Chapter 2
The trees of the Bois de Boulogne formed a brilliant splash of red, brown, and gold in the fading light of early evening. Steed had rented a 1960 Renault 4CV runabout, which he had pulled over into the grass so that he and Mrs. Peel could stroll down the walkways of the giant park. A breeze rustled the dry leaves, causing Emma to pull her jacket tightly around her.
"It's chilly out here," she commented idly. "I should have brought a heavier coat."
Steed was looking at a collection of women loitering around the promenade. "Not everyone is dressed for the cold," he remarked wryly.
Emma followed his gaze. Young ladies in shockingly risqué outfits were prowling the streets. There was no shortage of bare legs and midriffs, and even the parts that were covered were still partially visible through translucent material. Never before had she seen such a brazen display of feminine wares.
Steed grinned. "This seems to be the entertainment district."
Emma slipped her arm through his and tugged, as if to hold him back. Steed bowed his head approvingly as a nubile blonde pranced by only a few yards away, wearing little more than lingerie.
"Even your leathers would be overdressing here," he continued.
Emma furrowed her brow. "Why would it matter what I wear?"
Steed turned to face her and smiled enigmatically.
She arched her eyebrows in bewilderment. "You mean—me?"
"It's the world's oldest profession, Mrs. Peel. Quite honorable."
"You really expect me to..."
"Just to gather information, of course," he said smoothly. "No actual commerce."
"I haven't a thing to wear."
"You won't need much," Steed answered slyly. "We can go shopping for you tomorrow morning."
Emma folded her arms and gave Steed a measured stare. "What would your plan have been if I had said 'no' to coming to Paris?"
"Said 'no' to Paris?" Steed said with exaggerated astonishment. "I never even considered the possibility. Look, I promise I'll buy you dinner at the Eiffel Tower when this is all done. Think of this as an opportunity to sharpen your undercover skills."
Emma pictured herself strutting down the boulevard dressed only in satin and lace.
"It will be a very expensive meal," she vowed.
-oOo-
They were back in the warm Renault, turning onto a side street only a block from the park. Steed smiled at her in the green glow of the dashboard.
"You're going to need some weapons."
Emma returned his gaze. "Me? Why should I carry weapons?"
"Because I don't," he said. "Except for brolly and bowler, of course." He took off his hat and banged it on the dashboard with a resounding clang. "One of us needs to be armed. I understand you're an expert marksman."
"Markswoman," Emma corrected with a smirk. "So that's the way it is."
"The way what is?"
"You, and the women you work with."
"I suppose so," he said playfully. "I'm the brains, they're the brawn."
Emma's eyes flashed with agitation. "As long as I'm around, I'll be the brains and the brawn," she countered tersely. "What do you bring to the table, Mr. Steed?"
He grinned. "Style? Charm? A boyish enthusiasm?"
She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling. "Where are we going?"
"A safe house." He guided the car to the front of a Victorian townhome and parked on the street. A cobblestone walkway led from the curb through the front yard. They walked side by side up to the front porch, where Steed used the tip of his umbrella to ring the bell.
"Fidget, Mrs. Peel," he said cryptically.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Rebutton your blouse. Set your watch. Adjust your hair."
Emma sighed in irritation as she slipped her thumb under her bra strap and snapped it with a loud pop.
"Keep going," Steed smiled encouragingly.
"And what exactly is this for?"
"Shows were not under duress, that no one is holding a gun to us. If you stand perfectly still, it's a signal to the people inside to prepare a welcoming party before they open the door." He indicated the peephole.
Emma pursed her lips thoughtfully. It made sense. If an enemy did have a gun pointed at you, any sort of motion would make them suspicious that you were trying to communicate to someone inside. Doing nothing was the perfect signal.
"Can't you fidget enough for the two of us?" she asked.
"You need practice. I may not always be with you."
Emma suppressed a snort. She had no intention of doing anything like this without Steed. She became solemn for a moment at the ramifications of that thought.
There was a loud click as the bolt was thrown from inside. The door opened to reveal the scowling face of the Armourer. He shot a withering look at Emma before turning to Steed.
"Brunette this time?" he asked crustily. "What are you trying to do, collect one of each?"
Emma quickly deduced that the woman before Rita must have been a blonde.
Steed smiled broadly. "This is Mrs. Peel. She needs a weapon."
The Armourer frowned. "I don't suppose you have any familiarity with semi-automatic firearms, Mrs. Peel?"
"To the contrary," she answered smoothly. "I'm familiar with quite a few modern makes and models."
"Really," the Armourer responded with a trace of skepticism. He moved to one side to admit the two visitors into a shallow parlor. The walls were lined with armoires that were actually being used for their historical purpose of housing weapons. The Armourer led the way to an antique desk and handed Emma a wooden box.
"This one, perhaps?"
She flipped open the lid and examined the black steel contents.
"It's a Beretta 950 Jetfire mini-pistol, twenty-five caliber," she said matter-of-factly. "Eight rounds, nine when chambered. Weight, one-quarter of a kilo. Less than five inches in length."
The Armourer smiled. "Perfect for a lady's handbag."
"I don't usually carry a purse," Emma mused. "And the twenty-five round is pretty anemic."
"It's sufficient to deter," Steed countered. "We wouldn't want you accidentally killing anyone."
"If I killed anyone," she said evenly, "it wouldn't be an accident."
The Armourer's eyes lit up in admiration at Mrs. Peel's expression of her lethality. "The beauty of the Beretta is that it can be hidden almost anywhere," he added.
Emma hefted the gun, felt its balance, tested the slide action.
"Best not to chamber a round prematurely," the Armourer advised. "It doesn't have a safety. I'm sorry that it isn't the dress model with the chromed finish."
"Black matte is better," she said coolly. "It doesn't reflect light on the draw."
"To be sure, to be sure." The Armourer had a wide grin on his face. His opinion of Mrs. Peel was growing by the second. "Where on earth did you find her, Steed?"
"The Amazon. She's one of those savage women warriors you read about."
Emma turned the gun over in her hand. "What kind of holsters do you have?"
"Thigh, ankle, or a shoulder rig," the Armourer answered. "Of course, you need a jacket or coat for the shoulder holster. But that shouldn't be a problem, this time of year." He went over to a cabinet and produced several harnesses made of black leather, showing each to her in turn.
Emma test-fit a few of them at the various locations on her body. "There's advantages and disadvantages to each of them," she said. "I can't really decide. Perhaps you could recommend one."
"Please; take all three," the old man said graciously. "That way, you can choose whichever one is best for the action at hand." Steed smiled knowingly. The Armourer was completely smitten.
"Speaking of action," the Armourer added. "What are you two going to be doing?"
"We're going undercover," Steed answered.
"Ah, yes; I could see from your clever disguise. Bowler and umbrella again. Might as well paint a target on your back."
-oOo-
The area outside the Victorian townhome was illuminated by a single streetlamp. A dark-haired man with a moustache turned to Vasily.
"Who's the target?"
"The man with the bowler and the umbrella," Vasily answered as they lay in wait outside the safe house. "Didn't you seem him in Tokyo?"
"No. He must have been standing outside the door when Irinova defected." He narrowed his eyes. "But the brown-haired woman—her, we know very well. The last time I saw her, she was playing fireman. We have a score to settle. One involving water."
"Very well, then; we shoot Steed, and drown the woman in the Seine."
"We can throw her off Le Pont de Suresnes, if we hurry. How long will they be in there?"
There was a scuffling sound as the front door opened.
"Here they come now," Vasily grinned.
"Are they armed?" the man asked.
"Haven't you heard? Steed never carries a gun."
-oOo-
Steed had just offered Emma a hand to get down the steps when a sliver of mortar flew in front of his eyes, followed by a whizzing hum like a rocketing hornet. He immediately recognized the sound and instinctively ducked, tugging on Mrs. Peel's arm to seek whatever scant cover was offered by the front yard. But she would have none of it; she whipped the Beretta out of its wooden box, chambered the first round, and squeezed off a spray of four shots into the bushes across the street in a single, continuous motion. There was a panicked scramble as two men took off running.
"Some 'safe' house," Emma said sardonically.
Steed tenderly touched her arm. "Are you okay?"
"These holidays of yours seem dangerous." She delicately covered his hand with her own. "Friends of yours?"
"They must have followed us from the airport," he reasoned. "Did you get a look at them?"
She shook her head. "They scampered like rabbits."
"Small wonder, once they saw your poaching skills. At least you've had a chance to fire the Beretta."
"Just a bother. Now I'll have to clean it. Shouldn't we try contacting the police?"
Steed had a wry expression. "Let's just say I've had some 'awkward relations' with the Sûreté, and would like to avoid any entanglements with French law enforcement."
"Why is it that I think a woman is involved?"
"Cherchez la femme," he grinned.
-oOo-
Emma was curled up in the passenger seat of the Renault, inspecting the Beretta. Its performance had met with her approval. She carefully reloaded it with the spare ammunition that the Armourer had pressed into her jacket pocket as they were leaving. Steed was scanning the street outside, checking the various hotels that bordered the park.
"We'll need a place to stay, somewhere near the Bois." He pulled past an ancient-looking structure that had delicate Gothic tracery and spandrels. "How about this one?" he suggested.
"It looks lovely," Emma said wistfully.
"Probably three hundred years old," Steed commented. "But it's within walking distance of the promenade, the spot where the agents were found."
"So that's why you think the ladies might know something."
"I'm sure of it." Steed parked in one of the visitor spots out front. He opened the trunk and hoisted Mrs. Peel's tote over his shoulder. She walked up next to him and carefully tucked the Beretta away into one of its compartments.
The front desk was attended by a stern-looking Frenchman with a pencil-thin moustache. He immediately recognized the newcomers as foreigners—even worse, tourists—and he could barely hide his distaste as they approached.
"We'd like some lodging, please," Steed began cheerfully.
"I'm afraid we have only one room left."
"We'll take it," Emma said casually.
"Are you together?" the manager asked, an expression of disapproval starting to pass over his face.
"Yes," Emma said forcefully. "Is there a problem with that?"
"This is a reputable establishment," he answered snootily. "I'm afraid only married couples may stay here."
"We are married," Emma said smoothly, showing her wedding ring. She hoped he didn't ask to see Steed's. "We're Mr. and Mrs... Knight."
"Why do you have so little luggage?"
Emma looked flustered. Steed smiled.
"Why, we're eloping," he babbled giddily. "Couldn't wait to get across the Channel to the City of Lights. 'See Paris and die', as they always say." He pulled Emma close to him and she smiled as she rested her head on his shoulder, for realism's sake.
"Oui, monsieur. The bed is not that large, but may be sufficient for what little sleep you have time for."
Emma wrinkled her mouth and Steed winked. He slipped a large tip across the counter as the manager handed him the key.
"I'll make sure the steam is extra warm for your room, m'sieu," he whispered to Steed as he walked past. "Perfect for the honeymoon night."
There was no elevator, so they had to trudge up two flights of stairs. The room was well-decorated and cozy. The bed was indeed small, as the manager had warned.
"I'll sleep on the floor," Steed announced.
"Don't be ridiculous," Emma answered. "It's cold enough outside we should have no problem sleeping in our clothes. We can share the bed." She looked doubtfully at the four-and-a-half foot wide brass-framed mattress.
Steed washed up as Emma set about cleaning the Beretta. He plopped down onto one side of the bed, and was asleep within minutes. Emma smiled as she looked at his boyish face, the way a small curl of hair crept down onto his forehead as he dozed. She finished with the gun and packed it away into its wooden box. Then, still dressed in her blouse and wool skirt, she lay down on the bed beside him, and was asleep within minutes herself.
-oOo-
Emma awoke at two in the morning. She was wringing wet; at first she thought the room must be on fire. Then she realized that the heat was coming from the large radiator beneath the room's only window.
She rolled out of bed and staggered over to the window, hoping to let some chilly night air in. But it seemed to be locked at the sash, or perhaps had been rendered incapable of opening during the many centuries. She dabbed some sweat off her forehead with a sleeve as she turned back towards the bed. It was hotter than a Riviera summer.
Emma arched her eyebrows as she saw Steed sleeping half-naked. He had done the smart thing; he must have woken up sometime earlier and stripped down to his boxers. She looked at his bare chest with the small diamond of dark hair in its center. Sensing that he slept soundly, she walked over to the writing desk and turned away from the bed.
She unbuttoned her blouse and slipped off her bra to feel the air wash across her damp torso. Then she saw Steed's undershirt neatly folded on the chair next to the desk. She picked it up and delicately touched it to her cheek. It smelled like him. She slipped it on; it fit loosely, but it was soft and comfortable; certainly better than trying to sleep in her long-sleeved blouse.
Emma turned to make sure that Steed was still dozing. She removed her skirt so that she was wearing only her slip and crawled back into bed.
-oOo-
When she awoke the next morning, Emma found that she had snuggled up next to Steed. The sheets had been kicked down to a spot near their feet. Her head was resting on Steed's chest, her arm pulled tightly around him as if he were a life preserver and she was adrift. Their legs were intertwined.
Steed stirred. He was waking up. Emma quickly untangled her arms and legs from him and retreated to her side of the bed.
"Good morning, Steed," she said sweetly. "What happened to 'sleeping with your clothes on'?"
He rose groggily and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.
"I apologize, Mrs. Peel; but it was so hot in here—is that my shirt?"
Emma reddened and demurely pulled the sheet up for extra coverage. "As you say," she replied wryly, "it was quite hot."
Steed smiled. "I'll get on the phone and see about ordering some breakfast. Can't afford to skip meals—you never know when your next one will be."
Emma scampered towards the bathroom. "I get the shower first."
"Well, there'll be no lack of hot water, if it's the same boiler responsible for the heat," Steed commented. He picked up the phone on the nightstand and called the front desk.
Emma basked in the warmth of the shower, washing off all traces of last night's gun battle and sauna-like sweating. She heard the door open in bedroom; the breakfast must have arrived. As she stepped out of the shower, she saw Steed's undershirt draped on the doorknob. She playfully spritzed it with a dash of her fragrance. Now he can be reminded of me all day, she thought.
A muted crash sounded from the bedroom. Clumsy busboy, she thought. Then, suddenly, her senses were on alert; there were no voices in the other room. If the server had actually dropped a dish, Steed would be effusively forgiving him by now. She slipped her panties back on, along with Steed's undershirt, and silently eased open the bathroom door.
A man was strangling Steed with the phone cord. Emma rushed forward and struck a stinging blow to the attacker's neck with the flat of her hand. He released Steed and turned to face her. She faked a low kick at his groin in order to lure his guard away from his upper body, then kicked high, her bare foot landing squarely in the center of his chest. The man's lungs emptied with a loud 'whoof' sound. He spun around dizzily for a second before crashing to the floor. Steed smiled at her.
"Thank you, Mrs. Peel. You're quite good at that."
She placed her palms together and sketched a slight bow. "King's Road Dojo," she said cockily. "We never fail."
"Well, let's see who our early morning visitor is. Certainly not a bellhop."
Emma squatted next to Steed as he searched the man's pockets, then became aware that she was wearing only panties and Steed's undershirt.
"I should get dressed," she announced. Steed paid no attention; he was looking at something in the man's wallet.
"Things are looking up," he said with a smile. "We haven't even been here twenty-four hours, and they've already tried to kill us twice."
She called out an answer to him from the bathroom. "Hardly cause for a celebration, unless you moonlight as an undertaker."
"If they're looking for us, it means we don't have to waste our time looking for them," he said cheerfully.
-oOo-
Vasily was in a room underground, deep beneath the streets of Paris. The mechanical clank of a printing press sounded rhythmically through the far wall. Seated at a desk in front of him was a man with dark hair and ice-blue eyes.
"Twice we have been close to killing Steed," Vasily said angrily. "Both times, a woman saved his life. I have instructed my men to kill her as well."
A look of alarm crossed The Ladja's face. "The woman with Steed must not be harmed!" he cried. "Get to your bumbling oafs and make sure they don't hurt her!"
"What do you care? Just one more dead British agent."
"She's no agent."
"My men tell a different story. They claim she was the woman who worked with Steed to stop the assassination in Tokyo. Don't you remember? She was caring for him after the marathon in the Olympic Stadium."
"I tell you, she's no agent," The Ladja repeated severely. "She's... my wife. She's just a little confused right now."
"Confused?" Vasily asked, showing signs of perplexity himself. "Your wife?"
"Yes. But once Steed is dead, I will make everything clear to her. Then we can be together again." He smiled and walked over to the window.
"Just as I always planned," he added.
-oOo-
