Characters from The Avengers and other sources are the property of their respective owners.
[an error occurred while processing this directive] people have read this chapter since March 2006
With a deep sigh Steed settled into his chair and dragged a stack of the morning reports across the desk. He did not generally place a high importance on actually reading the morning news before noon, but as it happened Emma had awakened early this morning and he’d been unable to just roll over and go back to sleep: the murder of Arnold Bray was preying upon his mind. So although he’d gotten less than three hours sleep he’d decided to get up and drive Emma to her office.
Enjoying her company on the way he’d reflected that they did not take enough drives together anymore. Jaunts in the country or to the shore had once been their favorite impromptu escape, the hours of talking during the drive just as important as the fine dinner or night at an inn at the other end. He silently resolved to arrange such an escape, realizing as he did so that having to arrange it contradicted the very nature of the event. Emma noted his regretful sigh.
“Tired?”
“More like wistful,” he replied.
“Why?”
“Our lives have changed, Mrs. Peel. We used to go gallivanting off on a whim. I miss it.”
Emma forced a smile and let her eyes wander across the suburban development beyond the Bentley’s windows. London had changed too since the times he was reminiscing about – one had to travel further to find the bucolic settings they used to visit.
“I shall make a note in my date book to schedule an impromptu expedition,” she said with a wry smile. Steed glanced over at her, saw that she was joking, and grinned fondly.
“John is a good traveler,” he observed. “Let’s make a point of going for a drive next weekend.”
Emma suppressed the comment on the tip of her tongue about how quickly she grew uncomfortable in the car these days. She understood Steed’s sentiment, no matter how poor the timing was. If necessary she would endure the pressure on her internal organs in order to regain a bit of the carefree nature of their earlier relationship. She had never been able to refuse him his flights of fancy, and that was not changed by pregnancy.
“We could visit a Christmas tree farm and pre-select our tree.”
“You can pre-select them?”
“Certainly. They put a little tag on it, and it keeps growing until we’re ready to pick it up.”
“Imagine that,” Steed smiled over at her, although she suspected that he’d been aware of the process all along. “Let’s do it, then.”
“But you do recall that Tara is coming this afternoon, don’t you?” she felt compelled to remind him.
“So she is,” he replied, a hint of strain in his voice. “Well, she can come along then, can’t she?”
They’d finished the journey into the heart of London recalling some of their more pleasant trips and discussing what destinations they would most like to revisit.
That had brought him to his own underutilized space at the ministry at the unspeakable hour of nine-thirty in the morning.
“Sally,” he said out loud as he opened the top report from the junior bureau chief. Sally Howard had held the Paris office together after the death of fellow agent Robert McCall and the resignation of his wife, Tara King. She had developed new sources in the city and identified McCall’s killer. Her reports were succinctly unemotional, pressed from the same mold as his own, which could not help but please him. But he was more interested in what they did not say, and his other sources inside the embassy in Paris told him that. The young woman was struggling, working long hours and using investigation techniques that were usually employed only by far more experienced agents. And she was frustrated that he had prohibited her from pursuing McCall’s murderers. He did not have the heart to tell her to her face that she was too young and inexperienced to take on the Russian mob single-handed. Steed knew that she needed help – neither Tara nor her predecessors had run the Paris office on their own – and he was looking for a suitable partner. But the mob and McCall’s killer weren’t going anywhere, especially since they thought they had gotten away with it. And these months on her own were hardening Sally. He hated to end them too quickly. Only the occasional concerned look from Emma when she spoke to her former assistant on the telephone spurred him to ease the young woman’s workload.
As usual her report summarized field reports from across France and offered conclusions about them: the rural communists were likely to regain several mayoral seats in the next election; heavy rains in the Loire promised a very good vintage year for reds while Bordeaux was unseasonably dry; a mine workers strike would cause a copper shortage in a few weeks – Sally suggested advising British copper producers to begin negotiations. There was no mention of McCall’s murder – after three heated discussions over the last two months she had gotten the message that he was not going to change his mind, so she had mercifully dropped the matter.
Smiling at her broad view, her clever inclusion of notes about viticulture that played to his interests, and her audacity at recommending economic strategies, Steed set Sally’s report aside and picked up the next one. The morning news contained highlights from all ministry operations and other intelligence events of concern.
At a knock on the door he shut the file. “Come.”
“Here’s your coffee Mr. Steed,” a young female secretary carrying a tray crossed the room to his desk.
“Ah, thank you Miss –.”
“Drake. Tessa Drake,” she smiled winsomely. Steed smiled back, lifting the stack of files from the center of the desk to make room for the tray. As she set it down the scoop neckline of her pale peach angora sweater gapped open to reveal some of her ample bosom. She continued to lean over as she removed each item from the tray one-by-one. Steed leaned back in his chair holding the files in his lap, struggling to keep his gaze on her moving hands.
“May I pour for you?” she asked in a way that suggested that to deny her would break her heart.
“Please,” he forced his gaze from her hands to her face without pausing in between. Her eyes locked with his and held them for a long, slow breath as she licked her slightly parted lips. Steed could not stop his libido’s natural reaction to her overt flirtation, but he could ignore it. Her lips curled into a sensuous smile as she poured his coffee.
“One lump or two?” she asked so provocatively Steed almost grinned at her audacity. He knew his reputation as a lady’s man persisted, but he had not been so overtly flirted with since making his relationship with Emma public. Quite suddenly he realized that he was not sure how to react. A polite decline, of course, but he wasn’t sure how to deliver it. Steed the bachelor field agent would not have: Miss Drake was attractive, after all. Emma’s partner Steed would have played out the flirtation, particularly if she was there to observe it, but contrived to be called away before it progressed too far. But as a senior agent, a supervisor of other agents and one who passed judgment on their performance, Steed realized with dismay that he must be extremely careful.
“None, thanks,” he said in answer to her question, schooling his tone to utmost professionalism. “I take it white, unsweetened.”
Her eyes darted from the cup to his and back again as she added cream.
“I’ll remember,” she promised him, her voice just a little less breathy than it had been. “For next time.”
At last she straightened, tucking the tray under her arm as she turned toward the door. “I’ll just pop back by to collect that in a bit,” she said, twisting at her waist to look back at him over her shoulder. Steed maintained his mild smile, ignoring the enticing pose that highlighted her slender figure.
“Thank you Miss Drake.”
And then she was gone. He exhaled a long breath and shifted the coffee service around on his desk to make room for the files that he was still holding in his lap.
***
“Everything we’ve heard is true. He is absolutely charming,” Tessa Drake assured her friend Susan. She had returned to the pantry with the tray and found the other administrative assistant waiting for her. “His smile is brilliant, and his eyes are dreamy. I’m not sure what color they are, though. Hazel, maybe --.”
“What did he say?”
“Well, it’s not so much what he said – I mean, I was just delivering coffee. It was the way he looked at me – so appreciative.”
“But he spoke to you?”
“Well, yes. Of course. He told me how he likes his coffee.”
“Oh ho! So he wants you to prepare his coffee for him!”
“And I definitely intend to,” Tessa replied. “As often as possible.”
“Let’s hope his wife doesn’t object!”
“From what I’ve read in the news, she’s far too busy with her business to notice. You know I read a profile of her in a magazine the other day – don’t look at me that way, I was at the dentist’s – and it sounds like she is an absolute, well, not a very nice woman to deal with. And she must work constantly, running such a huge company.”
“Poor Steed, he must be very lonely.”
***
Steed reached over and set his cup on the saucer, then lifted his feet from the corner of the desk and planted them squarely on the floor. Sitting stiffly erect he read the same paragraph again and then reached for the telephone.
Twenty minutes later Miss Drake knocked and entered carrying her tray as well as a thin file stamped “Most Secret.”
“The file you requested, Mr. Steed,” she said, affecting a hip-swaying walk as she crossed to the desk. Steed glanced briefly up at her, barely taking in her eager-to-serve expression.
“Thank you Miss Drake,” he said almost absently as he reached for the file. He slid off the elastic closure and opened the file, belatedly realizing that she was still standing in front of his desk. He looked up, offering his most patient expression.
“Shall I take away your coffee things?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“May I bring you another?”
“No, thank you Miss Drake. I shan’t be staying long.”
“Yes sir,” he detected a hint of disappointment in her tone as she began placing the coffee service on the tray. She was leaning just as provocatively this time as last, so he focused his attention on the file.
“Please call if you need anything more, Mr. Steed,” she said as she lifted the tray.
“Without hesitation,” he replied lightly, shooting her a smile as she turned toward the door. He could not see her satisfied expression as she left his office or he might not have felt so pleased with himself for handling her advances.
A moment later he was completely engrossed in the file that she had brought. The morning news had only provided the barest facts: In the last week two top secret surveillance flights had drawn enemy fire from surface locations that were supposed to be unarmed. The surveillance missions over a war-torn Southeast Asian nation were planned and executed by a very small, very discreet intelligence team, which limited the possible sources of a leak. An investigation was already underway, and ordinarily Steed would have read the item and moved on. But one detail in the summary had caused him to request the full report: the intelligence team leader was a neighbor with whom he and Emma occasionally socialized.
* * *
Gambit flexed his knees slightly, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath that turned to mist in the chilly air. He had missed two weeks of sessions in the gymnasium due to his undercover assignment and he could feel the effect in his muscles. If he kept this up they would begin to atrophy. That would be unacceptable – he would not allow himself to become less fit than Steed. The senior agent was a paragon of physical virtue despite his fondness for fine dining. Hardly anyone could report seeing him exercising regularly, but it was well known that despite his dapper outward appearance – and even the few extra pounds he’d added around the middle in recent years – Steed was still a formidable opponent in almost any type of fight – the dirtier the better. Sure, much of his success was due to cunning and guile, but his sneaky moves wouldn’t work if he didn’t have the strength and flexibility to back them up.
Resolving to demand less flamboyant legends in the future – his current cover as a black market trader and sometime pimp did not provide much motivation for overt exercise – he glanced at his wristwatch and started down the street toward Blackfriars Bridge. He was suddenly surrounded by a group of youngsters in school uniform coats who came up from the tube, all talking and weaving in and out around him. As a unit they started across the span, Gambit falling back a few paces to allow them to pass him. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed each of a pair of nuns -- the youngsters’ chaperones – shoot a disapproving look at his black leather coat over a mauve velvet suit, patent leather shoes, and multiple gold chains revealed by his open shirt collar.
Far beyond the children he could see a lone figure walking toward them from the other side. He disliked meetings on bridges, but his contact seemed to think they were the only safe place in the whole of London. Gambit slowed even more as the youngsters paused near the middle of the bridge to look at the river and the adjacent Blackfriars railway bridge. His contact waded right through the children and approached him. The nuns took one look at the two men and started shooing their charges on across the bridge, to Gambit’s relief. He did not expect this meeting to become violent, but one never knew and children were a chaotic element in any equation.
Gordon Oxley wore a sleek dark suit that might have looked sophisticated if it weren’t made of a shiny fabric never seen on Saville Row. He had an overcoat over his arm, which was odd given the cold day. He was a more specialized businessman than Gambit’s cover: he dealt exclusively in information. The question Gambit was hoping to get an answer to in this meeting was simple – had Oxley stolen the painting and murdered Bray? He very much hoped not, because if so his weeks of work developing him as a contact were wasted. If Miss Tellerman or an unknown third party had stolen the painting he still had a chance of salvaging the situation.
Oxley shot an irritated look at the departing nuns before coming to stand next to Gambit at the bridge parapet.
“Bloody penguins,” he grumbled, “bending the kids’ minds.”
“I dunno,” Gambit replied, “I just lived in fear of ‘em.”
“Yeah, you and most of the rest of English youth.” Oxley seemed to have run out of comments on the subject. He withdrew a silver cigarette case from his pocket and extracted one, offering it to Gambit. Gambit declined, watching a police patrol boat putter along the river while Oxley lit his cigarette and put the case away.
“Messy business last night,” Oxley finally said.
“Yes. I hate it when outsiders get involved,” Gambit replied carefully.
“Never mind. My source is satisfied.”
Gambit forced his knees to flex again, wishing he had worn a wire. “Oh yes?” he said, even more carefully.
Oxley shot him a quick, wary glance, then returned his gaze to the railway bridge. “The information was sold to the highest bidder for a very acceptable sum. I won’t pretend to care who actually paid and who actually has the information.”
“And the dead man?”
Oxley shrugged, exhaling a sharp stream of blue smoke. “As you said, outsiders should not get involved. You got your cut. I got my payment. Someone got the microdot – and a lovely painting to boot. All’s well that ends well. But I’ve got another deal for you.”
Gambit forced himself to take a low breath before turning a curious gaze on Oxley. He knew that he effectively concealed his disgust at the man’s attitude over Bray’s death, but that didn’t prevent him from feeling it. And the fact that he hadn’t lost Oxley’s interest excited him in spite of himself.
“Oh?”
“I have a source with an ongoing supply of information. I’ve already tested the market and I can guarantee interest. I had in mind a sort of regular auction – your gallery arrangement is perfect. The owner doesn’t expect a cut, I hope.”
Gambit clicked his tongue against his teeth to hide a grimace and took the opportunity to glance around the bridge. There were no other pedestrians nearby, but several were approaching from both directions. Best to conclude this quickly.
Steed would nix the use of Nancy Belmont’s gallery, he was sure of it. She was a civilian and a friend of Emma’s, not to be placed in further jeopardy.
“Too public,” he said, shaking his head. “But I have another place in mind. Much more suited to private sales – invited bidders only.”
“Right then, that’ll do. I expect the first delivery on the weekend. When I see what I get, I’ll contact you about the arrangements.”
“Right. And Oxley, let’s also discuss the commission.”
Oxley’s eyes narrowed. But it was time in their relationship for Gambit to press for a bigger cut and, outward reaction aside, Oxley would be expecting it.
“Don’t get greedy my friend. You’re services are simply as retailer.”
“Then arrange it yourself.”
Oxley snorted and dropped his half-smoked cigarette on the pavement. He lifted his heel and stepped on it, grinding it hard.
“I’ll contact you. We’ll discuss percentages.”
“That’s all I ask,” Gambit replied, arms spread in a gesture of conciliation.
Oxley glared at him, then grinned and shook his head. “Right,” he said, turning to go back the way he’d come. Gambit watched him walk away for a moment, then turned to go the other way.
* * *
“Yes, that’s how I want it. Formal, understated, dripping with class. Steed will sign off on it. … Because I know he will. Just set it up and let me know when it’s ready for a look. … And Hector, I want Aberdeen for the auctioneer. That’s right, put him on call. He’ll see to it that our man wins every time.”
Gambit hung up the telephone and flopped back on his sofa with a groan.
“If I hear another word about budgetary restraint, I’m going to --.” The phone ringing interrupted his soliloquy.
“What now?” he growled into the receiver, sitting up with his free hand supporting his forehead, elbows on knees.
“Good afternoon Mr. Gambit,” her voice was like the softest suede.
He sat up straight, groping for the best response. “I was expecting someone else.” It sounded awkward.
“So I assumed. Shall I call back?” Catherine sounded slightly amused, but also painfully well mannered.
“No. I’d much rather speak to you, Miss Banning,” he realized he sounded too eager, “If they need me they’ll find me.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with that situation. It’s always the ones you would prefer to avoid who find you, isn’t it.”
“Not in this case. What can I do for you?” Gambit smiled at himself, back on track.
“The amount Mr. Bray paid for the painting is rather high based on current prices for the artist’s work. I telephoned the gallery and they said that there had been competitive bidding on the piece, but they could not find the documentation. Would you know anything about that, Mr. Gambit?”
“Call me Mike, please,” Gambit’s response was automatic, but it also allowed him to stall for a moment. He reached out to the cocktail table in front of the sofa and picked up the bid entry form he’d taken from the gallery. “It was probably collected as evidence, I’ll see what I can do.” He had skirted explaining his role in the investigation to her the previous night, neither admitting to being a policeman nor denying it. If she thought he was then she was probably too naive to be a threat. If she realized that he was a government agent, then there was no need to discuss it further.
“You’ve examined it?”
“Not yet,” he dropped the slip of paper and leaned back on the sofa. “But if I can get my hands on it will you meet me for dinner?”
There was silence on the line, and then a light, appreciative chuckle.
“Tell me where,” came her reply. Gambit grinned.
Catherine Banning knew precisely what Mike Gambit was. A playboy with a rough background covered by a recently acquired veneer of gentility. She recognized her own kind when she saw it.
Born in Ohio, the daughter of a bounty hunter with three tough brothers -- all plumbers -- Catherine had used skills learned from her father and her own sharp wits to work her way out of the sticks and into a series of jobs tracking people and things for various clients. Ambitious above all else, she’d used her initial earnings to put herself through college. But rather than study criminal law or forensics as her father had expected, she’d pursued a liberal arts degree, rounding out her already honed investigative skills and street smarts with several disciplines including art history, literature, languages, and psychology. And she adopted as mentors her most sophisticated, cosmopolitan instructors, absorbing their manners, tastes, and habits like a sponge. She emerged with a degree – the first in her family – and a completely fabricated outward image. She never lied about her background; she simply failed to offer details about it unless pressed.
Her current employers were a discrete Swiss insurance firm specializing in private art collections including pieces on loan to museums and public spaces. Although hardly a household name, they were well known in the art world. Catherine’s recovery of a pair of Rodin studio models in her first assignment quickly earned her a reputation as well. She had been offered positions with other firms, but loyalty was one of the values her father had taught her that had always served her well. Besides which, she was extremely well compensated.
Gambit’s role in this matter did not distress her. She had him pegged as a civil servant: not a policeman but a spook with one of the intelligence services. She had had enough dealings with his kind to know how to handle him. The only thing that bothered her about him was the reason for his involvement. She could not guess what his interest could be in a few missing paintings and a homicide. There was something more to the case and she wanted to know what, if only for her own protection. If the price was dinner with Mike Gambit she’d pay it. She was confident that she would find out what she wanted to know before the starter was gone.
***
“Just along here Steed. Our removal van isn’t here yet, so for once you get to see the body.” Todd Burwick, ministry clean-up expert, guided Steed around a parked rubbish lorry.
Steed shot him a wan smile but decided not to tell Burwick that he saw more than his share of victims as he followed the man into the alley toward the rubbish bin behind the Belmont Gallery. He had been on the way out of his office when Burwick called. He’d come directly, parking the Bentley around the block from the Gallery so that Nancy would not recognize it. He hoped he could keep the news from Emma – she would not be happy that one of his agents had turned up dead behind her friend’s business.
“He was backed up against the bin and shot twice,” Burwick explained as they approached the scene. One policeman and two of Burwick’s men appeared to be loitering in the alley. There was no sign of the lorry driver or his assistant, nor was the area closed off with anything signaling a crime – just the truck blocking the alley. Standard ministry procedure in this situation – don’t attract attention, don’t raise alarm. Steed only hoped that Nancy wouldn’t send anyone out to empty the trash before they could remove Skinner.
“So how did he wind up in the bin?” Steed asked as he leaned over the edge to look at the body. He compulsively pressed two fingers to his throat.
“He’s dead,” Burwick assured him, which he immediately knew to be true – Skinner’s flesh was chilly.
“He’s a big fellow – it would have taken two people to lift him in.”
“We think your killer backed him up to it, then shot so he fell backward – he was tall enough that the rim would be at his waist. Then the killer heaved his legs up and he slid on in.
Steed wrinkled his nose at the odors coming from the bin – the stench of Skinner’s decomposing body was the least of it. In fact, the decomposition was well masked.
Careful not to touch the rim of the bin he reached out and lifted the lapel of Skinner’s jacket where the bullet hole was. Something stiff in the jacket made it heavy. He slipped his hand into the breast pocket and extracted a metal flask with a bullet hole clean through the middle. He raised it to his nose and sniffed.
“Vodka,” he said, holding it up to look through the hole. “And a small caliber weapon – a ladies gun, at close range to penetrate this.”
“He was also shot in the shoulder. But the bullet in the chest must have hit his heart – that was the killing shot,” Burwick nodded at the flask.
Steed cringed at the unintended pun and pocketed the flask, then turned away from Skinner in the bin.
He glanced at the close brick walls and the cobbled ground with milky liquid filling the gaps between cobbles like grout. “Ugly place to die,” he said softly.
“Not sure I can think of a good place, Steed,” Burwick said. Steed nodded and moved away from the bin.
“I suppose I’d better make the call,” he said, gaining momentum as he got further away from the corpse.
“The notification has already been made,” Burwick said. “Standard procedure.”
Steed stopped and half turned toward him, reluctant to turn all the way around and face the bin again. “The formal call, yes. But he was here on my order and I owe his people a more personal apology.”
Burwick nodded, recognizing Steed’s dedication to manners even if he thought it was dated. Steed started walking again.
“Steed?” Burwick called, still standing half way along the alley with the bin behind him. Steed paused and looked at him again. “Do you know who did it?”
Steed nodded. “I have a good idea,” he replied.
“Then I wish you God’s speed getting him.”
***
Email your comments on this story to miamc at mmvn dot net (you know how to translate that!)