This story copyright © 2003 Mia McCroskey
Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
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Steed becomes a man hunter
Emma stays afloat
Chapter 7
Knowing his eyes would adjust to the dim light inside the Han, Steed stepped in quickly and closed the door. He had been inside other Hans and he knew they were all similar -- a large warehouse space on the ground floor with workshops and sometimes living space around a balcony above. He had to be on the workshop level -- the door might once have lead to external stairs, or it may have been cut centuries ago when the bazaar was constructed. Crouching low, he took a step to the left and encountered a wall. Then he took two steps to the right and found another. He was in a corridor. Already his eyes were adjusting and could make out the rough bricks on either side. He started forward, rifle once again at the ready.
As he'd anticipated, the corridor opened onto the internal balcony. Dim lights on the ceiling far above cast strange shadows on the floor below. Stacked crates filled the space under the balcony on the far side, and stacks of smaller cartons, some unpacked, cluttered the central floor space. The crates contained baskets -- thousands of baskets woven by Turkish peasants and shipped here for sale. If a tourist were to venture out into central Turkey they could buy the same wares for a tenth the price, but the savings would be offset by the cost of the journey.
Movement on the balcony far to the right caught Steed's eye. His quarry was descending a ladder to the main floor. Steed looked around for a closer means of descent, but saw none. Meanwhile a man on the opposite balcony shouted at Steed. He couldn't quite understand, but he was sure it wasn't a friendly greeting. Seeing no better course, Steed lit out along the balcony toward the ladder Peel had used.
He had almost reached it when a rectangle of bright light appeared below -- an outer door had been opened. The light flickered as someone passed through the door, then vanished as the door was closed.
"Dammit!" Steed muttered, grasping the sides of the ladder and swinging over the edge. He burnt his palms sliding down and caught more than one splinter. But he hit the ground running, finding the outside door and flinging it open.
The street was awash in people of all description. Steed made use of his height to look for Peel's bright head, and for the disturbance his passing was bound to cause. There -- a block and a half down to the left. Peel darted across the street between slow-moving vehicles, then continued on the other side of the street. Steed covered half the distance between them by the time Peel had reached the next corner. He rounded it to the right. Steed got there a moment later and charged down the next short block, coming to a stop at what he next encountered.
A wide, modern road skirted the edge of the old district. Cars rushed past in both directions in four traffic lanes. And there, just up the street, was Peter Peel getting into a taxi. Steed sprinted toward the car as it pulled away from the kerb, trying to make himself visible to the taxi driver, who would most certainly stop for a tourist police officer. But either the driver didn't see him, or Peel was more persuasive than Steed's uniform, for the car moved off into traffic leaving Steed with just the memory of it's license plate number. He looked around for another passing taxi, but there were none. Unable to believe he'd failed, he started walking slowly toward his hotel and a telephone.
Terrance appeared at Sally's apartment precisely on time. Although she tried to be punctual herself, it was a trait she found disconcerting in others. She realized as he leaned close to try to kiss her and she deflected him that in a date extreme punctuality seemed a little too eager. She also felt a little thrill as she picked up her purse and smiled into his green eyes -- so far Miss Knight was one for one.
He'd picked several possible movies, allowing her the final choice. She surprised him by selecting the subtitled Italian comedy. He surprised her by taking her to a Chinese restaurant for dinner rather than Italian. They talked about their jobs and families over dinner, with Sally trying to ask more questions than he did, and to provide fewer answers.
Meg had been more than willing to tell her that her brother's self-image as a budding reporter was overblown and that the recent "article" had really been an installment of the Green Sheet's regular reader survey feature. Terrance had been substituting for the publisher's wife, who usually focused on cheerful, non-confrontational topics. Terrance's submission would probably have been rejected if he hadn't turned it in so late that neither the publisher nor his wife saw it. Meg had Sally rolling with laughter over the reprimand Terrance had received and his indignant response. Apparently he'd nearly quit his job over it. Sally did not bring up any of this over dinner, of course. But as Terrance paid the check she caught herself speculating about the wages of an advertising copywriter.
The movie had received very good reviews and Sally had wanted to see it, so as the opening credits rolled she settled in happily. Thirty minutes later she felt Terrance's fingers on the back of her hand, which was resting on her leg. She glanced at him. He appeared to be watching the movie screen intently. He lightly caressed her hand, almost absently, as if he wasn't doing it on purpose. To her utter amazement, his touch made her skin tingle, the sensation running hotly up her arm and through her body. It was delicious. She sat frozen, barely able to focus on the movie screen, certainly unable to read the subtitles. She wanted to turn her hand over, to feel him touch her palm the way he was caressing the back of her hand. Miss Knight hadn't mentioned handholding. In a way, the sensation Terrance's touch created was far more erotic than her kiss the other night. That had been quick and impulsive. This was slow, steady, and deliberate. And she did not want him to stop.
She'd participated in her share of snogging with the village boys, and even a bit of touching that had made her tingle all over. But she'd never let it go too far, believing that the right time and person would come along and she'd recognize it, and him. She'd been taught by conservative parents and ministers to save herself for marriage, but the influences of modern society had been pecking away at that conviction since she was in her late teens. It was all but gone now, replaced by a resolve to choose her time and lover. She thought as she turned her hand over on her leg and Terrance twined his fingers in between hers, that the choice might be made soon.
He held on to her hand as he walked her home and they discussed the movie. She did her best to hide the fact that she'd missed a fair chunk in the middle. She let go of her hand to open the downstairs door to her apartment building, then she turned back toward him. She couldn't tell what his intentions were, or whether he expected a goodnight kiss. He was smiling whistfully down at her, his green eyes nearly concealed under his half-lowered lids.
"Thank you for a lovely evening Terrance," she said softly, one hand on the doorknob, the other at her side.
"It was fun," he replied, and for a moment she thought he was going to just walk away. He took a deep breath, "can I call you tomorrow?"
"Yes, please," she sighed in relief. Then before he could reply or move, she raised her free hand to his shoulder and tilted her face to his, kissing him again. This time it wasn't so light, and it wasn't so quick, and before she could force herself to pull away his hands were on her waist and he was kissing her back.
"Thank you, Sally," he whispered as he raised his face away from hers. "I'll call you tomorrow." He stepped away, trotting down the front steps, the smiling back over his shoulder before heading up the street. Sally griped the door handle and closed her eyes for a moment, holding on to the warm, floating sensation of his kiss, then opened the door and went upstairs.
"It's Steed."
"Steed. It's so good to hear your voice," Emma pulled her feet up onto her sofa and cuddled the telephone as if it were her lover in the flesh. "God I miss you."
"Me too. I'm flying from Istanbul to Washington DC -- leaving late tonight."
"He's gone to the States?"
"Apparently. The truth is, I nearly lost him here. And I was so close."
Steed was still bitter about being out maneuvered in the bazaar. It hadn't been a test of athletic ability, but of cunning and local knowledge. It was as if Peel had planned and executed a well-practiced route. In retrospect Steed realized that perhaps he had. He'd obviously known which rug merchant had roof access, and the workers in the Han hadn't given him a second look.
Steed had contacted Interpol immediately, asking them to monitor the airports and ferries. Then he'd gone to the ferry docks himself. But it had taken the authorities two days to sift through the airline passenger rosters and turn up Noel Delancey traveling with an Irish passport. He'd taken off five hours after Steed lost him on a flight to Paris with his luggage booked through to Washington.
Delancey was one of the aliases they'd found references to in Peel's papers. Steed found the ministry's new indexing system rather helpful in sorting through the vast collection of data they'd amassed on Peel. He mentioned it to Emma and she snorted. She had found the system somewhat lacking on a case last fall.
"You know they've updated what data they include based on your criticism," he pointed out, which was true.
"That's something, I suppose," she said, just happy to be chatting somewhat normally with him. But his news had her mind churning. "Will you contact our friends in Washington?" she asked.
"I already have. Stetson is meeting my flight, and Amanda is reviewing the immigration records. But he may not have caught the flight from Paris, or he may have entered the States under a different alias. He's on the lose until he withdraws more money."
"You don't sound too confident, Steed."
"I'm not. I hate having lost two days, and another day and a half traveling. And he must know by now how I'm tracking him. He's going into deeper hiding, I'm sure of it. Stein transferred funds to other accounts that we don't have access to. If I were him, I'd switch to one of them."
Emma shuddered at the mention of Stein. But Steed knew nothing of the attack and she never intended for him to find out. Initially it was to prevent him from giving up the chase, but now it was because she wasn't sure how he'd react to Stein's physical assault on her. Although she'd taken it in stride outwardly, she'd had several terrifying nightmares in which she struggled ineffectively with a fetid creature that had one clear aim. So far she'd awakened trembling each time before the dream monster had achieved its ghastly goal. She would have to make herself tea, or practice some yoga, and once she'd even picked up a fencing foil to chase the beast away before she could get back to sleep. If the dreams continued, if she dreamt that the creature raped her, she knew that she would have to seek professional help. But until then she combated the dream by keeping her appointments with Hemming and rebuilding her strength.
"Can't Weems and Plath work on that?" she asked, "Wouldn't that be part of their investigation of Peter and Birch?"
"Yes you're right, darling," Steed replied, genuinely pleased that she'd seen the situation so clearly. "But I have to ask them to put priority on it, and technically I'm on leave."
"They'll do what you ask, Steed, even if it's unofficial." Her confidence bolstered his mood tremendously.
"I'm going to get him, Emma. Maybe in Washington, or maybe in the next town where he stays just a little too long. I'm not going to give up."
His tone -- somewhere between determination and desperation, made Emma long to hold him in her arms. For a flickering moment she considered begging him to forget about Peter, and the money, and come home to her. But she held her tongue until the impulse passed.
"I love you, Steed. Always know that," she said instead.
Before leaving Istanbul Steed had a withdrawal from his own numbered Swiss account wired to him. As a rule he did not dip into his savings for day-to-day living. But he regarded this expenditure as a sort of insurance premium for his future with Emma.
"Sally!"
Emma stood in her office doorway, her firm tone stopping Sally in her tracks on
her way to the lift. She'd thought to drop off the files she owed Mrs. Emerson
and hurry back to her office to finish two memos she was working on. She had
not come in at all over the weekend and she hadn't been able to catch up with
her work all day. It occurred to her as she turned back toward her boss that
she had allowed her workload to become unbearable by putting in such long
hours. There was no way she could complete her duties during normal business
hours. Terrance's attentions over the weekend had shown the advantages of
freeing up more of her time. She was as devoted as ever to Miss Knight, but she
needed more time for herself. No time like the present, she thought as she followed Emma into her office.
"Actually,
Miss Knight, I'd like to talk about something with you," she said as Emma led
her toward the sofa. She took her favorite position in one of the big
armchairs. She knew that Emma had wanted to replace the furniture by the
fireplace -- back when they thought Knight had some cash to spare. She'd planned
on asking for this armchair, if it wasn't wanted any longer. Now Emma seemed
stuck with the furniture, and the lovely Renoir over the mantel was being put
up for auction at Sotheby's. Sally knew that decision -- to sell the painting
that Sir John Knight had purchased before she was born -- had been nearly
impossible for Miss Knight to make. It said more to Sally than any of the
income statements and reorganization plans about the true state of Knight's
financial affairs.
"Business?"
Emma asked, sinking down onto the sofa. It was late afternoon and she'd had a
very intense session with Hemming during lunch.
"Yes
ma'am."
"All
right. Then I want a report on your date," Emma replied, smiling wickedly.
Sally felt herself blush. She had thought Miss Knight had some new assignment
for her.
"Well,
ma'am, I've realized today that I have more work to do than I can complete --
during normal business hours, I mean," she paused, noting Emma's surprised
expression. "It's not that I mind working overtime, ma'am. I don't expect to go
home at five every day. But it seems as if I have to put in full days on weekends
as well as extra hours during the week to complete everything. I'm not
complaining --."
"Well you
should be, Sally. You're absolutely right. Mrs. Emerson and I, and doubtless
others who've figured out that you're a good worker, have been taking advantage
of you. Let's review what you're working on and reassign some of it."
"Thank
you ma'am," Sally said with relief. "It might be best if I make a list and we
review it tomorrow -- I might forget some things if I try to recite them off the
top of my head."
"Fine.
Have Mrs. Emerson put an appointment on my calendar and tell her she's to sit
in," Emma leaned back on the sofa and crossed her legs. "Now, tell me about
your date -- am I right to suspect that it has something to do with your need
for more personal time?"
"No
ma'am! I'm not trying to shirk my duties so that I can spend time with
Terrance. I know how much you're sacrificing for Knight right now --."
"Of
course you're not!" Emma raised a hand palm out to silence her assistant.
"Besides which, you are in not expected to make the same sacrifices that I do
on behalf of this company. Now, how did it go?"
"Well,"
Sally swallowed hard and thought about how to begin. Then she described her
date with Terrance, smiling proudly as Emma nodded approval at her movie
choice. Then she came to Terrance touching her hand.
"You
hadn't said what to do if he tried to hold hands," she explained. "And it was
so nice -- it felt so . . . ," Sally shrugged, unable to put the sensation into
words. Emma grinned appreciatively.
"That ‘oh
my!' feeling, hum?" she suggested. "So what did you do?"
"I held
hands with him. All the way home."
Emma
nodded, clearly thinking about strategy. "And?" she asked pointedly.
"And I
wasn't sure if he was going to try to kiss me good night. So I kissed him
again."
"Good.
Did he kiss you back this time?" Sally felt her face coloring again and knew
Emma saw it too -- she smiled deviously. "Apparently so. Well then, what's
next?"
"Well,
actually, it already was," Sally admitted, thinking back over Saturday
afternoon and evening. Terrance had called, and then come over early before the
weekly party got started. He'd brought a case of beer and helped Sally and
Annie set up the snacks. Sally had been relieved to learn that their parties
depended on guests bringing drinks and food -- that she wasn't expected to help
fund a weekly bash. When everything was ready Terrance had suggested a walk and
they'd wandered through a nearby park in the late afternoon sun. Sally had
never spent so much time with someone and still found plenty to talk about. To
her relief, the party had been smaller than the previous weekends' event. She
was able to talk with some more of her roommates' friends, peripherally keeping
track of Terrance but concentrating on not seeming to concentrate on him. The
hour was late and she was standing in the kitchen chatting with Annie's best
friend Hannah when she felt a hand on her shoulder an a warm presence at her
side. Terrance leaned close and placed a kiss on her cheek.
"Good
night, Sally," he'd said, "I have to get up at some ridiculous hour in the
morning. Good night Hannah," he added, glancing at Sally's companion before
leaving. Hannah's expression had been anything but friendly. She gave Sally a
narrow-eyed stare, then turned to the counter where the drinks were arranged.
Sally had been about to ask her what was wrong when Annie came in calling
Hannah's name.
Sally
described all this to Emma, who listened thoughtfully. "Was that the last time
you talked to him, then?" she asked.
"Yes. He
didn't call me yesterday at all," Sally realized that she was letting her
anxiety come through in her voice.
"It can
be like an addiction. If you don't hear from him you go through withdrawal,"
Emma's secret smile told Sally that she was thinking of a similar personal
experience. "He said he had to get up early, so he probably had something to
do. I'm sure you'll hear from him again soon. In the mean time, did you have a
chance to find out why your roommate's friend was so upset?"
"No.
Annie wasn't up when I left for my parents' yesterday, and I didn't see her
last night or this morning. I'm afraid that maybe Hannah likes Terrance and he
doesn't like her."
"Or they
have some history -- they've been involved and broken up."
Sally
grimaced. "How can I deal with that? Being friends with her when I know he's
dated her?"
"Who says
you have to be friends with her? Just be pleasant and let it go at that."
Lee
Stetson, American operative for an agency just as anonymous as Steed's
ministry, watched through the terminal windows as the British Airways airplane
from Paris taxied to the gate. Since Steed's call the day before yesterday he
and his partner Amanda King had spent all of their spare time looking for clues
as to the whereabouts of Peter Peel. Stetson had known and occasionally worked
with Steed for several years. Last year he and Amanda had collaborated with
Steed on a case during which Emma Peel had stepped back into the Englishman's
life. The outgoing and friendly Amanda had befriended the often unapproachable,
aristocratic Emma. To Lee's surprise, their friendship had survived distance
and some serious conflicts during a subsequent case. Amanda had been on the
phone with Emma twice since Steed's call, the relatively short conversations
resulting in Amanda expressing deep concern for her friend.
"She's
very depressed, Lee. I can hear it in her voice," Amanda had said after her
second talk with Emma. "I'll never forget how she was when she arrested Sir
Peter -- there was no emotion, or if there was it was hatred that she was
concealing very deeply. Now she believes he's ruining her life. We've got to
help Steed recapture him."
Lee had
approached their supervisor, William Melrose, for permission to pursue Peter
Peel officially. Billy had eyed Lee suspiciously.
"Isn't that
the Brit that was arrested in the Wentworth case last year?"
"Yes. He
escaped from their custody almost two months ago. They've tracked him across
Europe. Now the trail has led here to Washington."
Billy
templed his fingers, elbows propped on his desk. "Who's tracked him?" he asked.
"John
Steed."
"He's
coming here?"
"Yes. As
you might imagine, he's taking it somewhat personally. Peel was in his custody
when he escaped."
Billy's
eyes widened and he leaned back, hands lowering to the arms of his chair, "Steed
lost him? That has to be a first. Peel's not a threat to security here, is he?"
Lee
didn't like the sound of that, he had to think fast. "He's living well off of
stolen money, and there's a lot more where that's coming from. We expect him to
be looking to invest in something as illegally profitable as his arrangement
with the South Americans was -- for that matter he may still be connected to
them."
"That's
thin, Scarecrow. Very thin for me to commit two of my best agents to it."
"Come on
Billy, Amanda and I don't have anything else hot going on right now. If
something comes up we'll leave Steed to handle it on his own."
Billy
sighed, leaning back over his desk to reach for his coffee mug. "All right. But
only until something comes up, and I want you to keep it low-key. I don't want
Dr. Smith in here asking questions."
"You got
it. Thanks Billy."
Steed's
bowler atop his tall frame was unmistakable amid the rest of the passengers
coming in to the terminal from the tarmac. He spotted Lee and broke free of the
line of bedraggled travelers. Lee grinned at his amazingly tidy appearance. Only
Steed could spend hours on a transatlantic flight and come out looking like
he's just coming from his tailor's shop.
"Thanks
for coming, Stetson," Steed said as he shook Lee's hand, his trademark umbrella
clutched along with a small carry-on bag in his left hand. Lee revised his
opinion as he studied the other man's face. He looked drawn and tired, a man
under too much pressure for too long. He stopped himself from asking after
Emma. He knew Steed had not seen her in several weeks. Reminding him would
probably just seem cruel.
"Come on,
let's get you settled in your hotel and then we can go over what Amanda and I
have found," he suggested.
"Forget
the hotel -- I'll check in later. Let's get to work -- after I collect my bag."
Lee wasn't surprised that Steed had overruled him. He would have done the same
were the circumstances reversed.
Emma sat
at her desk watching the Sotheby's curator and his assistant carefully lift her
father's Renoir from the wall over the fireplace. Forgive me, Papa. Her heart ached as they positioned the painting over the
crate they'd brought. Sir John Knight had bought it in honor of Knight's tenth
anniversary, at the end of a very profitable year. And now, under her guidance,
Knight was very likely in its last year and the painting must be sold. The
light seemed to fade from the room as the painting of sailboats on the Seine
slid into the crate. It's all my fault, Papa. I promise to get it back. I'll
get it all back, no matter what it takes.
An hour
later Mrs. Emerson found Emma still seated at her desk staring at the blank
wall.
"Your
tickets were just delivered, Miss Knight," she said, glancing curiously at the
wall, then back at Emma. She set a travel portfolio on Emma's desk. "Everything
is in here. Your flight leaves in three hours."
Emma
turned her gaze toward her secretary. My father's secretary. Does she blame
me, I wonder? She should. "Thank you, Mrs.
Emerson. Please have Stanley bring my car around in fifteen minutes."
"Yes Miss
Knight."