Chapter 6
The afternoon sun was starting to slant beneath the awnings of the quaint teahouse as Steed checked his watch. It was time to leave. He delicately dabbed his lips with a napkin and rose from the table, turning his back to the window just as the commotion began at the water stop outside. At the cash register in the rear, a shy Oriental waitress bowed ceremoniously to him as he pulled out a few high-value yen notes to pay his tab. Steed smiled and gestured to the refrigerator case next to her.
"A bottle of Perrier, please."
-oOo-
Emma sensed light and motion as she regained consciousness. One of the British coaches was hovering over her.
"Get back, you lot!" he shouted at the crowd that had gathered around. "She's fainted from the heat."
"Soviets..." she mumbled weakly. "Steed. Tell Steed."
"Poor lady," the British coach frowned. "She's delirious. Must be heatstroke." He hoisted her in his arms and carried her over to the medical tent. A waiting doctor motioned for the coach to lay Emma on a cot in the shade before turning to the male nurse next to him.
"Get some water and a couple of salt tablets," he ordered sternly.
Emma tried to fight the dizziness that engulfed her. The back of her neck still throbbed from the sharp blow that had knocked her out. She hadn't even gotten a look at her assailant.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the large Russian standing by the road and leering back at her with a grin of satisfaction. If only she had been able to unleash her kicks, he would be the one recovering in the medical tent instead of her; she would have made certain of that. There was no sign of the accomplice that must have ambushed her. As she watched, the large Russian moved to one side, giving her a clear view of the trainer reaching into the not-cold cooler.
-oOo-
A minute later, Steed was parking the Rolls near some bushes just a quarter-mile up the road. It was a blind turn here, and with careful timing, he could rejoin the race just as he had left it. Of course, he would be instantly disqualified once the race officials reported that he hadn't passed any of the water stops in between. But by that time, his job would be done. He stripped off his coat and pants so that he was once again clad in his shorts and top. Then he swapped his dress loafers for his battered running shoes.
The heat and humidity had climbed during the day to an oppressive level. Steed took a long swig of the cold Perrier. Then he raised the bottle over his head, inverted it, and let the water run down over his head and shoulders, soaking him. He rubbed some of the water into his face, then dabbed a bit behind each ear with a contented sigh. Mineral goodness straight from the Vergèze, he thought. Then he crouched behind the bushes to wait for the runners to go by.
After nine closely-grouped runners went past, Steed saw his opportunity. The young Korean athlete from earlier in the race, Lee Sang Hoon, was sprinting by with no followers. Steed trotted out onto the road only twenty feet behind him and accelerated to a full run. He feigned heavy panting as he blew by the young runner.
"Finally managed to pass you back, old man," Steed called out jovially.
-oOo-
Emma held out little hope now. Both she and Steed had failed. As she was struggling to recover in the medical tent, she had seen the Soviet trainer pull something out of the cooler and slip it to his country's runner, Arkov. It must have been the gun. Not that it mattered. Eight runners had gone by within the past minute, and Steed was nowhere in sight.
The Ladja had beaten them. She tried to imagine the political upheaval in Japan tomorrow morning. Many people would suffer. But what hurt her the most was the feeling that she had let Steed down. Why did it matter to her so much? How had she become so close to this man in such a short time?
While she pondered this, a hundred yards away, through the waves of shimmering heat, she saw a runner with wavy dark hair running briskly toward the water stop. At first she thought it must be a mirage. Then she felt a surge of joy as she realized all was not lost.
Emma sprang from the cot that she had been deposited on. The male nurse ran after her.
"Here, Miss! You shouldn't be up and about." He lassoed her about the waist with a beefy arm. She struggled to free herself, finally resorting to an elbow that struck just south of his kidney. He released her with a grunt. Emma ran at full clip out to the roadside just in time to intercept the lone runner.
Steed looked remarkably fresh, considering the exertion and toll the race must have taken on him. His entire body was soaking wet, bathed in sweat from the blazing sun, no doubt. Emma pushed through the trainers to shout directly into Steed's ear as he passed.
"It's the Soviet athlete—Arkov!" she yelled. "Do you hear that, Steed? He's number forty-three."
Steed vaguely nodded back, but she wasn't sure that he was able to comprehend what she was saying. Poor man. He must be at the point of exhaustion, she thought.
-oOo-
As Steed pulled away from the water stop, a wry grin crept across his face. Mrs. Peel was proving to be most competent. He accelerated past the runner in ninth position and spotted the number forty-three on a jersey just two runners ahead. The assassin wore a heavy shirt, completely incongruous with the near hundred-degree-Fahrenheit weather. The gun must be underneath.
Steed pulled up closer. The crowd lining the streets cheered wildly to see such a burst of energy from a runner so near to the finish line, not knowing that he had skipped twenty-four of the miles in the middle.
-oOo-
Emma had jumped onto the chase truck with the other British coaches. They were now speeding ahead of the runners towards the massive Olympic Stadium. A portable shortwave receiver in the cargo area was picking up a live English-language broadcast.
"And it's a great showing for Great Britain," the announcer quipped. "At the last stop, it was Benjamin Basil Heatley in second, Brian Leonard Kilby in fourth, and John Wickham Steed in ninth."
The British coach who had revived her was seated just opposite.
"Feeling better now, Miss?" he asked. "That's some cruel heat out there today. They'll be lucky if they don't keel over."
Emma's thoughts went to Steed. What a man. Running twenty-six miles in the sweltering heat in the hope of stopping an assassination.
The coach continued talking. "You're with that Steed fellow, aren't you?"
She smiled. "Yes."
"His living up to his name. Quite a late charger."
As long as he can run fast enough to catch Arkov, she thought grimly.
The truck pulled to a stop at the race officials' entrance to the arena. The coaches were escorted to a reserved bench right next to a railing that bordered the clay track. Emma joined them in this exclusive front-row seat.
A loud roar echoed through the stadium as the first runner entered, an Ethiopian. He was sprinting effortlessly, circling the track and crossing the line just as another pair of runners entered through the archway at the far end.
For a moment, Emma lost all ability to hear as every voice in the stadium rose in cheer. The Japanese national hero Kokichi was locked in a duel with the Englishman Heatley. The deafening sound waves seemed to become almost visible as the runners approached the finish line. Emperor Hirohito rose to his feet in a rare display of emotion.
With a final sprint, Heatley took the silver, with Japan having to settle for the bronze. But the fans in the stadium were overjoyed with any medal, and tumult reigned everywhere in the stands.
At the far end of the stadium, Kilby had entered in fourth, followed closely by a Hungarian and an American. A new runner was now entering the stadium every twenty or thirty seconds. Emma's eyes widened as she saw the next athlete to enter. It was Arkov.
Just behind him, flagging a bit, but still looking remarkably sharp after twenty-six miles, was John Steed. Emma ran down to the railing, completely forgetting herself in the excitement of the moment.
"Run, Steed! Run!" she called out excitedly, jumping up and down. A Japanese guard held her back from stepping out on to the track. Emma turned her head sideways and saw that Emperor Hirohito was still standing, an inviting target for the Soviet assassin.
-oOo-
Steed poured on every ounce of speed he could muster as he closed on Arkov. The man slid his right arm beneath his shirt, probably pulling the gun from a concealed holster, Steed thought. A quick glance from side to side revealed that no security guards would be close enough to interfere. The assassin was going to get a clean shot at the supreme ruler of Japan if Steed couldn't stop him.
Their journey around the track had now brought the pair of runners only a few yards away from the reviewing stand. Arkov slowed imperceptibly in preparation for his shot. This was the break that Steed had been waiting for. With a final burst of energy, he leaped at the assassin just as the gun became visible. Arkov's finger jerked on the trigger, but Steed's arm had deflected the gun well wide; the shot went harmlessly into the turf. Steed followed through to complete the tackle, landing heavily on Arkov's back.
At the sound of the gunshot, security guards poured onto the field, including the one just in front of Emma. She followed him as they rushed toward the reviewing stand to surround the Emperor. Emma sprinted over to where two guards were handcuffing Arkov. Steed was sprawled on the infield grass next to the clay track, while other runners were still entering the stadium to complete the marathon. He was panting like a racehorse, the same way she had been panting when he had saved her life with his rifle shot in the Amazon.
Emma knelt by his side and supported his head in her hands. Steed looked back at her with his guileless gray eyes. She had to fight back the urge to kiss him long and wickedly, in front of a stadium full of thousands of people, as reward for his efforts.
"You're clearly in your mid-thirties, Steed," she began softly. "What on earth made you think you could run a marathon and tackle an assassin after twenty-six miles?"
"I did stop him, didn't I?" he asked, feigning confusion.
"Yes, you did." She patted his chest gently. The enormity of his actions suddenly struck home to her. He might have just changed the entire history of the world with that tackle. She added tenderly, "How are you feeling?"
"Things got a bit dim there at the end." Steed looked at her with a serious expression. "Then I thought of your smiling face waiting for me at the finish line, and I found that little extra something to keep on going." He grinned broadly.
"You mean..."
"That's right, Mrs. Peel. The hip flask you keep tucked in your pocket."
She rolled her eyes as she reached in and pulled it out. Steed took a tiny sip, and she could see color come back to his cheeks.
"Ah, that's better," Steed smiled.
-oOo-
"I thought MI6 wasn't going to send anybody," Vasily said, turning to address the man next to him in the stands. "Wasn't that one of the British runners that tackled Arkov?"
The Ladja gave no indication that he had heard the remarks of his comrade. His attention remained focused on the field, on the woman who was ministering to the man who had foiled the whole scheme.
"I've checked the number on the British runner," Vasily continued. "It's listed as a 'John Wickham Steed'. Perhaps he works for the British Secret Service?"
The Ladja still didn't answer. He stared at the scene in the middle of the stadium, expressionless. His ice-blue eyes showed a flicker of emotion before he finally spoke.
"I cannot be seen here."
He turned and walked quickly from the stadium.
-oOo-
That night, back in his hotel room, Steed was on the phone with Charles.
"Good work, Steed," the Head of Operations gushed. "I've just heard that Arkov's confessed to the Japanese police about his plan to assassinate Hirohito. Of course, he's claiming he acted on his own."
"That's mighty loyal of him," Steed mused. "Any chance we might get a crack at him with our wringer?"
"Afraid not. This is within Japanese jurisdiction. How's our woman in Tokyo doing? Do you think she's the type of partner you might be able to work with?"
"She's perfect." Steed didn't feel the need to elaborate; the word spoke for itself. "Any word on Peter Peel?"
"There won't be any news forthcoming, I can assure you," Charles said flatly. "Peter Peel is dead. You need have no guilt about working with his wife."
"Yes, of course," Steed replied absently.
"When you get back, there's something very important we want you to look into," Charles continued. "You'll probably need Mrs. Peel's help. Perhaps you should start laying the groundwork for your future partnership."
"Meaning?"
"Wine her and dine her." Charles was grinning at the other end of the phone. "The Ministry will pick up the tab."
-oOo-
The Olympic Village was half-empty now that the closing ceremonies had concluded. Steed entered his favorite eatery, the one he had frequented with Mrs. Peel. To his surprise, she was seated at their regular table. She was delicately sipping a pale yellow liquid from a porcelain cup without a handle. When she looked up and saw him walking over, her face lit up.
"Steed!" she greeted him warmly. "You're still here."
"Mrs. Peel!" Steed arched an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't drink sake."
She smiled back at him. "When in The Orient..."
Steed grinned. "Rice beer has quite a kick, but I look forward to getting back to some good old English lager." He ordered warm sake and sat down next to her. When his drink arrived, he sipped it quietly, waiting for Mrs. Peel to start the conversation.
Emma moved closer to him and looked deep into his gray eyes.
"Do you do this a lot, Steed?" she asked.
"What's that, Mrs. Peel?"
"This. Compete in the Olympics, aid Communist defectors, foil assassins."
"Only on holiday," he answered glibly.
"Weren't you on holiday in Brazil when you met me?"
"I take a lot of holidays."
"When and where do you actually work?"
"I try to avoid that," Steed said seriously, and then gave her a wink. "Gets in the way of the holidays, you know."
Emma could no longer contain herself. She burst out with a light, lilting laugh.
"Let me know when you take another one of these holidays," she said in good humor, sipping her drink.
"So you can be somewhere else?"
"No, quite to the contrary," she replied. "I think I should be around to make sure you don't do yourself harm."
"Are you sure you'll be able to keep up with me, Mrs. Peel?"
She raised her cup of sake to him.
"Anything you can do, I can do better," she boasted. "Or, at least, as well," she amended.
Steed raised his cup to her and smiled charmingly.
"We'll just see about that."
-oOo-