Chapter 6
Pyotr Pehlovich frowned behind his mask. He carefully looked his wife over from head to toe—the black bra top, the jeweled decoration in her navel, the miniskirt and panties. She was dressed like a whore. This was what came of hanging around with this Steed fellow. His reaction was immediate. He aimed his gun at Steed and squeezed the trigger.
"No!" Emma cried, her bare foot lashing out like a viper's strike to contact her husband's wrist. The Ladja's aim was spoiled and his shot went wide. He stared for a moment at his throbbing hand. He had never thought his Emma capable of such violence.
Emma lunged at him, reaching up to rip his mask off. Pyotr raised his hands in defense, allowing her to grab both his wrists. She twisted the one that held the Mauser; it fell to the floor and skittered away.
Vasily scooped up the free weapon and emptied half of the clip in Steed's direction. But Steed had already dived for cover behind the drums of ink; the henchman's bullets merely pierced one of the containers that was stacked on top of the others. Thick fingers of red liquid shot out from the holes.
Emma still had hold of both of The Ladja's wrists, and recognizing this as an advantageous grappling position when fighting a man, she looked down and was pleased to see he was standing with his feet slightly apart. With a grunt of exertion, she thrust her knee upward, ramming it firmly into The Ladja's unprotected groin. She was amazed at his poor hand-to-hand fighting skills—it was almost as if he was surprised by her attack. He gave a startled cry as his body went rigid with the contact, then slumped helplessly as the paralyzing effects spread through his lower abdomen.
Her fingertips gained purchase along the edge of the mask, and with a steady pull, Emma ripped it free. At the same instant, Vasily grabbed her from behind, pinning her arms into immobility. The Ladja turned away before she had a chance to see his face; without speaking a word, he staggered for the door. Steed tapped his umbrella against the side of the printing press, calling for attention.
"Here's that merlot you ordered." Steed smiled as he shoved the leaking drum from the top of the stack. It went careening across the room, a crimson-spewing juggernaut, spraying its contents over Pehlovich. For a brief moment, Emma thought she could see his face, drenched in red. Then he had turned away again.
Vasily spun Emma around and punched her in the stomach, then headed for the door. As she doubled over trying to regain her breath, her eyes fastened upon the bottom of her leather holster, just dipping below the hem of her miniskirt. She plunged her hand between her legs and drew the Beretta, feeling its muzzle slide comfortingly across the heart of her womanhood as she pulled it free.
She raised the gun and took dead aim at the back of her husband's head.
"Mrs. Peel—no!" Steed called as he dived for her. He caught her wrist in time, causing the shot to go wide into another drum of red ink, ironically spilling down over The Ladja as he made his getaway with Vasily. Emma turned, her face contorted with anger.
"I had him, Steed! What would possess you to do such a thing?" Her eyes were on fire with battle-lust. Steed wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and gently took the Beretta from her hand.
"Killing men isn't the help I need from you," he said soothingly. "Our job is to stop The Ladja, and capture him if possible—not to become an animal like him. We fix things when they go wrong. We're correctors, not killers."
Emma still held the chessboard mask in her other hand; for a moment she pondered the streak of red ink that had been splashed across the front. Then she nodded acceptance of Steed's judgment, sagging back into his arms. He sniffed the fragrance of her hair as she turned and slipped her arms around his neck.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That's my first encounter with The Ladja. He just seemed to radiate such an aura of pure... evil. Even without seeing his face, I'm sure I'd recognize him immediately if I ever met him in person. I can only imagine what his voice must sound like."
"He was a bit laconic tonight," Steed said. "Last time we met, he was just full of witticisms."
"Are you sure he isn't mute?"
"You should have heard him yesterday, at the winery," Steed answered. "Couldn't shut him up."
"What do we do now?" Emma asked.
"I need to get on the phone to London right away."
"What for?"
Steed grinned broadly. "I'm hoping the Port Authorities can catch The Ladja red-handed."
-oOo-
It was early evening on the middle tier of the Eiffel Tower. The city of Paris was spread out below, its lights blazing with an intensity to rival the stars that were just starting to become visible overhead. John Steed gazed across the table at Emma Peel. She was dressed in a low-cut sheath dress of darkest black, and her rich auburn hair was pulled up to reveal her delicate earlobes, which had always been a source of temptation for him. One day he would have to slip quietly up behind her and just partake of a nibble...
They had spent all day together sight-seeing again, this time wandering the Champs d'Elysée. Emma had added the Arc de Triomphe to her sketchbook. He was pleased that this nasty business with The Ladja hadn't spoiled her enjoyment of the wonder that was Paris. He lifted his wineglass to her in toast.
"The Swiss franc plates are on their way back to De La Rue in London," Steed said. "There was a substantial reward, and I took the liberty of depositing half of it in your account."
She smiled and touched the brim of her glass to his. "And what are you going to do with your half?"
"You're eating it," he said wryly, gesturing at the meal. "And opening it," he added, producing a smartly-wrapped parcel from beneath the table.
Her eyes lit up. "For me?"
Steed pretended to read the tag. "Unless there's another Emma Peel." He handed it across the table to her.
Like an excited child on Christmas morn, Emma tore into the paper. As she opened the box, her hands came in contact with something soft and luxurious. She pulled it out and rubbed it against her cheek. It was a tasteful fur stole, lustrous, just the fashion in Paris. She stood and allowed Steed to drape it over her shoulders. His hands glided smoothly over her breasts as he wrapped it around, enveloping her in his arms.
"Steed!" She was delighted. "It's too much!"
"We are on holiday," he said with his lips close to her ear. "It should help keep you warm, even during the coldest of times."
Emma pulled him close and tenderly kissed his cheek.
-oOo-
From a distance, a dark-haired man in a beret was watching the scene dispassionately. Next to him was a poor injured man, apparently a burn victim, wrapped head to toe in gauze. Yet underneath the bandages, his red skin was not the product of any excessive heat.
"It looks as if your wife has become very friendly with this British agent," Vasily commented.
Pyotr Pehlovich's voice was bitter.
"It may take years," he said. "But Emma will be mine again. I swear it."
"Your biggest worry now is what Gogol will say," Vasily chided.
"I don't care what Gogol says," The Ladja replied evenly. "John Steed must die."
-oOo-
Marina was reclining on the couch reading Little Women. Her English skills weren't perfect, but she understood enough of the book that a tear was starting to well up in her eye. She heard a low scrabbling noise at the front door. A cat? Then she realized that it was someone trying to pick the lock.
For a moment, panic set in; then she remembered the weapon Steed had left her. She rooted through the drawer and pulled out the revolver, retreating to the kitchen to be out of the line of sight. She nervously checked to make sure that the gun chambers contained bullets. In spite of her bold face to Steed, she had never seen a weapon close-up before, let alone attempted to use one.
Marina's hands were still shaking as she heard two men step inside. She ventured a peek around the kitchen arch, staying low to the ground.
She recognized one of the men immediately. He was the KGB man, Vasily, that had met with The Ladja that fateful night at Ozero Krugloye. The other one, with the moustache, looked familiar; he had probably been a guard for her Olympic team in Tokyo.
Vasily was busy connecting wires from a box that he had set next to the front door. He carefully flipped a switch on the side.
"The device is now armed," he advised. "Once we close this door, the next person to open it will be blown to bits."
"And that will be the end of John Steed," the other man announced smugly.
"He has seen Paris," Vasily said with a wry grin. "Now he can die." The door shut with a finality that sent a shiver down Marina's spine.
What should she do? She could try shooting the bomb, but without knowing its power, she might wind up blowing herself to bits as well. It suddenly occurred to her that Steed might be home at any minute; she had to prevent the door from opening. Marina carefully took the copy of Little Women she had been reading, flipped it halfway open, and wedged the front cover firmly beneath the door.
Still wandering in circles trying to decide what to do next, Marina's eyes fell upon a black address book next to the phone. The first number in the book had been scratched out and replaced with a number in Wales. She dialed it blindly and waited until it was answered at the other end.
"Hello?" the voice said.
"My name is Marina Irinova, and I'm staying at the apartment of a man called John Steed," she began. "Your number was in his book. Do you know him?"
"Perhaps," the guarded voice answered. "What seems to be the problem?"
"Someone has planted a bomb in his apartment. I was here and saw the whole thing, from hiding. I wedged the door so it couldn't accidentally be opened."
"That was smart thinking, Marina," Rita Fox said. "I'll call some friends at the Ministry in Whitehall. They'll send someone over."
"How will they get in?"
"There's a window in his bedroom. Do you know where that is?"
"It's where I've been sleeping," Marina answered innocently.
"Er—yes," Rita stumbled. "Well, you can let them in through there."
-oOo-
The chairs in the office of Sir Gerald Tarrant were all richly upholstered in leather, and the desk was a mammoth construction of pure mahogany. Charles, the Head of Operations, was sitting in one of these chairs, looking across the vast expanse of varnished wood at his superior.
"This Pehlovich affair seems to have gotten out of control," Charles observed candidly. Sir Gerald said nothing at first; he concentrated on filling his pipe and getting a good fire going before he answered.
"The situation isn't unsalvageable," Tarrant said reasonably, "as long as The Ladja remains in the favor of Gogol."
Charles arched an eyebrow. "Are you saying that if Pehlovich obtains a large enough secret in trade, you would let him return to us?"
Sir Gerald blew a smoke ring and nodded. "Of course," he answered smoothly. "We merely tell the world he's been found in the Amazon. An amazing tale of jungle survival."
Charles continued uncertainly. "And what about Steed and Mrs. Peel?"
"Our concern is the security of England, not the personal entanglements of its citizens," Sir Gerald responded. "If Pehlovich agrees to return to be a double agent for our side, we happily let him reunite with his wife." His features softened a bit. "At any rate, thanks to Steed, that could now take years. He's hung two significant failures on Pehlovich: the assassination in Tokyo and the counterfeit operation in Paris. It may take some time before the KGB entrusts him with any big secrets. He'll be effectively demoted."
Charles ventured a forceful reply. "It's hard to blame Steed for being Steed. He sees an enemy like The Ladja, he wants to defeat him."
Tarrant smiled warmly. "Yes. It is a difficult game."
"A game... with Rook, Knight, and Queen's Pawn," Charles offered. "So what do we do now?"
"We wait," Tarrant answered casually. "Time will make things clear. One day, Pyotr Pehlovich may come to us bearing a gift we can't refuse. We then allow him to resume his life as Peter Peel." He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe.
"In the meantime, we continue to use his wife—through Steed. As far as I'm concerned, it's a win-win situation," he added simply.
-oOo-
The lighting inside the plane was soft and muted on the night flight back to London. Steed carefully folded the copy of L'Équipe he had been reading and turned off the overhead lamp. He closed his eyes and drank in the light fragrance that wafted to him over the rush of recirculated air.
Mrs. Peel was dozing in the seat next to him. It would be strange sleeping alone back in London, he thought. He had become quite used to sleeping with Mrs. Peel. Even though their relationship wasn't physical, he knew he would miss her warm body pressed against his on the bed, steam heat or no.
Steed moved his head over next to Emma's. In spite of her apparent sound sleep, some instinct caused her to rest her head on his shoulder and slip her arm across his chest, pulling him close to her, as if she never wanted to let go.
-oOo-
