Chapter 2
Located in the center of Yoyogi Park and looking considerably like a giant sundial, the Tokyo National Gymnasium was designed by the great Japanese architect Kenzo Tange. The upswept central tower and swirling roof were just as distinctive as the streamlined double-crescent shape that Tange used for the adjoining indoor stadium, the home of the swimming and diving events. Combined, the two structures formed the most modern athletic complex in the world, a fresh construction of steel, glass, and concrete built just for these Olympic Games.
Inside the gymnasium, a variety of sounds echoed through the open space: the metallic clatter of blades, the beeping of the electronic scoring system, and the short, guttural instructions from coaches in every language. There were twelve different fencing strips, or pistes, laid out side by side across the floor; on one of these, a sure-footed woman was pressing her attack across the opposite en-garde line, forcing her opponent to retreat to the warning area just six feet from the end. With a flurry of thrusts and flicks, she drove the other fencer off the strip, earning both a point from the scoring system and a word of praise from her coach.
John Steed was standing off to one side where the men's team was assembling for their upcoming practice. His soft gray eyes were fixed on this particular woman, on the dark brown hair flipped in a low curl around the bottom of her fencing mask. He couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to; from the catlike way she moved, he knew it was Emma Peel.
As if Emma could sense eyes upon her, she turned suddenly and stared at the man near the end of her piste. He was dressed in a cream polo shirt and black slacks. There was something familiar about his wavy dark hair. She took a step closer and recognized him immediately; it was the man who had saved her life in the Amazon. Emma tilted up her mask so she could see better.
"John Steed?" she asked cautiously.
"Just Steed," he corrected her with a smile.
The coincidence made her uneasy. Had the man been following her?
"Spectators aren't allowed in here," she said politely.
"Me? I'm no spectator." Steed winked. "Although I admit I was watching you rather closely."
"Just what are you doing here, Steed?"
He smiled broadly. "Oh, simply lending a hand, helping out the Men's Team."
"You don't just 'help out' an Olympic fencing team," Emma chided. "It takes years of training and practice, and you have to qualify through competition. Don't tell me you're on the team illegally."
"Of course not, Mrs. Peel!" he grinned. "I know a fair bit about fencing. The key is, the pointy end goes away from you."
She wrinkled her mouth at his flippancy. "Was there some sort of last-minute injury that required you to act as a substitute?"
"Actually, they called me in so I could give the lads a few pointers," Steed countered jovially. "Sort of an 'expert advisor', as it were."
She arched her eyebrow at his veiled boast. "Since you know so much, what's your 'expert' opinion of my fencing?"
"You're not too bad," he said casually. "You're just a bit slow with your riposte in quinte."
"I beg your pardon," Emma said coolly. "Who are you to criticize my quinte?"
"You did ask. Just some helpful advice. An opponent might easily exploit it."
"Then perhaps you would like to exploit it, sir." She tossed him a mask. He caught it handily.
"Certainly. Anything I can do to help out the Women's Team." He picked up a foil and tapped it against hers. Emma felt a thrill go through her with the contact. She recalled his skill with the quarterstaff when he fought off the gun-runners back in the Amazon.
"En-garde," Steed offered debonairly. He raised his blade in salute. Emma nodded graciously, sketching a slight salute with her blade.
She then lunged at him quickly, determined to test his reflexes. Steed showed no hesitation at all; he countered her move skillfully, then launched on the offensive himself. Within moments he was doggedly attacking her head with blinding speed, like a machine. It was all she could do to keep her foil high in quinte. After a dozen passes, she adjusted to parry and riposte more effectively.
"Now you're getting it," he said cockily.
Emma fumed under her mask at his presumptuousness. But she had to admit he was good. And he had been right about her quinte. For the next few minutes, they engaged in some dazzling swordplay that caused the other members of both the men's and women's teams to stop and watch.
Even as Emma became certain that she had found a weakness in Steed's defense, he deftly tossed his foil from his right hand to his left. She gasped audibly as she fiercely fought back the onslaught coming from an unexpected direction. Only quick reflexes and a little luck kept her from yielding the point to Steed. He was a tricky one, she thought. Perhaps too tricky. She focused her eyes on his left wrist, watching for a telltale sign of an upcoming hand switch.
Steed's left arm was tiring, and he attempted another quick toss of the foil back into his right hand. Emma was waiting for it, and she flicked her tip into the space between his hands just in time to send Steed's foil tumbling onto the piste. He humbly bent to retrieve his sword.
"Pointy end away," she reminded him teasingly.
"Touché," Steed replied, his voice tinged with respect.
Emma felt that there was something taboo, almost sexual about fencing with Steed. She seldom practiced against men, and Steed had a particularly aggressive style. His thrusts to penetrate her guard, her parry and riposte to deny his advances, all seemed to be part of subtle and delicate foreplay. Within moments she had forgotten the icy reception she had given him, and was starting to remember the warm kinship she had felt when they had been fighting for their lives last month. Aware that other members of her team were looking on, Emma executed a quick swivel, got under Steed's guard, and scored a point. There was some muted applause from her female teammates.
Steed bowed his head to her in deference. "They're going to make that move illegal one day," he said.
She pulled the mask off and her dark hair bounced free around her shoulders. Emma flashed an appreciative smile at him.
"I'll forgive your impudence this time, since you were helpful."
"That's mighty generous of you," Steed answered with a glib smile as he removed his mask. "I'd like to have a word with you tonight," he continued. "Maybe at dinner? You are staying in the Olympic Village, aren't you?"
Emma Peel paused for a moment, considering his offer. She looked directly into his eyes, attempting to detect any sign of subterfuge. He looked as innocent as a newborn baby.
"Well, you did save my life in the Amazon," she conceded. "I suppose the least I can do is have a meal with you."
-oOo-
Steed knew all the restaurants in Japan where one could find a good English meal. It wasn't that Emma didn't appreciate Oriental cuisine, but after a week of fish, she craved meat. He had found a place that served authentic shepherd's pie made with lamb, carrots, peas, and crusty mashed potatoes on top. Hardly a gourmet meal, but Emma decided it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, under the circumstances. The rich red merlot didn't hurt, either. She found herself getting heady and warm, and Steed always seemed to sense the exact moment when to refill her glass.
His flawless manners and quiet politeness only added to his charm. Emma knew from the Amazon that he was capable of necessary violence, but this was the first time she had seen his gentle side. It was an intensely attractive combination. She fought back an urge to rub her foot suggestively against his calf under the table, just to shake his unflappable veneer.
Steed smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and then broached the subject that he had undoubtedly lured her to dinner for.
"I need to contact the Russian swimmer, Marina Irinova," he said casually. "Ordinarily, I'd be happy to slip into her room under the cloak of darkness."
"I'm sure you would," Emma said tersely.
"Problem is," Steed continued smoothly, "she's guarded night and day by a sort of 'portable Iron Curtain', if you get my meaning."
"I get your meaning," she said, arching her eyebrow. "You want me to try to contact her." She pretended to feel imposed on, but it actually sounded exciting. Just the thing she needed to take her mind off Peter.
Steed grinned. "Well, as long as you're volunteering..."
Emma looked deep into his grey eyes. "Rita Fox told me about you, how you trick people into doing things," she said evenly.
"Moi?" he asked with an expression of pure innocence.
"And furthermore, if you're around, there must be trouble. Like gun-runners or spies. Do you work for the government?"
"Let's just say I help them out, from time to time," he answered cryptically.
Emma gave him a measured expression. This agreed with what Rita had told her. If he had lied to her, she would have flatly refused to have anything to do with his plan.
"What makes you think that I might be able to penetrate this 'portable Iron Curtain', as you put it?" she asked.
Steed smiled broadly. "Miss Irinova is unguarded during competition."
"That means I would have to race her."
"Well, if you don't think you're capable, Mrs. Peel..."
"I didn't say that. How in the world would I be allowed to compete with her?"
Steed picked up the carafe and added a little more red wine to her glass. "I've arranged for you to be in the same qualifying heat, the 400-meter freestyle. You can swim, can't you Mrs. Peel?"
"Well, I can certainly outswim you," she boasted.
"But four-plus minutes of non-stop swimming will demand quite a bit of stamina," Steed teased. "Do you think you have what it takes to keep going that long?"
"Effortlessly," Emma smirked. "How will I get the information to you?"
"Why, Mrs. Peel, I'll be swimming in the men's 400-meter heat immediately following you," he replied, grinning ear to ear. "Say—we can meet up afterwards. You'll be sure to remember your time, won't you, so we can compare? Then we'll see if you really can outswim me."
-oOo-