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"See Paris And Die"

An Avengers Fanfiction

The ninth in a series of adventures designed to bridge the year and a half between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964), and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965)

Disclaimer: Some copyrighted characters have been borrowed

November 1964

Steed loses his shirt. Emma is finally warmed.

The Kings Road Dojo in Chelsea had long been the destination where the famous and the infamous went to hone their physical skills. James Bond had sparred here in the fifties; Simon Templar had been known to take a class or two in judo. Willie Garvin would stop by on occasion, before he built his private retreat behind The Treadmill. But one thing had always been a constant: women were only allowed to observe, not to participate.

By the early sixties, things had changed. One casual visit by Modesty Blaise had lead to the owner being informed of the chauvinism of his policy, and for his own well-being, he decided to embrace progress. Still, it took a strong female to enter this hotbed of machismo and gain acceptance.

The woman with the rich auburn hair had become a familiar sight at the dojo. Even so, the male bystanders were never prepared for the sight that greeted them when she was immersed in one of her workouts, as she was this morning. The devastating barrage of strikes and kicks that she was raining down on the practice dummy would have been sufficient to incapacitate even the strongest of men. Several spectators winced as they imagined her hapless opponent.

Emma Peel was working out more than her muscles—she was working out her frustration with life in general. The loss of Peter eight weeks ago had hit her with a force that she could have never imagined. Fortunately, she had found someone to lean on, a man who had been an anchor in the swirling maelstrom that her life had become. Like so many times during the past week, she found her thoughts wandering to John Steed.

He'd been moody ever since their return from Tokyo. She had managed to have dinner with him once, but his mind seemed to be elsewhere—on another favor he had to perform for the government, perhaps? She had tried to reach Rita Fox, the Ministry librarian, but had been told that she had just moved to Swansea. It was odd that someone who had worked so closely with Steed would just vanish out of the picture at a time when Emma herself wanted to spend more time with him.

Perhaps it was Rita's leaving that had put Steed in his funk. She remembered Rita's delirious ramblings in the Amazon that sounded like an erotic encounter with Steed.

Then it dawned on her. Rita hadn't just been Steed's research assistant. Rita had been his lover.

So that's his game, Emma thought. Seduces all the women he works with. Well, I won't be falling into his bed anytime soon. She smashed a rigid fist into the practice dummy's midsection, then swung her leg back and unleashed a kick that knocked it off its stand and into the wall, causing startled spectators to run for cover.

But even as she promised herself to resist Steed, doubt crept in. She was a woman, and she had needs, now that Peter was gone. And more and more she found herself fantasizing about Steed filling those needs.

-oOo-

The Russian swimmer came out of Steed's bedroom. She wore nothing but a nylon leotard that was whisper-thin and cut like a racing suit, with high openings on the hip that emphasized her long and perfect legs. She took one look at Steed in the living room and demurely covered herself with her hands in embarrassment. This, in spite of the fact that she knew Steed would be there.

"I apologize, tovarisch. As a swimmer for the past ten years, I'm not used to wearing anything but a bathing suit. I'm afraid I spent all my time in the women's dormitory at Ozero Krugloye, and this is the only sleepwear I have."

A grin tugged at the corners of Steed's mouth. "I approve of it most heartily, in the spirit of détente."

Marina Irinova walked over to Steed and lightly kissed his cheek.

"You are truly a gentleman, Steed. I feel bad inconveniencing you, such that you sleep on the sofa."

"Well, you needn't feel bad any longer, because I'm going out of town for a few days."

"You must have breakfast with me before you go," Marina said firmly. "I have been trying to learn to make British tea. I'm afraid I'm not very good yet."

Steed followed her into the kitchen, appreciating the unobstructed view of her athletic backside that the leotard afforded. Marina set to work at the stove, and Steed kept out of her way, setting out some light cakes on a tray. After several minutes, Marina offered him a cup of tea. It wasn't very good, but it could have been much worse.

"You seem to be getting the hang of it," he offered politely. "Always make sure you use cold water; it makes better bubbles. And bring it to a full boil," he advised, nibbling on a cake with his tea.

"Today I thought I might try to make muffins," she added. "I have a—how do you call it—'parts list'?"

"Recipe," Steed corrected. "I look forward to sampling your creations when I return."

"How long will you be gone?" Marina asked earnestly.

"For a week, maybe two," Steed answered. "When I get back we can go down to Whitehall and look at some pictures to see if you can identify The Ladja. By then your security clearance should have passed."

"Do they not trust me?"

"You could be a double agent yourself, working for the KGB," he explained. "After we show you pictures of every agent we have, you waltz back to Moscow and describe them all in detail."

"I would never do that, dushka."

"I'm not the one you have to convince. This decision has to be made at the highest level, by Sir Gerald."

Marina simply nodded. Steed pulled up his cuff to look at his watch.

"Well, comrade dearest, I have to dash. Flight leaves in an hour." He set the teacup down on the dining table. "But keep an eye on the place while I'm gone."

She handed Steed his umbrella and smartly placed his bowler on his head, kissing him on the cheek once again. She took his arm in hers and walked beside him to the landing. He turned his head to look at her.

"Don't open the door for anyone," Steed cautioned. "The Ladja's men may still be after you."

"I will be careful, dushenika. If a man comes too close..." She made a sudden upward thrust with her knee, waist-high. "Yaishnitsa!"

"Scrambled eggs?" Steed translated with a wry grin. Marina blushed.

"It is the way they taught us to fight men when I was at girls' school," she added in embarrassment. "But I'm sure I do it very well, because no man has ever been able to stand up afterwards, for many minutes."

Steed smiled. "Just in case, I'll leave you a real weapon. But you should only use it in an emergency." He walked over to the writing desk and slid open a drawer to reveal a small revolver.

-oOo-

The large green Bentley pulled into the spot just behind a brand new 1964 white Lotus convertible. Steed checked the address once again to make sure he had the right place. He should have known; the Elan was exactly the type of car that Mrs. Peel would drive.

The hallway door to her flat was adorned by a giant eye with fuzzy lashes. As he pressed the nearby button with the tip of his umbrella, the lid fluttered open, revealing a fisheye lens. Steed peered into its depths with a cocky grin. There was a microphone recessed in the surface.

"Good morning, Mrs. Peel!" he called out cheerily.

"Come on in, Steed," came the breezy reply through a raspy electric speaker in the wall. A click sounded as the door latch was released. Steed pushed it open and stepped inside.

Mrs. Peel was only partially dressed, wearing brief shorts and a form-fitting top that stopped well above her navel to reveal an enticing midriff. She seemed to have just come from a workout at the gym. Steed tried not to stare at her superb body as he politely removed his bowler.

"I'm going on holiday," he announced jovially.

"When?" she asked, running a towel through her still-damp hair. "This weekend?"

"In forty minutes. Would you like to come?"

"Where?"

"Paris. The City of Lights."

"Is this like your holiday in Brazil and Tokyo?"

"Precisely!" Steed beamed. "You said you were interested in tagging along. I just thought I'd offer."

Emma smirked. "What's the reason for this 'holiday'?"

"Four—shall we say, 'government employees'—have disappeared in the Bois de Boulogne in the past month."

"I take it they weren't file clerks?"

"They were not," he answered seriously. "We believe The Ladja is responsible."

"The double agent, The Crow?"

"Ladja means 'Rook', like the chesspiece, not the bird," Steed corrected. "Marina has given us a full physical description."

Emma wrinkled her nose. "You mean Miss Irinova?"

"Yes, of course."

"A man with 'ice-blue eyes'."

Steed nodded. "We have over a hundred agents with gray or blue eyes. Even I could qualify, depending on your definition of 'ice-blue'," he added with a grin. "Luckily, I know I'm not The Rook, so that knocks one name off the list."

"Where is Miss Irinova, anyway?"

"She's staying at my place."

Emma felt a twinge of jealousy in spite of herself. She draped the towel around her shoulders and walked over to the window. Steed followed and stood beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She pointed to the green monstrosity that was parked behind her new convertible.

"Is that your car?" she asked with a laugh.

The sound of Mrs. Peel's laughter was one of the many things about her that Steed had come to love while in Tokyo, but his pride was still wounded.

"It's a sports car," he said defensively.

"Thirty years ago, maybe," she teased. "Am I to feel safe as a passenger?"

"I drive better than I fence," he offered.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Emma said with a smile. "Let me go pack my things." She headed for the bedroom.

"No luggage, just a tote," Steed called after her. "Bring your leathers."

Emma poked her head out of the doorway and arched an eyebrow. "You're anticipating action?"

"Of course," Steed smiled. "Aren't you?"

-oOo-

Thirty feet below ground, a large subterranean chamber had been excavated and lined with cinderblock. In a spartan collection of offices in this secure basement, the supreme Soviet intelligence agency conducted its most secret business.

It was here that Anatol Gogol, the head of the KGB, preferred to meet with his operatives. He had a luxuriously furnished office in the building upstairs, but all important conversations were held down here, far from the reach of prying eyes and ears.

The Ladja stood before him, bowler hat in hand.

"You're a sentimental idiot, Pyotr," Gogol began. "You were ordered to woo and wed Miss Emma Knight, not fall in love with her."

The Ladja stared blankly at his superior, his ice-blue eyes revealing no emotion. Gogol continued talking.

"The Ministry has almost certainly put your wife together with this Steed fellow to make you jealous. They want to lure you into coming back, bearing all our secrets, no doubt. It appears to be working."

The Ladja knew better than to interrupt. Saying anything might give his superior some insight into his state of mind.

"I warn you Pehlovich, if you were to even think about such a trade, I would have you executed immediately."

The Ladja finally broke his silence. His voice was filled with exasperation.

"I don't see how Emma could become so close to another man so quickly, without proof that I am dead."

"Perhaps she has proof," Gogol replied. "Do you have any keepsake of hers that you always have in your possession, something that you would never be parted with?"

Pehlovich fished out a gold pocket watch and flipped it open, reading the inscription. From Emma, with love. He looked up at Gogol.

"She knows I would never part with this while I'm still alive."

Gogol nodded. "Almost certainly, MI6 made a copy of the watch and left it at the crash site. Then they sent Steed there to make sure she found it, then seduce her."

The Ladja shook his head angrily. "My Emma is too perceptive to be fooled by such a ruse. She would see right through Steed's efforts."

Gogol lifted his chin and spoke thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, Steed has no idea about the plan. This sounds more and more like the work of Sir Gerald Tarrant, my opposite at the Ministry."

The Ladja lapsed back into silence.

"It is easy to piece together what happened," Gogol continued. "A week after your disappearance, the British government finds the crash site. They immediately realize that the jet is not the Foxbat at all, but a junk MiG fitted with a low-altitude ejection seat. The situation is lost, they think; you must have come over to us, telling us everything. No wonder their agents in Europe are dying in droves."

Gogol lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke carefully, precisely. "But what to do? The cat is out of the bag, as they say. There is one hope. The pilot may still be in love with his wife. Jealousy might give them the lever they need. But she would never look at another man while her husband might still be alive."

"So they make Emma think that I am dead," Pyotr offered.

Gogol nodded. "They plant the watch where she is sure to see it. And they find a man who is her perfect match, one who is similar to you. If he is already involved with a woman, they un-involve him."

The Ladja arched his eyebrows. "They may have killed Steed's lover to get him to turn to Emma?"

"It would be most effective. Two people struggling from the loss of their lovers, thrown together. Although I'm sure Tarrant would try to lure Steed's lover away, first. He has always been squeamish about killing for the good of The State." Gogol smiled. "It is his weakness."

The Ladja did not appear happy. "What can I do?"

"Forget Emma Knight ever existed. Get on with your life."

Pyotr Pehlovich narrowed his eyes. "If Steed were to die, and I could lure Emma back to me, would you allow her to come to Moscow?"

Gogol didn't like what he was hearing. "I won't have you jeopardizing any of our operations with a vendetta against this Steed."

"But if he should happen to die in the course of his activities against us?"

Gogol smiled malevolently. "Then I could hardly deny reuniting a man with his wife."

-oOo-