Chapter 5

"Bon soir, m'sieu. My name is Mimi."

Steed debonairly removed his bowler and smiled at her. "My name is John Steed."

"Plaisir," she replied sweetly. The young girl escorted him through the sprawling nightclub to a table close to the manager's office, just as she had been instructed. Steed placed his bowler on his umbrella handle and hung it on the edge of the table. After ordering a brandy, he started to scan his surroundings for suspicious characters.

The clientele was mostly male and mostly upper-class. Steed was positive he noticed not only several grands électeurs, but a few members of the sénat as well. Champagne was flowing as freely as beer would at an English pub. In addition to the politicians, several obviously wealthy businessmen were ogling the skimpily-dressed waitresses.

Across the room he could see Mrs. Peel wearing an outfit similar to Mimi's. Along with the pointed ear headband she had donned earlier, she was dressed in a black bra top and miniskirt with matching panties. A furry, semi-rigid tail flowed out behind her, supported by a strap hidden in her waistband. In her navel she wore a small, jeweled ornament shaped like a cat's face, held in place by a dab of adhesive. Even in this ridiculous costume, she looked unbelievably sexy.

Emma sensed his gaze, turning towards him with a smile. She sauntered over with a tray of drinks, sinuously swinging her hips to cause the tail to bounce jauntily back and forth. Steed pretended not to notice, instead focusing his attention on Mimi, who had bent to retrieve something and was now displaying a breathtaking view of her pert backside. There was one difference from Mrs. Peel's attire—Mimi was wearing a G-string under her miniskirt, and both cheeks were clearly visible from this pose. He spoke without taking his eyes off the provocative display.

"I must say, I approve of the cat-suits."

Emma interposed her body to cut off his line of sight.

Steed smiled. "Easy, Mrs. Peel. You know you're my favorite feminine feline."

Emma's hands were full with the serving tray, so she playfully whipped him with her tail.

"Watch out!" he said, barely ducking. "You're lethal with that thing."

She wagged it menacingly from side to side. "It's all in the hips."

"Seems like fun and games until someone loses an eye," Steed teased. "Any sign of our mysterious mastermind LaTour?

"The girls say that he usually shows up around midnight."

Steed nodded. He had spent all day with Mrs. Peel sight-seeing at Notre Dame and the Hôtel des Invalides. She had brought her sketchbook, and in addition to capturing the lines of the classic architecture, she had even made a study of Steed himself posing against the backdrop of Napolean's tomb. When she had asked why they weren't tracking down the trail of The Ladja, he had answered that whatever was happening in Paris was happening at night. And true enough, if The Ladja were going to make any appearances, it would be here, at La Chatte Ronronne, sometime late in the evening.

Mrs. Peel offered him a glass from her tray. "Maybe you'll get a kick out of this champagne."

He grinned as he accepted it and took a delicate sip, raising it to her in toast.

"I only get a kick out of you, Mrs. Peel."

"Don't tempt me," she teased with a smile, turning back to her other customers. Halfway across the room, she set down the tray and bent over shamelessly to adjust one of her black spike heels, wondering if Steed would watch with the same rapt attention he had shown Mimi.

A plainly-dressed man with dark hair entered the nightclub. Emma alertly checked out his eyes, but they were brown. Still, there was something about his features that seemed familiar. She drifted over to one of the waitress stations where Mimi was refilling her tray.

"Who is that man?" Emma asked pointedly.

"He is one of Pierre's lackeys, that I told you about last night," Mimi said in a hushed voice. "His name is Vasily."

Emma remembered that one of the KGB guards in Tokyo had spoken that name. She watched as Vasily vanished through the door that led to the manager's office. Steed had noticed the newcomer as well. Emma strolled back past his table.

"Mimi says his name is Vasily," she said evenly.

"A common enough Russian name," Steed commented. "Are you thinking that he could be The Ladja?"

Emma shook her head. "Wrong eye color. But I'm positive I overheard the KGB men using that name in Tokyo. And now it turns out this Vasily is working for Pierre LaTour." She moved her head closer to Steed's. "There's no doubt in my mind that LaTour is The Ladja," she added forcefully.

"In that case, maybe we should pay a visit to the manager's office," Steed mused. "Can you find an excuse to slip away?"

"You realize we're probably walking into a trap?"

"So far The Ladja's naught-for-two trying to trap us. And you know my old saying—"

"'Keep our wits about us'," Emma singsonged.

"Precisely." Steed donned his bowler and walked casually over to the manager's office. With a quick twist of the door handle, he stepped inside.

Emma went back to the waitress station where Mimi was counting out several large-denomination franc notes.

"I think I saw a man enter Pierre's office," Emma whispered urgently.

"That was just Vasily," Mimi explained.

"No, I mean after him."

"Perhaps we should call one of the videurs," Mimi said with concern.

"I'll just take a look for myself," Emma declared.

"Be careful," Mimi advised. "Pierre does not like anyone to enter his office without permission."

"I'll be back before you know it."

As Emma slipped through the door to the manager's office, Mimi went over to the house phone and started speaking rapidly in French.

-oOo-

The office was richly appointed with Louis XIV-style furniture. It also had no windows. Emma removed her high-heels to stand barefoot next to Steed.

"There's no way out," she commented.

"So it would seem," Steed answered, walking over to the desk to check the drawers. They were locked.

"So where did Vasily go?" Emma asked.

"At the risk of sounding melodramatic, there must be a secret passage."

Emma started pulling volumes on the large bookshelf against the far wall. She braced her shoulder against it and shoved. It wouldn't budge.

Steed was examining a coat rack near the door. As he tugged down on one of the hooks with the handle of his umbrella, a panel slid open in the wall. There were steps leading downward. The air that swirled up from the opening felt damp.

"Beat you to it," Steed teased. Emma walked over and peered down into the darkness.

"Come into my parlor?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Helpless and unarmed?"

"Many words come to mind to describe you, Mrs. Peel, but 'helpless' isn't one of them," Steed smiled. "I brought this for you." He reached in his pocket and produced her Beretta with the thigh holster. She strapped it on silently, pulling it high up on her leg so as to hide it as much as possible beneath her miniskirt. The gun's handle was directly in contact with her crotch, and she briefly wondered how men were able to function with such an awkward arrangement down below. Emma nodded once to Steed, resolutely, and started down the stairs on her bare feet. After the first few meters the walls changed to stone, and it became apparent they were descending into the sewer system of Paris.

When they reached the bottom, Steed held his finger to his lips. "There's someone down here," he said under his breath. They both listened for a moment to the steady drip of water in the distance.

"Perhaps it's Jean Valjean," Emma smirked.

The distinct sound of footsteps could be heard echoing through the open space, seeming to head away from them. Taking over the lead, Steed quickly raced along the cement causeways in pursuit of their quarry, with Emma padding carefully along behind him. Within a minute they had Vasily in their sights, and they hung back briefly to avoid being seen.

Vasily had stepped through a large stone archway into a vaulted room with a smooth, polished floor. The squares of inlaid stone tile alternated black and white, eight deep and eight across, forming a giant chessboard. With an odd stutter-step cadence, he began crossing the floor. When he reached the other side, he vanished through a door next to one of the middle white squares. Emma and Steed watched in amazement from their hiding place behind a column.

"One of The Ladja's traps?" Steed speculated.

"The steps are in a pattern," Emma pointed out. "It's two squares in a line, then one square over."

Steed nodded. "He may be The Rook, but he seems to have a fondness for Knights." He turned to her and smiled. His lips were only inches away from hers. "That's something we have in common."

It was a hokey line, but Emma smiled back anyway.

"There's every reason to think it's booby-trapped," she warned. "Step on one wrong square, and..."

"I'll go first," Steed declared.

"And what qualifies you to lead the way?"

"I was the year-two hopscotch champion at Miss Rattersham's School in St. John's."

Emma wrinkled her mouth. "Isn't Miss Rattersham's a School For Girls?"

"Some parents keep their bairns in curls too long," Steed grinned. He strolled confidently out from behind the column and took a short hop to land dead in the center of the proper square. Nothing happened.

"You see?" he smiled. "Perfectly safe, when you follow the pattern." He hopped to the next square, and Emma started crossing behind him, following his exact steps.

Suddenly, the door on the opposite side opened and Vasily stepped back through to the white square. Too late, Emma and Steed noticed they were both standing on black squares.

With a knowing laugh, Vasily pressed a lever on the door frame. All of the black squares collapsed downward, and Steed and Emma fell, descending into darkness.

-oOo-

A hiss of escaping gas was the first thing Steed noticed when he recovered from the six-foot drop. He crawled over to where Mrs. Peel had landed. She seemed to be uninjured, but the gas must have affected her more quickly due to her lighter weight; her head lolled directionlessly on her shoulders. Steed felt his own consciousness start to slip; he groggily slipped his hand between her legs and groped for the handle of the Beretta.

Steed arched an eyebrow as Emma sighed contentedly and spread her thighs wide apart as his hand made contact. Just then, a door on the opposite side of the chamber opened with a loud clang. A dark-haired man wearing a gas mask entered and pulled a lever on the wall. The squares above Steed's head sprang closed again, and electric lights snapped on to illuminate the room. Steed quickly withdrew his hand from under Mrs. Peel's skirt, not wanting to give away the weapon cached there. He was in no condition for a shootout now, and they might be able to use the gun later.

The last conscious sensation that Steed had was of his feet being tied together, then his wrists being put in shackles and hoisted above his head by a dangling chain.

-oOo-

When Emma's eyes were able to focus again, she saw that she was prisoner in some sort of dungeon. Steed was ten feet away from her, and his ankles were tied together, just as hers were. Their hands were suspended by chains from the ceiling. There was barely enough play for her to bend her knees.

"Steed," she called weakly. He responded by slowly turning his head in her direction.

"Yes, Mrs. Peel?"

"Are we keeping our wits about us?"

"Certainly," he answered. "I should be regaining mine any moment now."

The door to the cell opened, and the KGB man with the black moustache entered. He went over to Steed and perfunctorily patted him down for weapons, then turned to Emma. At first it looked as if he dismissed her scanty attire as offering no hiding place; but then, as if from spite for his earlier humiliation, he abruptly lifted her miniskirt.

Emma thrashed wildly as he scrabbled at the holster between her legs. With a sinister smile, he swung his elbow into her lower abdomen. Emma winced in pain as Steed angrily rattled his chains nearby. She tried to squeeze her thighs together, but the man with the black moustache pried them apart and ripped the Beretta free.

Instead of being angry, Emma merely smiled sweetly. She squatted down as far as the chains holding her would allow and started swiveling and gyrating her hips. The KGB man must have thought it part of some weird ritual—to entice him sexually, perhaps? But Steed remembered her skill from earlier that evening, and watched knowingly.

Emma completed her motion by jumping upward and spinning. Her flexible, whip-like tail flew with perfect aim into the man's face and made snapping contact. This had the desired effect: he let out a clipped cry and briefly lowered his head to his hands, just enough to be in her target range. Her ankles still tied together, Emma hung from the chain holding her wrists and unleashed a fierce kick with both feet. She made perfect contact with the side of the guard's head and sent him sprawling, the Beretta dropping from his grasp only a few inches away.

Steed grinned as Emma wiggled her rear in a victory dance, her tail swinging ominously from side to side.

"It's all in the hips," she gloated.

"Just fun and games until someone loses... an eye?" Steed offered. The semi-conscious man on the floor rolled around in a daze.

Emma wedged the handle of the Beretta between her tied feet and swung lightly from her chain.

"Catch," she ordered. She flipped the gun upward in the direction of Steed's bound wrists. He caught it by the muzzle and firmly worked the grip into his right hand.

"Is there any chance you can shoot the chains holding you?" she asked.

"Not really enough play," he commented. "And if I were to press the muzzle directly against the links, the shrapnel would probably do me grievous bodily harm. No; I think it's best if I shoot yours."

"Shoot mine?" Emma's eyes went wide with alarm. She looked uncertainly at the narrow chains confining her from above. "You wouldn't do anything to hurt me, would you Steed?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Peel," he answered cheerfully. A silence fell between them as he concentrated on his aim. "You do have insurance?" he added.

"Bet you're wishing now that it wasn't that anemic twenty-five caliber," she teased quietly.

"Don't move, Mrs. Peel."

"I wouldn't think of it," she said, pulling the chain taut with her weight to give Steed a more stable target.

"Not many people gain the skill to aim a gun without using their eyes to sight along its length," Steed said casually. "But I was undercover in a circus once..."

The pistol made a loud boom, sure to bring someone running. But the chains holding Emma to the ceiling had been severed. She landed gracefully in a crouch, like the cat she was dressed as, and scurried over to the incapacitated guard. Emma fished around through the groaning KGB man's pockets until she retrieved the key, making sure her elbow made contact with some of his sensitive spots. She then unlocked her wrists, untied her ankles, and went over to remove the shackles from Steed.

Emma stood only inches away and looked deep into Steed's eyes as she reached up for the chains above his head.

"You are good at pistol-shooting," she complimented. "You missed out on that Modern Pentathlon in Tokyo. You could have had a medal."

He smiled at her charmingly. His face was almost in contact with hers. "I didn't exactly come away from Tokyo empty-handed."

She didn't do it often, but Emma actually blushed. She lightly massaged Steed's shoulders as he bent down to untie his ankles.

"We need to hurry," she advised. "That shot probably echoed all the way back to La Chatte Ronronne."

"Do you hear that noise?" Steed asked.

Emma furrowed her brow in concentration. "Some sort of machinery?"

"It's a printing press," Steed concluded.

"It could just be churning out the latest copy of The Ladja Quarterly," she remarked.

"Let's investigate." He gave her a boyish grin, and collected his bowler and umbrella from a shelf nearby.

-oOo-

The room was filled with a medium-sized industrial printing press. Nearby, steel drums full of red, green, and blue inks fed it through transparent plastic hoses. Large sheets of paper were feeding through it at an orderly pace. Steed switched off the press with the tip of his umbrella. There was a final whoosh as the last sheaf exited the unit.

"He's either very clever, or very mad—or a little bit of each," Steed commented. He stared at the engraved plates mounted on the cylinder.

"Angels and The Grim Reaper," he announced.

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Danse Macabre?"

Steed nodded. "It's a Swiss 1000-franc banknote." He examined the plates closely. They were exact duplicates of Gauchat's design—or maybe the originals.

"These plates are only available at De La Rue in London," he added absently.

"The printers?" Emma asked.

"They print the currency for most European countries," Steed explained. "And, of course, they're responsible for the paragon of all banknotes, produced for the most stable and valued monetary system in the world—the Swiss franc."

"And The Ladja has his own personal De La Rue going here," Emma agreed. She examined the final sheet of banknotes from the outgoing bin. "How does he distribute them?"

Steed was reading the labels on some nearby crates. "Looks like he ships the stuff to Lyon," he said. "From there, it must be taken across the border into Geneva. Funneled into KGB bank accounts, no doubt. The Ladja can literally write his own check wherever he goes. No wonder he was able to underwrite the assassination plot in Tokyo."

"What do we do?"

Steed pulled out a handkerchief and worked the latches that held down the plate. "The first thing is to get these engravings back to London. Dry up The Ladja's source of funding. Do you think you can find your way back to La Chatte?"

Emma crossed her arms. "I'm not leaving you. We're going to face this villain once and for all, side by side."

-oOo-

Vasily entered the office of Pyotr Pehlovich. The Ladja was judging a set of banknotes with a jeweler's loupe. Vasily waited until his superior removed the eyepiece.

"We have captured Steed and your wife," he announced.

The Ladja smiled. "Excellent!" He reached into a desk drawer and slipped his mask on over his face.

"Aren't you going to reveal yourself to your woman?"

"Not right away," Pehlovich said. "She may be upset when I kill Steed. I'll make myself known later, once she's had time to digest everything."

A sudden silence fell across the room. Vasily's eyes lit up in alarm.

"The press has stopped."

"Steed," The Ladja spat angrily. He reached into the desk once more and removed a nine-millimeter Mauser, checking to see that it was fully loaded. "Follow me," he ordered his henchman.

Vasily pounded down the corridor after Pehlovich towards the print room.

-oOo-

The sound of footsteps in the corridor spurred Emma into action. She ran for the door as Steed tucked away the plates in his pocket and followed two steps behind. The door flew open before she could reach it, and the cold steel muzzle of a semi-automatic weapon was aimed at her midsection.

Emma had come face to face with the man in the chessboard mask.

-oOo-