Brazil

by J. Ferguson a.k.a. Timeless A-Peel

Disclaimer: I don't own The New Avengers, nor the characters of Mike Gambit, Purdey, and John Steed. Sadly. They're the property of The Avengers (Film and TV) Enterprises, and this story is for entertainment purposes only.

Timeline: Sixth in a series. Takes place in late February/early March, 1977, near the start of the second season, probably shortly after the events of Hostage and the year-later bits of Gnaws and The Last of the Cybernauts...? It is strongly recommended, but not essential, that you go back and read the previous stories in the arc, Aftermath, Dance With Me, The Anniversary, and Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit.

For more information about the series, please see my profile.

Author's Note: Right, back into it. I'll try and get another chapter or two up before Christmas to make up for the gap in updates. In light of the season, I'll take this opportunity to plug "Merry Christmas, Mr. Gambit," which you might want to give a look if you haven't yet.

*pluggity plug*

Also, thanks go to rabidsamfan for betaing duties on this chapter.

Gambit strode purposefully through the Ministry corridors, paying no heed to the looks he was getting. Besides the fact that he looked ready to commit murder, he'd cut himself shaving, part of the overall botch job he owed to his badly-shaking hands. The blood he'd seen in the sink had set his mind racing toward all sorts of possibilities, none of which were too comforting. He wanted—needed—answers, and Grey was going to provide them if he wanted to live to see his next interdepartmental collaboration.

The secretary at the front desk had informed him that Grey and his team had set up a temporary headquarters in the large meeting room usually reserved for dull departmental get-togethers reserved for meetings concerning protocol, most of which went on for far too long. Gambit usually ended up doodling in the corner of his memo pad, until Purdey would notice and start adding her own artistic creations. Past the hour mark, and they'd usually have a long transcript of comments discussing everything from what sort of noxious cologne Tyler was wearing, to which version of "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers" had done the original justice. Eventually Steed would pass down a note asking about lunch plans. Occasionally someone would spoil the fun and ask pointedly if the pair of them were paying attention. This never worked, because Purdey inevitably told them 'yes,' and smiled beatifically. If that didn't work with the fellow doing the briefing, it was her habit to turn her chair to face him and fix him with a look of extreme interest, in the process crossing her long legs decoratively. If all else failed, the gams would triumph. In fact, Gambit had noticed that Purdey's skirts tended to be an inch or two higher on meeting days. He reminded himself of this fact whenever he was feeling down. The bottom line was Purdey could have the whole male segment of the department eating out of the palm of her hand, and saying she was at a disadvantage as a woman in the Ministry wasn't strictly true.

Gambit found his way to the door, cocked his head to listen to the bustle within before actually turning the knob. What he found was a team clearly in emergency mode—phones ringing, people manning Morse stations, men consulting maps and rifling through files. He could smell panic, sweat, stress, stale coffee. Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Steed emerged, an island of solemn calm, seemingly unaffected by the world going to hell in a handbasket. Gambit would have believed that himself if it weren't for the small crease between the eyes. John Steed was worried, and as Purdey would have been quick to point out, Steed never worried—not unless he was worried. He met the senior agent halfway.

"What's the latest?" Gambit asked immediately, skipping the pleasantries. "Anything about Purdey?"

Steed shook his head. "I'm afraid not, and I've stopped asking for the moment. The lines are overburdened as it is. We'll have to wait until things settle down before we're going to be able to feed anyone more questions.

"Where's Grey, then?" Gambit wanted to know, eyes scanning the room. "I'll have a word with him in the meantime."

"Several words, I expect," Steed murmured, but turning to lead the way regardless. "He's through here." He indicated a door at the opposite end of the meeting room, painted the same chalky blue that as the rest of the meeting room, and Gambit frowned in spite of himself.

"What's he doing in the broom closet?"

Steed arched an eyebrow. "It's not a broom closet," he said seriously, too serious to actually be serious. "It's a 'temporary office slash storage facility'."

Gambit snorted. "I don't care what the 'official' name for it is, I wouldn't hang my coat in there. I don't think it's been dusted since 1973."

"Yes, but it was all McKay could spare just now, so our friend from MI12 will just have to make do," Steed said blithely.

"McKay knows as well as you and me that no one's moved into Wiggins' office since he retired last month," Gambit reminded, knowing very well what was behind the placement and suddenly feeling a warmth of goodwill toward the Ministry's head man.

"Well, you know how forgetful Tommy has been of late," Steed replied, the picture of innocence.

"Selectively forgetful," Gambit amended.

"The best kind." Gambit allowed himself a small smile while Steed knocked.

The grunt that came from within wasn't exactly an invitation to enter, but Steed interpreted it as such. The office was tiny, and Steed and Gambit could barely shut the door without banging their knees on the edge of the jammed-in desk. Grey himself was hunched over his desk, poring over what appeared to be a hastily-written report by one of the Morse operators. He had a sour look on his face that only got sourer when he saw who his company was—Steed was by now a common fixture, but Gambit was a brand new annoyance. Grey pulled off his glasses and fixed Mike with a mixture of resignation and resent. "Purdey?" he almost snarled.

Gambit's eyes narrowed. "How did you guess?"

"Look, I'm rather busy—"

"Not busy enough," Gambit growled. "Otherwise you'd be out there trying to find Purdey like the rest of your people."

"Need I remind you, Mr. Gambit, that there were other people besides Purdey at the camp, some of whom lost their lives?"

Gambit put his hands, palms down, on Grey's desk, and met his gaze. "Right, but Purdey was the only one you badgered into going there in the first place."

Grey sighed and rubbed his temples, as though staving off a headache. "What do you want, Mr. Gambit?"

"The full story," Gambit told him.

"If it'll let me get back to my job…" Grey grumbled. "I'd offer you a seat, but this office is so damn small."

"I'll stand," Gambit said flatly, and Steed looked prepared to do the same.

"As I told Mr. Steed," Grey began, "my people were overseas running surveillance on one Jeremy Pym. British businessman. Industrialist. Very respectable in the sixties. His company worked in a collaborative capacity with several British companies handling Crown contracts. He had a very rich pool of brilliant minds under him, and he'd run consults in exchange for a cut of the profits, find ways to improve on original plans and designs.

"To put it simply, back in '66 Pym was caught selling classified information about one of those government contracts to the other side. The corporation had a spy working for them, and he uncovered a whole string of shady dealings stretching back a decade. He was quite clever, really—didn't sell out every contract, and made certain that his people got ahold of a few plans with which he wasn't directly connected. Kept people from catching on. "

"But he was caught?" Gambit broke in.

"Caught out," Grey clarified. "We knew what he'd done, but he managed to flee the country before we could bring him in. He disappeared into South America and hasn't returned to England since. We were aware that he had an interest in Brazil, and tracked down a base in the jungle. The only problem is we can't connect him with it because the man doesn't show himself. We're almost certain the operation's his, but we can't prove it. And we can't prove what's going on inside, either."

Gambit arched an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Another strain of the intelligence business. We think he may be providing a service cracking the tough nuts that prove a little too stubborn."

"So you've been waiting for him to put in an appearance," Gambit stated. "But Pym knows your outfit is watching. That's why you brought Purdey in. She's not on his list yet."

Grey looked mildly uncomfortable for a moment, but then nodded. "That's right. But Pym's let us alone for the time being. We didn't think he'd be brazen enough to launch an attack on the camp."

Gambit swallowed. "How many?"

"Are dead?" Grey finished. "About half a dozen on our side that have been confirmed, but it's early days yet. Even more on theirs, but we've got wounded to consider. It was around eleven last night their time, but they couldn't find an undamaged radio and make contact until ninety minutes after the fact. Now we're trying to figure out the best way to provide assistance. For all we know, Pym's got people lying in wait, ready to sabotage a rescue operation."

"It might have been straight intimidation," Gambit suggested. "If he withdrew early, he might only want your people to clear out. Who had the upper hand?"

Grey looked undecided. "Hard to say," he replied. "We did take out several of his men, but he may have had a second wave stored up. He may have cut his losses, or he may have been sending a message. Either way, I'm not sending anyone else in until I know they're not going to end up dead, too."

"Purdey may not have much time," Gambit snapped. "You need search parties, and you need them now."

"I will not send my people in to be slaughtered for one girl!"

"She wouldn't even be in this mess if it weren't for you!" Gambit retorted. "That's why she was taken, wasn't it? Because she was the courier, and Pym knows it."

"Or as a hostage," Grey countered. "In which case we'll hear from Pym soon enough. Either way, I think it would be better if you let me get on with my job."

"I want to help," Gambit persisted.

"Good. Then you can get out of my way for an hour or so. That would do nicely."

Gambit was ready with a comeback, but he felt Steed's hand on his shoulder.

"He's right, Mike. We'll come back later when there's more information." The voice was kind but didn't leave room far argument. Gambit worked his jaw, but did as he was bid, following Steed out of the cramped quarters. But he gave Grey one last look to let him know he'd be back soon.

There was a small break room down the hall from Grey's HQ, and Steed steered a shaking--from either shock or anger, he didn't know--Gambit inside, closing the door behind them. Gambit staggered over to the small table usually reserved for meaningless chats over coffee and collapsed heavily into a chair, strong fingers angrily kneading his temples. Steed took the seat opposite, laced his fingers, and waited for the younger man to work out his initial frustrations. He'd let Gambit have the first word on the subject. Steed didn't exactly have any brilliant openers in mind as it was.

"I knew it."

Steed looked up from the sugar bowl, nestled between the creamer and the used but empty coffee cup that some careless Ministry employee hadn't seen fit to rinse, despite the polite but firm sign instructing otherwise. "Explain."

"I knew it," Gambit repeated angrily, thumping his hand uselessly against the table top, causing both sugar and cream to leap nervously. "I knew something was going to go wrong, and that Purdey was going to be in the middle of it. And there's not a snowball's chance in hell Grey's going to give her priority over his own people." He shook his head, moved to stand. "That's it. We've got to get over there. I've got to get over there. Someone's got to look out for her, because from the sounds of things she might not be in very good shape."

Steed reached out and clamped a hand around Gambit's arm. "What about Grey?"

Gambit's face twisted into an ugly scowl. "Grey can go—"

"Mike, if you go off the rails now, Grey could have you drummed out of the service by the time you get back."

"I don't care," Gambit said stubbornly. "As long as we get Purdey back."

"Gambit, I want Purdey found just as much as you, but take a moment. We don't know where she's been sent, who's waiting for us at the other end. Grey's people will need at least 24 hours to even start picking up the pieces, and there's still the small matter of tracing out a safe route by which to send assistance. Right now no one has the intel you'd need to mount an operation, and if Purdey has been taken hostage, you're being there could jeopardize the situation before we even know what we're dealing with." He sighed tiredly and let Gambit's arm go. "Grey's our only link as of yet. I think it's best that we wait until we have all the facts before we risk alienating him by going on the warpath."

Gambit worked his jaw, but Steed's words made too much sense for him to ignore them entirely. He sat back down resignedly, flipped open the sugar bowl and started mentally counting cubes. "It's just—the longer she's gone, the more they could be…doing to her." He could feel Steed's eyes on him, but couldn't bring himself to meet the gaze. They both lived under the uneasy reality of Purdey's vulnerability in hostage situations, ever since Midas' intentions had been made clear. Just the thought of it made Gambit want to vomit. He didn't need to see the same sentiment reflected in Steed's eyes. "I'm not used to feeling this helpless. Usually there's some place we can start, a lead we can follow. But if Grey's got all the cards, we can't do a damn thing."

"Only until he's met with McKay," Steed pointed out. "Another hour or two, and Grey will have enough information to scrape something together. Once we've heard that, we can start making our own plans."

Gambit smiled crookedly. "Even if they're not rubber-stamped and sanctioned?"

"You said it, not me," Steed said innocently, pushing back a cuff to check his watch. "Do you fancy some breakfast in the meantime, or did your appetite leave with Purdey?"

"Just about," Gambit murmured, "but I won't say no to something hot." His gaze fell on the empty cup. "And the coffee here's lousy."

"There's a restaurant just around the corner run by painfully early risers," Steed informed, with a slight smile. "What they lack in sanity the more than make up for with the kippers."