Situated between the Champ de Mars and the River Seine, the nearly thousand-foot Eiffel Tower was an imposing image against the noonday sky. On the second-level observation deck, the wind was brisk and warm, the panorama crystal clear and breathtaking in all directions. All of Paris lay at one's feet.
Two of the people on the second level were far more interested in the silhouette of Jacques LeFond, who stood in a phone booth near the rail and stared off into the distance. So far, so good. Or so the two Americans thought, at any rate.
"Hey, Kel?" Scott began conversationally after they had waited in silence for several minutes.
"Yeah?" Kelly wore sunglasses – his only concession to the classic spy wardrobe. Funny how being unable to see someone's eyes made it so difficult to recognize a person. "What's up?"
"You remember what we all said before, back at the hotel?"
"I do."
"What do you suppose those two are up to?"
"Probably just exactly what they feel like doing."
"You mean, all that stuff we tried to tell them was crazy?"
"I imagine."
"Kel?"
"Yeah?"
"You win."
Kelly followed his partner's subtle gesture in the direction of a nearby souvenir concession, and felt his blood pressure rise a notch. No doubt about it – the shapely saleswoman behind the counter was none other than Emma Peel. "Oh, for the love of…"
"Kelly, come on, now, don't… we agreed we wouldn't…"
Too late. He was gone.
Mrs. Peel greeted Kelly with a vacant, noncommittal look in her eyes, as if she'd never seen him before in her life. "Bonjour, monsieur."
"Yeah, yeah…" It was all he could do to keep a forced smile on his face as he glanced around to see if they were being watched. "What are you doing here?"
She flicked a feather duster across the row of miniature bronze Eiffel Towers on the shelf behind her. "I'm sorry, I thought you might recognize work when you saw it."
"Oh, that's very funny. I mean it, you ought to forget about pushing picture postcards and just headline at the Comédie Française full-time. In case it slipped your mind, Mrs. Peel, LeFond's got dollar signs for eyeballs. He spots you up here, and you're nothing but a paycheck to him. You know that, don't you? That guy's trying to kill us."
"Then don't you think the two of us standing together make twice as appealing a target?"
She was infuriating when she was right. Kelly moved away from the souvenir booth, silently counting to ten.
If Mrs. Peel insisted on sticking her pretty neck out, he supposed it was her business. Personally, he preferred leaving himself an out. An observation platform four hundred feet in the air wasn't laden with options: up and down were the only two directions one could go. And, as he reminded himself with the briefest of glances both ways, neither of those options really excited him.
Up was particularly not on his list. The third platform was another five hundred feet above his head, barely a postage stamp against the clear sky. That, he thought, was the deadest dead-end he'd ever seen.
00o00
Mrs. Peel recognized Dr. LeFond when she spotted him. Just to be certain, she removed a compact and lipstick from her purse and turned her back, pretending to freshen her make-up while she held the mirror so she could get a good look and still stay out of his line of sight.
It was LeFond, all right, in a phone booth about thirty feet from her post.
She ducked into the small storage area behind the concession booth, picked up the telephone there, and dialed the restaurant. When the reservations desk picked up, she kept her voice low. "Je voudrais parler avec…"
"Put it down, Mrs. Peel."
The voice, close behind her, meant business. She slowly set the receiver back into its cradle. She had a sinking feeling that things were a lot more complicated than any of them had imagined. "Maurice LeFond, I presume."
"Very good. It seems you know a great deal."
She turned slowly. "That your father is a murderer, for example?"
He nodded, thoughtfully running his left thumb over the hilt of the knife in his hand. "As am I, Mrs. Peel. You might say it runs in the family."
"Regina Spenser." It was a guess, but apparently a good one; he didn't deny it. Emma Peel found her lipstick in the pocket of her dress, worked the cap off, and pushed it up half an inch. Her proximity to the wall covered the motion nicely. Now, if she could just…
"I would advise you to carefully do everything I tell you to do." Maurice LeFond stepped out of the shadows. "And I would like to start by having you turn and walk very slowly and quietly out of here. Please believe me when I tell you I will not hesitate to use this knife if you give me any trouble at all."
It was easy enough to believe. For the moment, at least, she had little choice but to obey. She couldn't count on his reflexes being less than a match for her own in these close quarters.
Her turn would come. Of course, it would have been preferable if she had been able to reach Steed in the restaurant. Vastly preferable.
The stairs leading to the third platform were right outside the back door of the concession. Mrs. Peel glanced around her as the wind tossed her hair. Not a familiar face in sight. Even Robinson would have been better than nothing.
Then Maurice spoke again. "Climb."
00o00
Steed glanced at his watch. Nearly a quarter of one. He'd expected to hear from Mrs. Peel twenty minutes ago, but repeated inquiries to the waiter turned up no messages for him – from anyone.
Obviously, it was time to stop by the souvenir stand in person.
There was only one concessionaire on duty, a heavy-set woman in her mid-sixties who greeted him cheerfully.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle," he replied with a gracious tip of his hat, eliciting a matronly giggle and making the woman's cheeks flush a deep pink. "I wonder… there was a young lady working here a few minutes ago…"
"Ah, oui, Madame Peel."
"That's right."
"I am sorry, monsieur, but she is not here."
"Do you know where she's gone?"
"Non, monsieur. But I did see her talking with a handsome young man several minutes ago."
Steed raised an eyebrow. "You don't say."
"Oh, oui, very handsome. Perhaps they…" She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "This is Paris…"
"Yes, yes, it is, isn't it? Well, thank you very much." He turned away before the look of vague concern took the place of his best smile. Maybe this was Paris – but he sincerely doubted that was the reason Mrs. Peel had left her post. The handsome young man could have been just a friendly stranger buying a souvenir.
In any case, he needed to find her – and quickly.
One brisk turn around the observation deck that turned up not one sign of his partner, and Steed was even more concerned. Surely, she would have told him if their plan was to be altered in some way.
If she'd been able.