed hung his head. His list of transgressions was growing. He removed his bowler and handed it to Crenshaw.
"There was a strange liquid dripping from the catwalk," Steed said. "It covered the brim of my hat."
Crenshaw sniffed the edge. "Mostly evaporated, but still quite a concentration. I imagine you must have been completely invisible to Mrs. Peel when you stopped by."
Emma said nothing; she merely gave Steed a withering glance. Payment was getting more expensive by the minute. She turned to Dr. Crenshaw.
"So you're saying I wouldn't even be able to detect the presence of a complete stranger?"
The doctor raised his index finger in the air for emphasis. "Now, that," he said, "is unlikely. A stranger would be running a huge risk that you'd notice him. However, anyone whose face you're familiar with would have a high probability of success. You've seen a sniper rifle assembled before, perhaps even done it yourself, so that wouldn't be novel or new. As for this morning's assassin, it would most likely be a person you're acquainted with."
"Leov," Steed offered.
"The Ladja?" Emma countered.
Steed shook his head. He doubted that. The instant that Mrs. Peel caught sight of The Ladja's chessboard mask, she would attack him without hesitation. No chemical could be strong enough to overpower her killer instinct towards her nemesis.
"I don't think you could be fooled into not noticing him," Steed said.
"Besides," the Armourer added, "isn't he dead?"
"I dreamt The Ladja was alive just a few weeks ago," Emma said. "And I attended the funeral of Group Captain Willcombe-Smythe, only to be nearly murdered by him two days later. He wasn't dead, either."
"So you're saying that if you saw someone presumed dead, you wouldn't necessarily think it was out of the ordinary?"
"I guess I don't truly consider anyone to be dead until I see it for myself," she mused. "Even my own husband's body was never found. It seems like I'm never given the luxury of closure." She got a moody, distant look on her face. "But I know for certain that the Group Captain is dead. I saw him shot to death—" Emma halted in mid-sentence.
"Oh?" Crenshaw prompted.
"By... The Ladja. He used a sniper rifle."
"So the image would be familiar to you. The Ladja holding a sniper rifle. Just seeing it once might lower the novelty of the sight to the point that Formula Thirteen made it seem ordinary."
"There's another possibility," Steed said. "Remember, The Ladja was supposed to be a double agent, working for the Ministry. We could never discover his identity. If he wasn't wearing his mask, he might be someone that we would ordinarily consider a friend or ally."
"Indeed..." Emma nodded thoughtfully. She uncrossed her arms and put her hands on her hips. "So, doctor, you claim that Formula Thirteen can be defeated?"
"There are twenty-six steps leading down to the basement," Crenshaw began. "Four light switches next to the door; 3 on, 1 off. The bricks next to the doorframe have been chipped, probably while moving a piece of heavy equipment into this room. The sign on the door that you had trouble remembering reads 'Caution—Active Weapons Range'."
"Most observant," she said.
"Hyperobservancy, Mrs. Peel," he explained. "That's the key. Focusing on minutiae, with an incredible attention to detail. This heightened sense of awareness produces chemicals in your brain that counteract Formula Thirteen. You can't be fooled into thinking that something is familiar or unimportant if you're in the habit of seeing everything as unfamiliar and important."
The Armourer stepped forward. "That's why it is vital that one of you be trained in hyperobservancy. I would recommend Mrs. Peel, due to her superior mental capabilities."
Steed wrinkled his mouth. "Superior? Wait a minute—"
Emma nodded. "Very well. I accept."
"Don't I get a vote in this?" Steed protested.
Mrs. Peel gave Steed a stern look. "That way, there'll be no more incidents of you entering my dressing chamber while I'm au naturel."
She gave him a teasing smile and added, "Without my permission..."
-oOo-