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“Emma! This is a surprise. To what do I owe the honor?” Vice Admiral Clifford Randal, Royal Navy, rose from a worn calfskin club chair to greet her. She took his hand, offering him a winsome smile. In fact, their encounter was not a surprise. She had telephoned the Admiralty earlier and arranged, through his secretary, to meet him at his club. But she understood his meaning – her request was unusual, and thus their meeting was a surprise.
“Hello Clifford. Thank you for meeting me – I know my call was unexpected.”
“But very welcome, my dear,” he glanced at her figure, a subtle gesture that was quickly exaggerated to take in her round belly. “I take it there is soon to be another Steed in the stable?”
Emma nodded, ignoring the overused cliché. She had resigned herself to enduring equine jokes when she agreed to marry Steed. “In five more months, approximately. Yes, I fear she is going to be quite large,” she added, noting his widening eyes.
“So all is well on the home front,” the Vice Admiral observed, gesturing to an adjacent club chair. Emma settled into it gratefully and he resumed his own seat. “We all always said you two were made for one another.”
Steed had introduced Emma to Randal years ago during the course of a case involving smugglers using submarines and divers. At the time he’d been in command of a coastal patrol vessel. They had encountered one another again on a case during race week at Cowes on the Isle of Wight. When Randal had been promoted to Vice Admiral and taken a position at the Admiralty in London he and Steed, and therefore Emma, had developed a closer friendship. Steed enjoyed his company, and also regarded him as a valuable contact within the Royal Navy. His relationship with Emma had always been friendly, and even when she’d returned to Peter Peel she had maintained social contact with him. He, along with so many others who had known Steed and Emma when they worked together, had been delighted when they had reunited and made public their affection for one another.
“Yes, well, I like a challenge,” Emma replied quite seriously to his observation. Nonetheless Randal smiled knowingly and nodded.
“As does Steed,” he said.
“But I am here about a tangential matter,” Emma went on. Randal’s expression grew more serious.
“Emma, I am hardly one to dispense marital advice,” he said, raising one hand as if to ward off her next comment. He was, he had always insisted, married to the sea, although since coming to London he had been finding it more and more difficult to maintain the long-distance relationship except through a bit of sailing on the Thames. There were plenty of human mistresses looking to catch his eye, and rumor had it one or two had managed to do so, although Emma scrupulously avoided paying attention to such gossip. Nonetheless, he maintained his staunch position as a confirmed bachelor.
Emma’s eyes widened slightly and she made an O with her mouth, then she shook her head and smiled. “Nothing like that, Clifford. It is, as I said, tangential. I need your help to – shall we say, discourage? – some activity that I’ve observed within the Ministry.”
Randal frowned, studying her. As he did, a waiter carrying a small tray, with a white cloth over his arm, appeared beside him.
“Another sir?” he asked, glancing at the empty glass on the small table between the chairs. Randal raised his eyes from Emma to the waiter as if puzzled, then understood and nodded.
“Yes please. Emma?”
The waiter looked at her expectantly.
“Club soda with lime,” she replied, glancing up at the waiter and then returning her attention to Randal as the serving man turned away.
“It’s personal business,” she added, since Randal had seemed about to comment on her role in Ministry business. “A bit of romantic folly.”
“You always know just what to say to intrigue me, Emma,” Randal said. “Romantic intrigue within the ministry, but not related to their more serious business? You have my full attention, and my assistance in whatever capacity I can offer it.”
“Oh ho!” Emma chortled, nestling into her chair and eyeing her companion curiously. “Be careful what you agree to without knowing the details.”
“Steed’s advice, I believe.”
“And very good. But now you’ve committed to me so it’s too late.”
Randal sighed is if in resignation, then smiled at her. “I am certain that I shall be delighted to perform whatever duty you have in mind for me. But I really can’t imagine it. Do go on.”
***
Emma lifted an enormous bowl of dry autumn flowers and leaves with a surprised grunt and moved it to the far end of the dining room table, giving herself a long expanse of flat surface to work on. She slit the wrapping on a pack of three by five inch index cards with one fingernail and peeled it off, setting the stack of cards in the center of the table. These simple, ritual acts of organization immediately put her in the mood for analysis. She picked up her pen, touched the top to her lips for a thoughtful moment, and then began to write. She quickly filled half the pack of cards with the names of people, events, and things. When her inspiration slowed down she set her pen aside and began dealing the cards. At first she placed them in rows, but soon she was rearranging them into patterns and adding notations where one element was connected to another. She regretted not having a chalk board handy and made a mental note to get one – surely it would come in handy for John eventually anyway.
“Missus?” The lilt of Siobhan’s accent was at once soothing and jarring. Emma, who was standing over the table leaning on both hands, straightened to look at the doorway where the nanny had stepped into the room. “I was wondering what you were thinking to do about supper ma’am,” the nanny went on awkwardly. Her gaze flicked from Emma’s face to the table and back.
It took Emma a moment to shift mental gears – a symptom, she hoped, of her pregnancy – and think about Siobhan’s question.
“Spaghetti and marinara, I think,” she finally said. “We have everything for it and it’s quick. I’m not in the mood to cook.”
“I’ll just get out the things then. It’s nearly five,” Siobhan replied, taking a step back. It would be a shorter trip to the kitchen through the butler pantry, but that would require crossing the dining room. She couldn’t see what was written on her employer’s cards, but instinct told her to get as far away as she could.
“Wait,” Emma said, dashing Siobhan’s hopes. “I would like to ask you something, Siobhan.”
“Yes ma’am?” the nanny took a resigned step toward the table.
“Steed is looking into this from another angle, but I think it’s only fair to give you another chance.”
“Another chance ma’am?”
“The other morning when I read about the thefts in the newspaper, you –.”
Siobhan turned so pale Emma stopped, concerned that the young woman was about to faint. She pulled a chair away from the table and nodded toward it. “Sit down.”
The nanny sat, hands in her lap, eyes on them. Emma frowned: she was trembling.
“This isn’t an inquisition, Siobhan,” she said, going for reassuring but knowing that her irritation – irrational irritation at that – came through in her voice. “Please look at me.” She facilitated her request by taking the chair next to Siobhan, half turned toward her so that her left knee nearly touched the nanny’s right.
Siobhan peered at Emma, her crystalline blue eyes filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions.
“Well,” Emma sighed, “you’re right to be concerned. This is very serious. You know something about those thefts, don’t you Siobhan?”
“Hardly anything,” Siobhan nearly whispered.
“Right. Then let’s try for what you do know, shall we?” Emma disliked evasion. There was little point it in now, particularly by a young woman who was no match for her, or, if it came to it, Steed.
“It’s my friend Dolly’s boyfriend.”
“That would be,” Emma reached for one of her cards, lifting it from its position to read it, “Aiden Monroe? The man who was arrested at the party for starting the fight?”
“Yes,” Siobhan whispered.
“And what do you know about Mr. Monroe’s activities?”
“Nothing.”
“Siobhan, I suspect that you have an idea of what sort of things have been stolen. And you also know that we cannot condone your involvement, or even your knowledge of it. I don’t want to dismiss you, but you should know that I will, without hesitation, if your presence in this household is a threat to Steed’s position.”
Siobhan swallowed. Her hands were wrung so tightly her knuckles were white. Emma could tell she was about to break. It was up to her to provide her with the means to do so while retaining her self-respect.
“I’m certain that you’re an outsider – perhaps Dolly told you something about this? It’s awful to have such a secret. Tell me and I’ll see to it that Steed keeps you out of it.”
She realized that her attempt to soften the consequences had backfired when tears began to spill down Siobhan’s cheeks. She covered her face with her hands and sobbed openly.
Emma’s lips pursed in frustration both with the nanny and with herself for failing to penetrate the girl’s unaccountable resistance. Perhaps I should have left this to Steed like he asked. Perhaps I’m wrong, and she is involved. He could wheedle anything out of her.
“Siobhan,” she crooned as if she were speaking to a fussy baby John. “I’m not angry with you. I understand that you’re not sure how to handle the situation. Let me help you sort it out.”
Siobhan sniffled loudly and plunged one hand into a pocket, coming out with a folded handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes and nose and finally looked red-eyed at Emma.
“Dolly told me that Aiden has formed a group – a ring of thieves. Four of them. I told her I did not want to know anything more. I know I can’t have any of them here. I know better than to get involved.”
“But don’t you also know that you should have told us immediately?” Emma asked too harshly. Siobhan sobbed, nodding.
“I do know. She only told me Sunday night. I have been trying to decide the best way to tell you, and --.”
“The best way is to tell me everything right now, Siobhan.”
Emma leaned back in her chair and resisted the urge to cross her arms. She wanted to continue to appear open, difficult as it was. Siobhan snuffled in another breath and wiped her dripping nose again. She let her gaze drift across the table at Emma’s index cards.
“They vouch for one another,” she said, her voice soft, but no longer a terrified whisper. “They create an alibi for one, and then another of them breaks into their house to steal.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke. Emma stifled a satisfied smile.
“So the primary suspect is a decoy for the real thief. And what do they steal? Anything they like, or are they instructed?”
“Aiden tells them what to look for. That’s all she told me. I don’t know who else is involved.”
“So how could you know who to keep out of our house?”
Siobhan winced, not surprised that her employer had come to the crux of her despair. “I don’t know,” she shook her head. “That’s just it. I can’t have anyone in. But if I don’t, then they won’t have me and John over to their houses. He needs to socialize, but I can’t trust any of the other nannies!”
Emma’s relief was tangible. Siobhan’s internal struggle had to do with the performance of her job, not whether she was loyal to her employers or her friends.
“I don’t want to speak to Dolly again about it, but I think I have to find out who else is involved. I had decided to do that, and then tell you – when I could tell you everything. If she’d tell me.”
“Well,” Emma turned to her cards dealt cross the table. She picked up a blank and her pen and wrote a question mark on it followed by “local domestic.” She created two more such cards and lined them up beside the card she had already created for Siobhan’s friend Dolly, based on the names in the newspaper article. Siobhan watched her in silence. “Maybe you should have that conversation with your friend.”
“Former friend.”
Emma glanced at Siobhan and smiled at the determination in her eyes.
“Former friend,” she repeated.
***
Rough, callused hands with dirt-rimed nails lifted an open leather portfolio from a desk and set it aside. Beneath it a black folder imprinted with a white chess piece lay closed, a thin black string wound around a round disk on the front to hold it shut. The hands lifted the folder, unwound the string, and opened it.
Inside, the Knight Industries design diagrams for an advanced missile targeting system were a complex web of lines, shadings, and notations on several sheets of paper. The man peered at the printed heading on the sheets for a moment, his big fingers leaving dirty smudges on the right corners of several pages. As if he finally comprehended what he was reading, he nodded and closed the file. He carefully wound the string around the disk and then unbuttoned his dark green flannel shirt, slipping the black folder inside against his none-to-clean white undershirt.
He glanced out the library windows as he made for the door, but no one was strolling on the lawns or lounging by the wintry swimming pool. He tried to creep along the hallway, but his heavy boots thumped slightly no matter how lightly he stepped. With great relief he reached the front door and pulled it open, and cringed as a weary creak seemed to thunder through the lobby. He slipped through just as he heard a woman’s voice from inside.
“Mrs. Steed?” Siobhan called, stepping out of the nursery and toward the upstairs landing that had a view of the lobby and front door. She frowned and headed quickly down the stairs: the front door was ajar. She knew that it had been closed.
She peeked around the open door without touching it, just in case there were fingerprints that might be wanted. A man was striding rapidly away from the house, just passing from the wide oval shaped drive in front of the house onto the narrower, tree-lined drive that led to the front gate. She thought for a moment of pursuing him, but her mistress had trained her in common sense as well as self-defense. If she caught up and failed to overpower him, she might be injured herself, or worse. And she couldn’t leave John, who was napping in his crib, alone in the house.
Feeling frustrated but not witless, she left the door ajar and went to the telephone table in the hall. She dialed a number from memory and asked to speak to Mr. Steed, crossing her fingers that he would actually be at his office.
“Steed here,” his soothing voice really did calm her nerves.
“Mr. Steed, it’s Siobhan,”
“Hello Siobhan,” he said brightly, then his toned changed to concern: “– is anything wrong? Is John all right?”
“Yes sir, he’s fine. Nothing is wrong, necessarily. But there was a man in the house just now.”
“What man, Siobhan?”
“I don’t know, sir. I heard the front door squeak, so I came from the nursery, thinking it might be Mrs. Steed needing a hand with packages. But the door was open so I ran down and I saw him out in the drive. I was afraid to chase him, sir. Not and leave John here alone.”
“You did right, Siobhan. Now, was the man carrying anything?”
“I don’t know sir, he could have been – no,” she visualized the man walking away, “I could see his arms and hands as he walked. He wasn’t carrying anything.”
“Or if he was, it fit in a pocket.”
“That’s true,” she nodded.
“So he hasn’t walked off with the family silver,” Steed went on. She could hear a smile in his voice, although she could not imagine why he would be pleased.
“No sir.”
“All right Siobhan, you’ve done well. I’ll look into it. I don’t think you need be afraid.”
“No sir?”
“No. But Siobhan I do have one more question: could it have been Hal, the groom?”
Siobhan shook her head more because she did not want it to be Hal than because she didn’t think so. She pictured the retreating figure once more.
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sure it wasn’t.”
“Very well. Now lock the door and if I need to ask you anything else I’ll telephone.”
“Yes sir, I will.”
Steed smiled cagily to himself as he hung up the telephone. Just as he did there was a light rap on his office door.
“Come,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He was just imagining the sight of Emma at her desk in the library last evening when the perky visage of Miss Drake filled his view.
“Good afternoon Mr. Steed. Can I get you anything?” she asked. Steed felt his smile widen as he recalled what Emma had been looking at. Miss Drake smiled back eagerly. Realizing she might misinterpret, he sat up straight and shook his head.
“No thank you Miss Drake. Something has just come up.” He reached for the telephone. The young woman’s eyes followed his hand. He lifted the receiver and paused, looking at her pointedly, his left hand poised over the dial. She realized he had stopped moving and looked at his face.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Oh. Yes sir,” she slipped backward through the door then shut it. Steed frowned slightly, wondering whether he need be concerned with Miss Drake’s attentions. But as he considered it he dialed, and by the time the telephone was ringing he had forgotten about her.
***
Gambit stood on the sidewalk near the center of Tower Bridge and looked up at the elevated walkway high above the streaming traffic. His parents had once taken him up onto the walkways and he remembered looking down at the cars and the boats on the river and wondering what it would be like to jump out and float down like a feather. As a boy he had often wondered that when taken to high places, and as a young man he had found out, parachuting into various dangerous situations as part of Special Forces.
Waiting for Oxley, he wondered what sort of peril he was fluttering down into now.
Oxley strode toward him among the trickle of pedestrians crossing the bridge. Steed would comment upon how nobody walks anymore, Gambit thought as a huge lorry nearly hooked him with its wing mirror. Which makes Oxley and me that much more conspicuous out here. Stupid rendezvous.
He stood at the railing looking down into the swirling, mucky Thames. Oxley came and stood next to him looking down as well.
“Rotten, isn’t it?” he observed. “Filthy old river.”
“No one’s fault but our own, and we mucked it up a long time ago,” Gambit replied with a shrug, half turning to face his contact. “What do you have for me?”
Oxley half turned too and shook his head. “You set up the auction. It’s information of a military nature. I’ll bring the goods. No microdots, no art.”
Gambit scowled, and turned back toward the river. His gaze wandered toward the bank and the government buildings beyond Victoria Embankment. He leaned on the rail, his hands clasped. He wasn’t surprised that Oxley was holding the information close to his chest. If Steed was right about Oxley’s source, it was already bogus anyway. As for the art cover, if the auction was private there was no need for the front. “How do I know you’re selling anything worth buying? The market will demand more information.”
“Plans,” Oxley replied.
“As in schedules, routes?”
“As in blueprints.”
“For what?”
“Uh huh,” Oxley was peering at Gambit’s profile, but the agent did not turn to look back at him. He straightened, placing his hands on the rail, posed as if to turn and leave. “Armaments. Plans for armaments,” Oxley added.
Gambit nodded and finally turned to look at him.
“All right. I can work with that. But there are set-up costs. If I don’t know what I’m selling, then you’ll have to guarantee the fixed costs.”
“That was never in the deal.”
“Neither was your withholding the item. This is a new deal.”
Oxley scrubbed at his jaw with one hand as if in consternation. Gambit didn’t buy it.
“Guarantee me a minimum or sell it elsewhere.” It was a gamble, but he believed that Oxley had no other convenient outlet, and if this information was from a new source, he needed to turn it around quickly to prove himself to his supplier. Gambit was desperately curious about where Oxley was getting his information, and he suspected that Steed knew. But so far his superior had not shared anything with him.
“How much?” Oxley asked.
“Five thousand pounds.”
“And if it sells for more?”
“Costs come off the top.”
“Out of your share.”
“No. If my share is less than one hundred thousand, costs come off the top.”
“Mighty generous of you,” Oxley growled, his face flushed.
Gambit shrugged. “People have to be paid, the window dressing has to look convincing. If it amounts to less than five percent of my share, I’ll cover it.”
Oxley blinked, a habit, Gambit knew, that meant he was thinking.
“Ten percent,” he finally said, just as Gambit had expected.
“Done.”
Oxley expected to get at least two hundred thousand, then – and Gambit’s share would be at least fifty. “We’ll do it tomorrow night – it will take that long to line up the bidders.”
“Fine. Where?”
Gambit told him the address and, for good measure, made up a password to gain entry to the auction room. Oxley looked satisfied by the time he turned and started back across the bridge.
* * *
“He wants the auction tomorrow evening, but he refused to give me the goods in advance.” Gambit cringed in anticipation of Steed’s reaction.
Steed surprised him. “Either he is suspicious, or he doesn’t have it yet.”
“I thought you’d be angry. We won’t be able to substitute false information.” Gambit scanned the street. He was in a telephone booth not far from Whitehall. He suspected that Oxley was having him watched, and might even have his home phone tapped, so he was avoiding both ministry headquarters and using his phone. He regretted not being able to visit headquarters during the day, he had just begun to flirt with a new secretary before starting this assignment. By the time he got back to her some other agent – probably Jerome – would have wined and dined her and sharpened her suspicions about the ways of their kind.
“Anger serves no purpose,” Steed counseled him. “This just means we’ll have to execute our plan correctly this time. How many of our bidders will be in the room?”
“Three. I can’t plant any more without Oxley suspecting – there have to be some known buyers.”
“Very well. And who from among the opposition do you expect?”
Gambit ran down the names of foreign contacts to whom he had provided information about the auction and Steed approved them, congratulating Gambit on the breadth of his list.
When they rang off Gambit was feeling more confident about the auction and his handling of the case so far. Steed seemed comfortable with the arrangements, and if the old fox was satisfied, the odds of success were very good.
***
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