Blind Trust

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Blind Trust

Steed becomes a man hunter

Emma stays afloat

Chapter 6

On Tuesday a withdrawal from the numbered Swiss account in an amount equivalent to about five hundred British Pounds had been made in a small branch bank in an even smaller town on the border between Switzerland and Italy. Based on the pattern of previous withdrawals, Steed surmised that Peter Peel was about to cross the border, and that he had a substantial amount of cash with him, unless he'd managed to spend more money in Switzerland than Steed thought was possible without making oneself extremely noticeable. And all of Steed's sources said that no mysterious Brit was on a spending spree in the lovely Swiss Alps.

So Steed flew from London to Milan, rented a sleek, red Alpha Romeo, and drove north on the A9 to Como. It wasn't too hard to think like Peter Peel, not for a man of Steed's experience with criminal minds. Or it might have something to do with their similar tastes in fine clothing, a refined lifestyle, and women.

In Como Steed made contact with the local authorities, who were cooperative if a bit amused by this earnest Englishman with his bulky dossier. Steed provided them with all of Peter Peel's known aliases -- a list that had nearly doubled beyond the fist full of bogus passports they'd found in his home safe. There was no doubt at the ministry that Peter Peel had been well prepared to flee when he managed his escape. He had, they suspected, caches of identification, clothes, cash, and disguises, tucked away all over Europe and perhaps beyond.

The Alpine Italians were a serious, efficient lot, doubtlessly influenced by their Swiss and Austrian neighbors. Within twenty-four hours they had found someone with one of Peel's aliases registered at hotel in a nearby resort town. The ski season was all but over, but the resorts did an off-season business in hiking tours and spa services. Steed fancied a good massage.

But Albert Axelrod, alias Peter Peel, had checked out of the posh resort after just one night, unsurprisingly leaving no forwarding information. At a loss for a trail until Peter surfaced at another bank or with one of his known aliases, Steed checked in and took advantage of the spa, calling his various contacts several times between his massage, swim, sauna, and herbal wrap treatments -- the last of which had sounded over-the-top even to a confirmed sybarite, but it turned out to be deliciously rejuvenating. He vowed to bring Emma to a spa like this. Soon. The spa staff were very forthcoming with opinions of the other English gentleman, but it was clear he'd made no reference, at least no honest one, to his immediate plans.

Steed's growing network next located Peel lakeside in the town of Garda. Steed pointed the Alpha east toward Lago di Garda and some good wine. The teller in the Garda bank remembered the attractive Englishman who'd patiently waited while she verified his withdrawal. The funds had been available in the Swiss account, and he'd presented adequate identification. Steed was at his most charming in Italian, the language rolling off his tongue as he flirted with the middle-aged woman. The other Englishman had said he was heading west to Portofino via Milan, and that he'd come recently from France and had enjoyed driving along the lake.

All lies, of course. At least Steed knew not to head back toward Milan. Instinct told him that Peter Peel was also done with France. He was obviously enjoying his European tour. But would he make for a coastal city -- say Venice -- and take ship across the Mediterranean? Or would he continue east by land? Steed was beginning to suspect that Peel's goal might be one of Europe's less cooperative neighbors, like Turkey. A westerner could live a pleasant life on the western coast of Turkey, so long as he was not bothered by the frequent calls of the imams.

Steed hopscotched from one country to another in pursuit of his quarry for the next two weeks, never more than a few days behind, but never managing to catch up. Peel did stick to the land -- perhaps a ship presented too few opportunities for flight. He would touch down for a few days in a medium sized town, withdraw hundreds of Pounds worth of the local currency, live comfortably but not excessively, and then move on. On a few occasions Steed reached a town while Peel was still in it, but it seemed like Peel was exiting the far end while Steed was entering the near.

After fourteen days of cars and trains, Steed collapsed on the bed in a hotel room in Istanbul. It was a city he loved. He sorely missed Emma and wished she was there with him to explorer the bazaar and visit the Hagia Sophia and Topkapi Palace and his personal favorite, the cool, dark Basilica Cistern. Once in his youth he'd joined the local men swimming in the Bosphorus. He'd do it again to impress her, if she were there. Lying on his back, he laughed out loud at him self. As if Emma would be impressed by me leaping into the raging water below the Palace.

"Emma, you need your real doctor. I can handle the spin on this -- completely cover it up in fact -- but your rib needs attention." Lord Frederick Leighton of Leighton and Brenford Consultants stood beside Emma in the bedroom. They were watching two bulky men lift a crate that was just big enough to hold a man.

Freddy had arrived within a half hour of Emma's call. By then Stein was conscious and spitting vulgarities at Emma. She had considered shutting the bathroom door, but decided there was a chance he could find a way to slice his bonds if she weren't watching. So she'd taken her handgun from her bag and moved a chair to where he could see her through the doorway. The sight of the gun had silenced him.

Emma had summarized events to her old friend and he'd made a telephone call. Then he'd taken her into the kitchen to remove the glass fragment from her back, clean that wound and the one on her side, and apply bandages from her first aid kit. He'd remained silent throughout the process and Emma had bitten her lower lip to keep from complaining about the pain. When he was through he'd gently lowered her camisole and turned away. Emma had wrapped herself in her dressing gown, although the belt was still around Stein's wrists.

"Where will they take him?" she asked, ignoring his statement. He sighed, watching the men carry the crate out of the room with numerous grunts. Emma hoped none of her neighbors were watching, although it wasn't the first time strange men had removed bodies from her apartment.

"You don't want to know. They'll make sure he's very discouraged from bothering you again."

"What if he goes to the police? Accuses them of accosting him?"

"Then it will have nothing to do with you, which is what you're worried about, or so you said."

Emma followed the men out into the living room, then went to sit on the sofa as they maneuvered the crate out the door. Freddy followed her.

"If I go to the doctor, Steed will be notified and come back. I don't want him to give up his search for Peter. And there's nothing they can do about a broken rib -- believe me, they made that very clear the first time. I'd know if it were worse."

"You're as stubborn as ever. I give up arguing with you," he plopped down beside her. "At least let me stay with you tonight -- no, no, don't get any ideas," he raised both hands in mock protest, for she hadn't reacted at all to his proposal, "I'll be right out here on this nice, comfy sofa." He patted the cushions and grimaced at their firmness.

Emma had to smile at his antics. "Will it be billable time?" she asked. He chuckled, then tenderly stroked the side of her face. She closed her eyes, enjoying the touch in spite of herself. God I miss Steed.

"It's on me," he whispered. "A favor for a friend in need."

Sally sipped her wine cooler -- her roommate's cheap wine cut with cheaper cranberry juice -- and watched Meg's brother Terrance work his way across the sitting room toward the bathroom. He appeared to be drunk, which wasn't too surprising since the party had been in full swing for four hours. She'd been glad to see him, if a little anxious about what he thought of her after Annie's report on her last Sunday. He'd approached her a little shyly, re-introducing himself and offering to fetch her a drink. She'd gone with him to the kitchen to mix her own. They'd stayed there talking for a while until more guests came in clambering for alcohol. Sally had let Terrance top off her wine, turning it a frightful pink color, then followed him back out into the sitting room where they'd been separated by various conversations for the next couple hours.

She was exhausted from keeping her boss's long hours all week. Not that she resented it. Lady Emma was so desperate and depressed Sally wanted to do all she could to help her get through these days while Steed was away. If that meant being a friendly ear at nine o'clock at night, or going out for coffee at ten, she wanted to be there to do it. Once or twice Emma had shooed her home, but more often she simply didn't notice how late it was when she finally dragged on her coat and told Sally she was going home. Sally supposed that her boss's reputation for being aloof and self-centered was deserved, but those aspects of her personality were just a small part of the woman that Sally admired tremendously.

"So, Miss Sally, Meg says you've got a real job." Terrance was back, squeezing himself onto the sofa between her and one of Annie's friends.

"Well, I have a job, that's true," Sally replied, not intending to sound cagey.

Terrance eyed her curiously for a moment and she realized that she had probably sounded as distant as her boss was accused of being. She decided she liked it. It certainly had his attention.

"So what is your job?" he asked, "What does Sally Howard do?"

"I'm a personal assistant, for an executive."

Terrance grinned, although she wasn't sure why. Then she did: "You're a gopher -- a ‘girl Friday' huh? Who's the executive? Some overbearing masher with bad breath that you don't dare sneeze around?"

"Not at all --."

"Come on, wouldn't you be better off in the secretarial pool? Maybe you could get into a union then -- much more secure jobs for union folks, you know."

"I love my job, Terrance," she said firmly, realizing too late that she was being teased.

"Yeah? So who's this executive you slave for?"

"I work at Knight Industries."

"What? Do you think I wouldn't know enough about the corporate world to recognize his name?"

"I didn't say that, Terrance, I just don't want to bore you with my work," she backpedaled, somewhat unsuccessfully she feared. She had assumed he wouldn't know Knight from British Petroleum. "I work for Emma Knight, the CEO."

Terrance leaned away from her, pressing rudely into Annie's friend behind him, and whistled. "The ice queen herself," he said.

"That's not very nice -- and where have you heard it?" Sally asked, quite surprised.

"You haven't asked what I do," he replied.

"All right, what do you do, Terrance? I mean, do you have a job?"

"Yes I have a job, miss personal assistant to the queen. I'm a reporter."

Uh-Oh. "Really?" she managed to hide her alarm. "What paper?" He isn't interested in me at all. He just wants dirt on Lady Emma.

"You know those vending boxes on the street where you buy the Times of London?" he asked glibly.

"Yes," she groaned inwardly. But he looked so young to be a Times reporter.

"Well, I work for the paper that's dumped in the free bins next to them -- the Green Sheet. I'm sure you must read it," his face lit with a sardonic grin. "Of course, my boss calls me a copy writer and makes me write slogans for the paid advertising. But I concentrate on my real reporting. I had a front page article the other week you may have seen -- it was a survey, really, on the increase of dog poop on the sidewalks of our city. London's beginning to look like Paris."

Sally couldn't help giggling at his explanation, and he joined in. "You're walking down the street and -- yuck! -- you step in something nasty. We're all going to have to stare at the sidewalks as we walk. Darned grim, I say," he went on.

"And was that what the people you interviewed said?" Sally asked.

"Oh yes, all three of them," he laughed. "But really, Sally, I do want to be a serious reporter. I've read all about your boss. She was quite a sensation for a few weeks. Has she recovered from that shooting?"

Sally felt her mood sober at his question. She paused, organizing her thoughts before answering to be sure she didn't say something she shouldn't. "She's back at work and very busy, but these things take time. I try to do all I can for her."

"You're quite fond of her, aren't you?"

"Yes. She's a very special person."

"Then I apologize for calling her an ice queen. It's just what people say. I'm sure she's quite pleasant."

"She is, and she isn't," Sally admitted. "I mean, her reputation is deserved. But when you get to know her she's so smart and clever. You know where you stand with her -- she doesn't play games. And she expects top performance from those around her -- that's why she seems arrogant. She is a little self-centered, though. But isn't everyone, really?"

Terrance was watching her intently and he smiled at her question. "Well, I know I am," he admitted. "I'm not so sure about you, though. It takes a very giving person to be so loyal to the type of person you just described."

Sally thought about Steed, about how he was as arrogant and self-centered as Miss Knight and yet they were perfectly matched. She realized that on some level each of them must give something to the other. "I'm working on my selfish, arrogant side," she said, peering into Terrance's surprisingly green eyes. They twinkled with mirth. Suddenly, out of sheer impulse and with no thought to the consequences, she leaned close and kissed him, lightly, on the lips.

When she drew back her expression was as startled as his. It had felt unlike anything she'd expected. Her heart was racing. She wanted to do it again. Instead she stood up, hands pressed against her thighs as if holding down her skirt against a breeze. "I'd better say good night," she said, then turned to step over the legs of the person seated behind her on the couch. Terrance sat frozen, only his eyes following her as she retreated to her room.

Emma paused in the doorway between the gymnasium and Hemming's office. The ministry's fitness trainer looked up, then rose from his desk.

"Emma!" he greeted her, coming around his desk. He grasped her upper arms through her leotard and tsk'd as he squeezed them. She made no comment as he handled her forearms in the same way, then wrapped his big hands around her torso and worked his way down over her hips to inspect her legs. "You have your chest wrapped. That's good. I read your file after you called -- strict orders not to risk re-injury." He said, escorting her out into the gym. She chose not to mention that she had wrapped her chest because her rib was already re-broken. She'd been very disturbed after Stein's attack -- not by the fact that he'd attacked her, nor even by the sexual nature of his actions, but rather by her unaccustomed weakness. That experience had been more powerful than all of Steed's warnings. She realized that he'd been trying to prevent her having to learn the hard way.

"You'll start on the equipment," Hemming was saying as he led her into the smaller gym that was filled with exercise equipment. "I want fifteen minutes on the treadmill -- the first five walking and the rest at no less than a jog."

Emma complied, quickly falling into a trance-like state, her mind wandering as her body covered the artificial miles. Before she knew it Hemming was in front of the device, turning down the speed setting. The timer showed that she'd been running for close to thirty minutes.

"'ere, Emma, what's chasin' you then?" he asked as she slowed to a walk, drawing in long breaths that hurt as her chest expanded. She felt her heart rate dropping back to normal. For the first time in months she felt really good. She was covered with a sheen of perspiration, and her chest ached, but overall her body had finally recaptured the coordinated, powerful feeling that she had been accustomed to since childhood.

Hemming supervised her using the various equipment, making notes about the amount of weight and tension and the numbers of repetitions while she worked. When he was satisfied that she'd worked every muscle in her body, unaware of the unexpressed pain some of the exercises had caused her, he lead her back out to the larger gym. A group of trainees were participating in a Karate class. Emma watched them wistfully -- she would like very much to practice the moves they were learning, but the risk was too great.

"One last thing," Hemming said, stopping her in front of a big, canvas-covered punching bag. He nodded at it, positioning himself opposite her.

"What shall I do?" she asked, accustomed to taking his direction.

He snorted. "Hit it, woman. You're all pent up. You miss your man -- yes, everyone here knows what he's up to. You're angry with your ex-husband. Hit the bag, Emma. Get it out of your system here, where it's safe."

Emma punched the bag, a weak, slow blow with a closed fist that jarred her rib painfully. Then she hit it again, harder. The pain was no worse, and the satisfaction was high. Across from her Hemming nodded encouragement. She struck again, a one-two punch, followed by an upper cut. And then she was slugging the bag with all her might, grunts of pain and effort transitioning to traditional shouts as she opened her hands and chopped. She spun and kicked, chopped, and kicked again. All of the fury she'd been too weak to vent on Stein burned through her again and she spent it on the solid canvas.

Her furious attack on the bag drew the attention of the trainees. Their instructor paused, allowing them to turn and watch Emma until she'd worn herself out. She landed one last blow on the bag and stepped back, hands on knees, to catch her breath.

"All right," Hemming said, releasing the bag and glancing at the trainees, "back to it, then," he said. The Karate instructor clapped twice and his class reformed, mutters of "Emma Peel," echoing in the large room. Emma straightened, smiling at the retreating students.

"I guess you were right," she said, "thank you, Hemming."

The trainer nodded curtly and gestured toward the door to the locker rooms. "Just be sure to come back this time -- day after tomorrow."

"Count on it," she assured him.

Steed did not number Turkish among the languages he read and spoke, but he had a fair understanding of it when spoken. Standing in the lobby of the hotel where a Boris Schmidt -- one of Peter Peel's aliases -- was registered he listened to a pair of rather liberated young Turkish women seated near him discussing their holiday in the city. He suspected that their parents in the fishing village of Bodrum had no idea where their daughters were spending their evenings.

He was distracted by their comparing notes on the young men at last night's nightclub when Peel exited the lift and strode across the lobby to the front doors. Steed recognized him just in time, moving so quickly the two young women stared at him curiously as he raced toward the doors. Peel was already half way up the block and Steed wondered if the man could possibly have recognized him dressed as he was as a member of the Turkish tourist police force.

Turkey was not a nation where he could flash his red card and gain the unquestioning assistance of the authorities. He had to handle apprehending Peel very discretely here, where extradition wasn't an option. His choice of disguise was intended to allow him free access to most places, and had the added benefit of not looking odd if he did capture Peel. The unfortunate part of the disguise was the intimidating rifle that came with it.

Steed shouldered the weapon and hurried after Peel, able to keep him in sight by virtue of his blond hair amid the sea of darker heads on the crowded sidewalk. A trolly car clattered by and Steed was relieved that Peel did not board it -- he would have hated losing him in that manner again. Steed grew more convinced that Peel had recognized him as the man moved at nearly a jog toward a very old part of the city. His heart fell as his quarry turned right around the antique Turkish bath house, heading toward one of the many entrances to the grand bazaar.

Steed did break into a jog to reach the bazaar entrance before Peel managed to lose himself in the crowds of shoppers. He was harder to follow here where fair-haired European tourists were abundant. Steed caught sight of him turning a corner, heading deeper into the leather section, then turning again down toward the very center of the bazaar where the princes of salesmen -- the carpet vendors -- resided. The tourists, who identified Steed's attire as that of someone who was there to protect them, parted for him willingly. He entered a shop draped with rich carpets just a few paces behind Peel.

And stopped in dismay. Two young apprentice salesmen stared wide-eyed at him from among a dozen chest-high piles of rugs. At the back of the shop a hanging rug flapped back into place. Steed made for it, drawing it aside to find a staircase leading up. Barely pausing he climbed up, hearing the creak and slam of a door above as the stairs were momentarily illuminated by bright sunlight. In a moment he reached the door and slammed it open, reluctantly unshouldering the rifle to poke it out ahead of himself.

The ancient roof of the bazaar was a collection of domes amid a network of paths and doorways. A quickly moving figure disappearing around a dome off to the right caught Steed's eye and he lit out after it. But within a few turns he knew there was no use. Peel could hide amid the domes indefinitely, or even duck into another doorway leading to the brass section, or the shops that specialized in birdcages.

Then he spotted a ladder on the side of a nearby dome. He climbed to the top and spun in a slow circle, a lone uniformed figure amid a sea of beige domes. The sun radiated off of the ancient, handmade tiles creating weirdly distorting heat waves. Steed squinted, thinking he saw someone moving in the distance near the edge of the roof. Then he was sure: the door to a Han -- a large warehouse and workshop that was so old the bazaar had grown up around it -- opened and closed. He slid down the side of the dome and raced along the paths to it, flinging the door open into darkness.

"Sally? Telephone!" Ruthie, Sally's third roommate called out, catching Sally between her room and the bathroom. She had just come in from work. It was half ten.

"Yes? This is Sally," she said into the phone. She really wanted a quick bath and her bed, but she had to take the call. It could be Steed -- he did sometimes call her at home if he didn't find her at the office. She thought he must do it when he missed Miss Knight terribly. She couldn't leave him in some foreign city without a friendly voice. It was beyond Sally's experience to understand that few places in the world were truly foreign to Steed.

"I'm sorry for ringing you so late, but they said you never get home from work until now."

"Terrance?" she leaned against the wall by the telephone table and slid down to the floor.

"Yes. How are you?"

"Exhausted, actually. But it's a pleasure to hear from you. Conducting another survey?"

"No," he chuckled. "But I'd like to."

"What?"

"I mean, I'd like to invite you out, if you can get away from your executive," he sounded nervous despite his flippancy. Sally smiled happily. She hadn't ruined everything after all. She'd been sure she had after kissing him last weekend.

"All right," she replied. "When?"

"Friday? We could see a move, have some supper."

"Yes, all right. I'd like that."

"Right then. I'll come by -- can you possibly be ready by seven?"

"Yes, of course. I'm not a slave, despite what you seem to think."

"You look nice today, Sally, I meant to mention it earlier," Emma settled into her chair looking across the desk at her assistant. Sally smiled, appreciating the compliment. She'd taken a long lunch, visiting a nearby department store where the girls at the makeup counter had done her face in the hopes that she'd buy their products.

"Thank you ma'am. Actually, I have a date tonight, so I was hoping to leave early."

"Hey!" Emma exclaimed cheerfully -- she was managing to be cheerful again now and then, even though the circumstances at Knight were not particularly improved. "I guess living in town is good for your social life."

"Yes ma'am. I think it has more to do with my roommates having lots of friends about all the time. Can't help but meet them."

"Really? Are they hanging about when you finally go home at night? Or is this mostly weekend socialization?" Emma felt the need to acknowledge Sally's ridiculously long hours, although she realized after she'd said it that her intended humor wasn't very funny.

"Weekends, really," Sally admitted. "I prefer to have some time to myself after work. Actually, I stay here to read sometimes -- it's much quieter."

"And you're around if I call. I know what you've been doing Sally. I can't begin to thank you for being so supportive. I know I've been rather pig-headed a lot, lately."

"Oh no, Miss Knight --."

Emma shook her head to silence Sally's protest. "So tell me about this date? After all, you've been privy to my personal life -- you owe me."

Sally grinned, realizing that her employer was right. Turnabout was fair play, after all. "He's my roommate's brother. I met him at a party they had the day I moved in."

"They had a party for you? That's nice!"

"No, they have a party every Saturday night."

"Good lord!"

"I know. It's a bit much. But in any case, Terrance and I have talked a bit at the parties. And now he's invited me to the movies."

"You like him?"

"I agreed to go out."

"Well, one might agree to go out for any number of reasons. Don't be evasive with me Miss Howard," Emma grinned and leaned back in her chair. Sally realized she was missing an opportunity for guidance here.

"He's funny, and smart," she said.

"And cute?"

Sally felt herself begin to blush. "Yes -- he has the most lovely green eyes."

Emma's grin increased and she leaned forward over her desk, templing her fingers in front of her. "So he's taking you to the movies? And supper?"

"Yes, he said so. Can I ask you, ma'am -- how do you think I should act?"

"I don't think you should act at all, Sally. You should be yourself." Emma realized that Sally looked anxious. She really does like him. "Here's what you do. Be polite, and ask him about himself -- you said you've talked a bit, so you'll have to think up questions you haven't already asked -- maybe about his family? Oh, but you mustn't pry too much about his sister if she's your roommate. Be open about yourself, but don't tell him everything. You need to maintain some mystery. It drives them crazy.

"Yes ma'am, I've come to realize that," Sally said, her mind racing as she thought about questions she could ask Terrance about himself.

"And at the end of the evening, what if he tries to kiss you goodnight?" Emma wanted to find out how shy Sally was -- did she plan on being kissed, or was she afraid?

"Well, actually, ma'am, I kissed him. Last week." By the way Emma's brows shot up Sally knew she had to explain. "We were talking, at the party, and he --," she paused, realizing that she did not want to relate the conversation she and Terrance had had prior to the kiss. "He suggested that I was not very forceful, not demanding. I wanted to prove otherwise, so I kissed him. Then I went in to bed. I was quite exhausted, actually."

Emma straightened in her chair and slapped her hands on the desk merrily. "Good girl! Always keep them guessing. So here's what you do tonight: don't let him kiss you -- he may try when he picks you up. Fend him off all evening. Then at the end, you kiss him again. Keep it on your terms tonight."

"Yes ma'am. I understand. But when do you stop? I mean, when do you let him take charge?"

"When you trust him, Sally," Emma's response sounded wistful, as if she was thinking of a personal experience. "If you never feel that you trust him, then never let down your guard."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but what about love?"

"Love without trust is not going to last, Sally. Don't settle for that."

Sally nodded slowly, wondering if Miss Knight's standards were too high for most people to achieve.

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