Chapter 3
Charles was seated across from his superior, on the other side of a mahogany expanse. Sir Gerald Tarrant examined the packet that lay open on his desk.
"A most unexpected development," Tarrant began. "Emma Peel working with the KGB." He carefully examined the photographs of the decoder as he eyed his Head of Operations. "Has Steed been able to contact her?"
Charles shook his head. "She seems to have gone missing."
"Remarkable." Tarrant slid the folder back across the desk.
"There's only one explanation," Charles declared. "Mrs. Peel must have become aware that The Ladja is actually her husband, and has decided to join forces with him."
Tarrant furrowed his brow. "According to Steed, she's always considered The Ladja to be her arch-nemesis. Does she really love her husband enough to switch allegiances that quickly? Particularly knowing all of the crimes that he is now complicit in?"
Charles shrugged. "She was married to him for several years, and is probably still in his thrall," he offered. "She might be more loyal to him than she is to England."
Tarrant leaned back and began the tedious process of lighting his pipe. "Is it possible that Peter Peel could have talked her into working for him without her knowing that he actually is The Ladja?"
"A much more likely scenario," Charles agreed. "He's incredibly devious, that man."
"Unless there's a third party in this equation that we're not aware of yet," Tarrant continued. "A KGB recruiter of some sort who may have duped Mrs. Peel."
"Possibly," Charles conceded. "But Steed mentioned to me that he had some intelligence from several weeks ago that Mrs. Peel might be a traitor."
"Oh?" Tarrant took a single puff as he pondered this. "It may have been Willcombe-Smythe. Steed was present at his death earlier this month, when he discovered that the Group Captain was the double agent working with The Ladja. He must have been told then."
"Why didn't Steed report it to us?
"Because he has a personal involvement with Mrs. Peel," Tarrant observed. "He would do anything to protect her."
Charles was silent. Tarrant was deep in thought for a moment.
"I wonder if Willcombe-Smythe actually told Steed that Emma Peel was a traitor," mused Tarrant. "If he merely said something like 'Peel is a traitor', he could have been referring to Peter Peel, nee Pehlovich."
"I see," said Charles. "Since we haven't told Steed that Squadron Leader Peel is still alive, he would assume it referred to Emma." He sighed. "It's going to be impossible for Steed to straighten this one out."
Tarrant had to relight his pipe. "He is our top troubleshooter."
"Troublemaker, is more like it," snorted Charles. "I ordered him to kill Mrs. Peel if he found her to be working for the KGB."
Tarrant shrugged. "Mrs. Peel doesn't really have much in the way of Her Majesty's Secrets. Steed has always kept her at arm's length from the identity of our agents, or any clandestine operations or installations. Besides, he could never bring himself to kill her."
"Of course; I agree," Charles said smugly. "So the only way Steed can buy back her life is to bring us the Zagadka decoder, then claim she was on an independent operation. I tell you, that machine is as good as ours already. Steed will bring us the device, or die trying."
-oOo-
Steed arched an eyebrow as he observed the sign on the door. In large, happy letters, it read: SUICIDE TRAINING.
Hard to believe such drastic measures would be needed. But he had swung by Mrs. Peel's flat on the way to the Ministry, only to find that she was still gone, along with her motorcycle. He pushed through the door with grim determination.
He had expected the room to be inhabited by a bespectacled doctor with a dry manner and a boxful of poisons. Instead, the room was largely empty except for a few vinyl mats spread out on the floor.
In the center of the room, a beautiful, slender woman was serenely holding a yoga pose. She sat on the floor with one leg stretched out in front of her and the other bent completely behind her head. There were two wooden hoops around each ankle and rings on two of her toes. Her only clothing was a revealing leotard with a flowered scarf wrapped around her waist to hide her lower abdomen. On another woman, the outfit might have been shameful; on her, it appeared natural, unconcerned. She turned her head as he entered the room, causing a jet-black ponytail to flow over her shoulder.
Steed politely removed his bowler. "Flexible," he commented.
She smiled warmly. "You may call me Narayana." She spoke with the taught-British accent of Bombay.
"What's it to be?" Steed asked cheerily. "Cyanide buttons? Nerve gas in a hollow tooth?" His voice was glib. "Or how about the old standard, I hang myself with my bootlaces?"
The woman did not respond to his flippancy. "You are John Steed?" she asked simply. She gracefully untangled herself and rose from the mat, stepping forward to pull him into a close embrace. Steed was startled as she held her warm body against his in absolute stillness until he was sure he could feel her heart beat against his chest. Then she released him.
"What was that?" he managed to stammer.
"I was touching your chakra."
"Without a chaperone present?"
"You spoke of poisons and hanging," she began gently. "But physical methods for killing oneself are ineffective in the espionage world of today. They can be discovered and disabled by the enemy."
Narayana led him to the mat in the center of the room. "I have sensed your aura and found you sufficiently capable. I will prepare you to kill yourself using only your mind."
Steed was confused. "So I can just think myself to death?"
"In a manner of speaking," she answered. "Have you ever heard of Prana-Bindu techniques?"
Steed recalled the death of the Warlock, Cosmo Gallion, and the explanation that Rita Fox and Cathy Gale had given him. "That's stopping the breath and all life functions for a short period of time, isn't it?"
A smile crept across the guru's features. "I'm impressed, Mr. Steed. You're remarkably well-informed." Narayana again closed the distance between them. "I'm here to show you how to do it permanently."
"Semi-permanently might be better."
"It will require me to hypnotize you. The key is to put yourself into a mental state where you are actually able to embrace death."
"Like watching a Middlesbrough football match?" Steed offered.
She caused him to jump as she slid her hands to his shoulders. "Please remove your clothes."
His eyes widened and the smile slipped from his lips. "I beg your pardon?"
"There are pulse points on your arms, legs, and torso that I must check. If you are shy about exposing yourself, you may retain your underwear."
"That's mighty gracious of you," Steed recovered smoothly. "But a gentleman never reveals himself in front of a lady, except in intimacy."
"You would remove your clothes for a doctor, wouldn't you?"
"My doctor is sixty-seven years old and has no hair, jet-black or otherwise," Steed said wryly. "He can put his leg behind his head, but only because it's detachable from the War."
"Just think of me as a doctor," she said with an odd smile. "A doctor of Death."
-oOo-
Emma had spent the night in a suite of rooms in the finished portion of the caviar-packing plant. The ventilation had managed to filter out the fishy smell that pervaded the rest of the building, but Emma still spent fifteen minutes in the shower, just to make sure no lingering traces remained.
She had been only too happy to oblige when Leov made her the offer of staying on the premises at Canary Roe. Emma's instincts told her that she was closing in on The Ladja, and she didn't want her quarry slipping out of sight. He was either somewhere in the factory, or would visit here soon, to check up on Mistress Leov.
When Emma shut off the water taps, she heard the sound of someone moving around in the bedroom. She slipped quietly out of the shower stall, almost forgetting to grab a towel as she moved stealthily through the door, her bare feet padding silently on the carpet.
Mistress Leov was standing there. The leathers that Emma had left on the bed were gone; in their place was a decorative box from an expensive downtown London store.
"Where are my clothes?" Emma began sternly.
"I have a new outfit for you," Leov announced. "One that's designed to entice your target."
"My target?"
"The man in the picture."
"Oh, yes; of course." Emma pulled the towel tighter around her torso. Mistress Leov opened the box. It contained a silk dress so flimsy that Emma mistook it for lingerie.
Leov presented it to her. "It is important that you carry out a successful seduction," she added delicately.
"How did you know my size?"
"I didn't," the Mistress laughed. "But if it is too short, so much the better."
Emma looked at her acidly. "What if my target isn't attracted to trampy women?"
Leov stayed cool. "Nothing about the dress is trampy, Linda," she said evenly. "Be sure that you wear no perfume."
"Why not?"
"Men are subconsciously drawn to the scent of a woman. You must do nothing to obscure your natural fragrance."
Emma had always thought of herself as sexually enlightened, but Mistress Leov's worldview bordered on depravity. She wrinkled her mouth. "Do you have any other seduction advice you'd like to impart?"
Leov smiled wickedly.
"Please expose your breasts," she commanded.
Emma felt an involuntary surge of rage and grew wild-eyed.
"Excuse me?"
"I need to wire you for sound." Leov held up a small transmitter with pieces of flesh-colored tape affixed to it. "The device must be precisely positioned."
Emma somehow doubted that, but she was confident she could deal with anything the Mistress might try. She slowly lowered the towel. Leov gave her a dry smirk.
"Not as generous as mine, of course," she commented. "But there is sufficient room to hide it in your cleavage."
Emma briefly imagined herself driving her knee into the pit of the Russian's stomach, then wrapping her hands around the pale throat and choking the living daylights out of her. Then again, Leov might be a masochist who would enjoy the pain.
The Ladja, Emma reminded herself. This woman knows him personally. No sacrifice is too great.
If the Mistress read the violence in Emma's eyes, she gave no indication of it. She perfunctorily taped the electronics pack onto Emma's chest, nestling it so it wouldn't be visible through the thin dress. The upper surface had a microphone screen and a small antenna. Leov handed her a tiny earpiece.
"The device on your chest transmits all sound within a ten-foot radius," she explained. "It also receives signals and transmits them to your earphone. That way I can give you instructions while the operation is taking place."
Emma tried to seem casual. "Won't your boss be handling this operation personally?"
Leov was busy pressing buttons on a hand-held receiver, eliciting a loud screech of feedback as the microphone on Emma's chest became active. "Who?" she asked peevishly.
"The chess master," Emma clarified. "The man who tells you what to do."
Leov smirked. "No man dictates to me," she declared. "If he does, I simply take hold of his manhood and squeeze until he bows to my will."
"Something tells me you're not speaking metaphorically," Emma ventured.
The Mistress wore a wicked expression. "You would be surprised how deep you can make a man bow."
-oOo-
Steed left the room briefly, then returned to stand before Narayana in a pair of swim trunks he had managed to scrounge up from the Armourer.
"I hope I don't look too untouchable," he began.
"The caste system does not apply to you, Mr. Steed," she answered. "Those should be suitable."
He gave her a brilliant smile. "They're bulletproof."
"I see you wish to foil my advances," Narayana teased. "Please recall, once you are under hypnosis, I could command you to do anything I wished; even run the corridors of Whitehall wearing nothing but your bowler."
"I suspect the Ministers wouldn't be too keen on that."
She smiled. "Some of the women might be appreciative."
"You'll be sure to let me know, afterwards," he grinned.
Steed jumped as Narayana placed her hands against his body, even though her palms were warm. She traced a comforting design with her fingertips on his chest.
"I am going to condition you by invoking a state of deep hypnosis," she explained. "I will teach you two triggers—one which you can use on yourself, to induce the coma, and another which can be used by a fellow agent to revive you."
"Can't I just bring myself out whenever I want?"
"No; that would take years of practice. Once you stop breathing, you will no longer have any power to resuscitate yourself. Only an outside agency can do that."
"And this coma will simulate death?"
The guru nodded. "It has the advantage that most enemies will presume you dead, so you can't be tortured or interrogated. But if a friendly agent rescues you within four hours, you can be revived—provided the wake-up stimulus is known."
"And if it takes more than four hours?"
Her momentary silence was answer enough.
"Even the blade of an autopsy knife won't bring you out of this self-imposed coma," she continued. "You will not feel pain should this happen, nor should they embalm you. If your physical body is killed, or if more than four hours elapse, what little life functions you are maintaining will ebb away, and you will slip deep into the arms of Vishnu, becoming one with the Universe."
"That's not an embrace I'm looking forward to."
"It is a blissful way to die, I assure you."
"And how can you know that?"
Narayana smiled enigmatically. "In a few minutes, you will understand." She gestured for him to recline on the mat next to her. "What revival trigger would you like to choose? Tickling a toe? Squeezing a little finger?"
Steed thought for a moment.
"A kiss," he stated.
"A kiss?"
"It's not something I would expect an enemy to do, even during the most outrageous autopsy."
She arched her eyebrow. "It's not necessarily something you would expect a friendly agent to do either, even during the most outrageous rescue."
He smiled. "Most of my friends are women."
"I see," she mused. "There's an English fairy tale about someone under a spell being awakened by a kiss, is there not?"
"Actually, the original was French. But yes, that is the story."
She smiled. "I look forward to reviving you."
-oOo-
Emma was riding in an unmarked van heading for central London. Her appointment to seduce Steed had been set for this afternoon. She was still feeling overexposed in the whisper-thin silk summer dress; it wasn't a proper garment to wear in public. No doubt Mistress Leov was getting a depraved pleasure by forcing her to wear it. The van pulled to a stop opposite a small cafe.
Several men with camera cases spilled out the back of the vehicle and started setting up tripods nearby, camouflaged in the shrubbery. Leov took Emma aside and lectured her about the operation.
"You will meet your objective here this afternoon," she stated. "His name is John Steed. We will be recording and photographing everything, so make sure you keep him in the line of sight from the bushes over there." She indicated the relative positions of the van, the camera nest in the shrubbery, and the cafe table.
"When Mr. Steed arrives, it is up to you to make him feel as welcome as possible—put him at ease, as it were." Leov turned to look into her eyes. "Do you understand?"
Emma thought she understood. Suddenly, the dress and the rendezvous made sense. She was being asked to play the part of a prostitute. Leov handed her a small leather case.
"This is a present for Mr. Steed. He will be expecting it."
"It's not a bomb, is it?" Emma asked suspiciously, watching for Leov's reaction.
"My, no!" the Mistress exclaimed. "Mr. Steed is a friend."
Emma nodded. She would have been able to tell if Leov was deceiving her. Emma was still irritated that she had been unable to weasel any information out of Leov about the big boss. In spite of Emma's strong conviction that The Ladja really was in charge of this operation, she still wanted to know for sure.
Leov spoke into her receiver. "I will be in constant contact with you from here in the van. Can you hear my voice?"
Emma heard the echo of the question through her earpiece. "I hear you," she said simply.
"Good. You will respond to my instructions immediately and without question," Leov commanded.
If she tries to get me to talk about anything government- or espionage-related, I'll pretend I don't understand, Emma thought. She didn't fully know what Leov's game was, but if she played long enough, she would get to The Ladja—of that she was certain.
One of the men huddled in the bushes was having difficulty with his camera. Leov noticed the disruption and marched over to confront him.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"The batteries are low. I need to get some new ones," the man said sheepishly.
Leov's eyes blazed with fury. The Mistress seized his hand, then bent his fingers backwards as he yowled in pain. "Next time, be prepared!" she warned.
Emma noticed the secret look of satisfaction that crossed the Russian woman's face. She was a sick one, to be sure.
-oOo-
Steed was lying flat on his back in the center of the room. A metronome was ticking next to his head, and the mesmerizing voice of Narayana was instructing him, matching its rhythm.
"You must now practice the trigger that will put you in a comatose state," she said. Her palm was pressed against his chest.
"Think of the death of a loved one," she continued. "Visualize it fully. The cold expression of the corpse. The sense of loss."
Steed thought of Emma working for the KGB. Fooling him all of this time. Pretending that she cared for him. He felt a catch in his chest as the sorrow hit him.
"There!" Narayana exclaimed. "I felt it. Excellent, Mr. Steed." She leaned over so that her lips were by his ear. "That will be your trigger memory. Focus on that."
Steed imagined the emptiness of a life without Emma. It would be an easy trigger to access, since it, his worst nightmare, could conceivably be coming true. He felt his arms and legs go suddenly numb. Something strange was happening to him.
"I'm going to touch you now," the guru whispered. "Do not be alarmed." Her hands danced lightly across his chest and thighs, checking his pulse at various points. Steed tried to move, found that he could not.
Narayana spoke softly and evenly. "You can barely hear, as if you are in a dream state. Random currents in the room swirl trace amounts of oxygenated air into your lungs. This is more than enough for you." Her eyes twinkled. "No need to breathe at all; lie perfectly still, and the universe will provide."
Steed felt his vision start to tunnel. He was convinced that he was no longer in his body. Narayana's voice continued to come to him, from across some misty ether.
"Your brain, which is normally alive with thought, has slowed to a crawl," she announced. "You must now think your thoughts in single file, one at a time. Think a single thought, Mr. Steed—hold it in your mind. Examine its beauty. This technique can be used not only to feign death, but to gain superlucidity. A clarity of thought that will allow you to solve the most difficult problems."
Steed was aware that he still existed, but conscious thoughts were hard to come by. His eyes were motionless. He could barely discern the voice as it sang on in its hypnotic tone.
"You can only think one thought at a time. You can only feel one nerve at a time," she commanded. "All of the nerve endings in your body are now inactive, except for a single nerve—in your upper lip, near the center. When it is exposed to the heat and moisture of another's lips, you will revive. Only then."
Steed was dead.
"When that happens, you will feel everything," Narayana beamed. "You will think everything. Your muscles will move normally."
She removed her ribbon so that her jet-black hair cascaded about her shoulders. Then she leaned over Steed's lifeless body and pressed her lips to his, letting them linger there until his breathing returned to normal.
-oOo-