Chapter 5
Steed's restaurant had come through again. Emma was sitting opposite him at their usual table, sharing a colossal chef's salad that had been placed between them. The bowl was filled with a dozen varieties of greens along with ham, turkey, and cheese. She had to admit, Steed knew where to get the best Western food in the Far East.
Steed was finding it hard not to be affected by the appearance of Mrs. Peel. She was wearing a lightweight summer dress; it was the first time he had seen her in such attire, and he was impressed at how utterly feminine she looked. As impossible as it seemed, she looked even sexier in a dress than she did in a wet bathing suit.
"Miss Irinova's on her way to London right now," he commented.
Emma thought for a second. "Do you think the assassins will alter their plan after her escape, just in case?"
"There's only one way to be sure," Steed answered. "I'm going to run the marathon myself, try to figure out who the killer is, and stop him before he gets a shot off."
Emma's eyes widened at hearing his plan. She speared a cube of cheese with her fork and waved it at him for emphasis.
"You're turning out to be quite the athlete, Steed. Swimming, fencing, and now running."
"It pays to keep in shape. Hence, the salad before the big race."
"Methinks you care more for the grape than your shape," she rhymed, sipping her wine. She moved her head closer to his across the bowl. "Do you realize by the close of this Olympics you'll have completed three-fifths of a Modern Pentathlon? How are you at pistol shooting and equestrian show-jumping?"
He grinned broadly. "My name is 'Steed'. Born on the back of a horse, they tell me."
"Ah, but facing which end?" she teased. "And how about pistol shooting? Are you as good with a gun as you are with a rifle?"
"I don't often have a gun in my hand," he said casually. "But when one finds its way there, I know what to do with it. When it comes to weapons, I prefer to improvise."
Emma smiled. "They don't have an Olympic event for quarterstaff."
"Too bad. I swing a big stick."
"So I've seen," she said slyly. The wine was starting to affect her again. Her foot was itching to rub against Steed's calf, just like before. Emma felt a warm flush between her thighs; it had been so long. Perhaps Steed sensed her weakness; he leaned forward and refilled her glass.
"I like your dress," he said charmingly.
"Thank you," she smiled.
"I was hoping you might help me with my plan," he continued casually.
She arched an eyebrow. "In what way?"
"I'd like you to be waiting at the final water stop," Steed said smoothly. "Keep a close eye on all of the teams. See if you can spot which one has the gun."
"And here I was, thinking you just wanted me to minister to your hydration needs."
He smiled. "That too."
She looked deep into his eyes. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say."
Emma realized that during the past week, she'd hardly dwelt on Peter's death at all. This business with Steed was exactly the sort of thing she needed right now. If only she could fight the strong attraction that she was starting to feel for him. There was certainly no denying the jealousy that Marina had caused in her.
As if to assert her claim on Steed, she made no move to resist when he slipped his arm around her waist while walking her back to her cottage in the Olympic Village.
-oOo-
The next day, Emma was actually fussing over Steed at the start of the marathon. She carefully pinned a number to the front and back of his top.
"Hold still, will you?" she scolded. Steed just smiled in return. The feel of her hands in contact with his body was enough to get his blood surging from head to toe.
"You look a bit on edge this morning, Mrs. Peel," he said cautiously. Emma said nothing in return; she still felt a little groggy from the wine last night, while Steed looked spry and ready-to-go. She didn't understand how he could drink the same amount as her and still have no after-effects. All the years of drinking must have made him immune, she thought.
Emma tugged his shirt into place, letting her hands rest on his hips for a moment. His body was more muscular than she had imagined. Maybe he really could pull this off.
"Pace yourself, Steed," she said with concern. "They're predicting record temperatures today."
"Can't afford to dally," he answered. "I have to remain in the front pack. If I fall behind, I'll never be able to catch up to prevent the assassination. Do you have a way to get to the final water stop?"
She nodded. "I'm going in the truck with the rest of the British coaching team. You know, we have great hopes for all our runners."
Steed looked at her, deadly serious.
"I'm depending on you, Mrs. Peel," he said. "At the final water stop, you must spot the gun, and see who receives it. Then I'll make sure it never finds its way into the Olympic Stadium."
She tried to match his seriousness. "You can count on me."
-oOo-
The start of the marathon was total chaos. Steed began running in an all-out sprint. It was a pace that would keep him in the lead pack, but one that he could only maintain for a mile or so. After a few minutes, the stream of runners at the front thinned out into a sparse, single-file line.
Steed slowed down a bit to let a group of runners go by. The only other person in sight was the young Korean athlete, Lee Sang Hoon. Steed slowed even more, bending to grab at his calf.
"Cramp, old man," Steed explained. "Should've eaten more bananas."
The young runner gave him a curious look as he sprinted by and vanished around the bend.
Now alone, Steed came to the turn on the course that he had scoped out the night before. With no one around to see, he ducked behind some bushes and trotted onto a side street.
The Rolls Silver Cloud was waiting just where he'd parked it. Inside the trunk he had stored his standard wardrobe. He pulled a dress shirt and pants on over his running outfit, donned his bowler and umbrella, and drove off for the Olympic Stadium.
-oOo-
There were very few places in Japan where one could get get good English tea. Steed was fortunate to have found this one directly in sight of the final water stop of the marathon.
As he watched out the window, he saw the captivating figure of Emma Peel as she worked undercover. She had pulled her auburn hair back into a short, stark ponytail; an attempt to hide her beauty and memorableness, as if that were possible. Mrs. Peel had already developed an easy camaraderie with the coaches from Great Britain and several other countries; her winning smile and delicate wit made her instantly likable.
For a while, Steed had entertained an idea that Peter Peel might have conspired with the Ministry to fake his own death. The disappearance in the jungle, the convenient appearance of the all-too-obvious gold watch. That thought now seemed ridiculous. No living, breathing man could walk away from Emma Peel. There could be no undercover operation so important that a man would leave his beautiful young wife, burdening her with the pain and anguish of his death, just to help achieve some geopolitical goal.
Steed stopped to consider Mrs. Emma Peel for a moment. Her performance in the Amazon had been admirable; her performance in Tokyo, even better. She had the same fighting skills and love of danger as Cathy; more, in fact, if that were possible. She had the same intelligence, spirit, and tenacity as Rita. She had everything a real man could want in a woman.
A few weeks earlier, the Head of Operations had referred to Emma Peel as the ultimate weapon. He wasn't too far off the mark, Steed thought.
Emma Peel was the ultimate woman.
-oOo-
Emma paced nonchalantly up and down the water stop like a restless cat. She knew that Steed was relying on her to spot the gun handoff, but she had no idea what she should be looking for. It wasn't as if one of the coaches was wearing it in a holster around his waist. Emma carefully eyed the trainers who were holding cups of water. None of them seemed to be lugging about any ammo belts.
It must be one of the Eastern Bloc countries. But which one? East Germany? Red China? The Soviets? She methodically canvassed each coaching team in turn, watching for anything suspicious. Then she saw it.
A small plastic cooler was being held by one of the Soviet trainers, much the same as the coolers held by all the other trainers. But there was one important difference. The outside of his cooler was completely dry. All of the others were dripping with condensate in the near triple-digit heat and humidity. What runner wouldn't enjoy a cold drink on such a hot day? What could be in a cooler that required no refrigeration?
Emma was edging closer to the trainer when a large Russian stepped in front of her, barring her way.
"Nazad!" he hissed menacingly.
She moved slowly into a fighting stance, mentally calculating the distance from her foot to the many vulnerable points on his body. He was a big man; but he could be brought down like any other man, if she struck quickly and decisively at the right targets before he could muster a defense.
Before Emma could unleash her attack, she felt a stunning blow hammer into the back of her neck. Her vision dimmed as she weakened and sank to her knees. The last thing she saw was an evil grin on the face of the Russian giant.
-oOo-