Chapter 15

 

“I have been informed that you were quite essential in the discovery of the hidden tomb, Mr. Steed,” Mr. Fellowes of the Ministry of Antiquities said in a conspiratorial tone. Steed managed not to cringe in embarrassment for the man. Apparently someone had told Fellowes the true nature of Steed’s visit to Egypt, and Fellowes, in typical petty bureaucrat style, could not resist showing off his knowledge. Steed found such demonstrations distasteful, not to mention disturbing as they meant that someone in the intelligence organization was either sloppy or intentionally talkative. In any case, Fellowes had just revealed his true nature in a single sentence, although Steed had already constructed a mental image based on Hastings’s comments.

“But the true challenge – restoring and interpreting the find – still lies in Dr. Hastings’s capable hands,” Steed said.

“We are also please about the capture of Horus,” Fellowes went on. “Surely you won’t deny your involvement in that achievement?”

“Not at all. I am please to have removed such a nefarious character from the streets.”

“As are we. He has been a disruptive influence for quite some time.”

Steed reflected for a moment on Horus’s ramblings while waiting for the cobras to strike, related to him by Emma. Mad though the fat man may be, Steed did not completely discount his accusation that the antiquities authorities were in cahoots with tomb robbers and the antiquities black market, specifically the Feather of Ma’at. So far nothing about Fellowes persuaded him to the contrary.

“I have been authorized to present you with a token of our appreciation,” Fellowes went on, guiding Steed across his office to a large, rectangular object set on a steel easel and draped with a black cloth. Were it not for the substantial easel Steed would have assumed it to be a painting. Fellowes whipped off the cloth dramatically to reveal a carved stone relief about four feet long by two high and several inches thick. Figures bearing offerings marched across the surface, their destination lost beyond the edge of the fragment.

“Mr. Fellowes, surely this belongs in a museum,” Steed protested. Nothing in his sworn vows prohibited him accepting a gift like this, especially since Fellowes represented a branch of his own government. But respect for the antiquities of Egypt made him reluctant.

“A mere fragment, Mr. Steed – the country is littered with ‘em,” Fellowes insisted. “No one knows who these figure are, or where the fragment came from. But it’s a distinctive piece nonetheless – don’t you think?”

“Yes, it is,” Steed agreed, bending to study the figures. He was mildly offended by Fellowes’s casual air, but he knew it was typical. And ancient though the piece was, he suspected that his thoroughly modern Emma would appreciate it too.

“Good. It will be packaged and ready to ship along with the doors,” Fellowes said firmly.

 

It took nearly a week for the doors to be removed, carefully packaged, and delivered to Cairo. While he waited Steed visited some of the ancient tourist sites, missing Emma’s company all the while. He also visited with contacts – friends and friendly foes, and enjoyed the comforts of Mena House. Through daily telephone calls he learned that John’s fever had broken and he was on the mend, but Siobhan had caught his cold. Emma had her hands full doing most of the nanny’s job – a development that amused both parents. Steed was grateful for Emma’s rational mind: she knew she couldn’t manage without a nanny, so she accepted the lack gracefully and with the certainty that it was short term. But that didn’t help him when he spoke to her late in the evening and she was so tired she could barely stay awake. There were no sensual exchanges, no mutual, long-distance fulfillment, and he soon began to miss her physically as well as emotionally and intellectually.

By the time he oversaw loading of the doors and the relief and boarded the airplane to Paris he was decidedly homesick. And much as he loved Paris, he was glad that the stop there would only be long enough to see the doors unloaded and handed over to a representative from the Louvre.

The airplane touched down in a light drizzle at Charles De Gaulle and taxied to the terminal. Steed waited until the passengers around him had gathered their carry-on luggage and moved to the exit, and then followed them down the stairs to see to the unloading of the doors.

An airport worker approached him as he stepped out of the line of other passengers. A flash of identification and a few words in prefect French transformed the man’s intention from confrontation to cooperation. He handed Steed a set of earmuffs that dampen the blare of jet engines and guided him under the belly of the plane to the rear where the cargo doors were already open.

The airplane was still disgorging passenger baggage. The doors and Steed’s relief were at the very back of the cargo hold. Steed and his guide stood to the side watching the baggage handlers toss suitcases onto a cart so carelessly that Steed was glad he’d managed to cram everything into a carry-on bag. Just as the last bags destined for Paris were removed a dark sedan followed by a small lorry drew up along side the airplane. Two men got out of the car’s rear seat while the driver of the lorry got out and went round to open the tailgate. Steed’s eyes widened in surprise when he recognized one of the men from the car.

“McCall?” he shouted over the engines’ roar. Robert McCall’s gaze focused on Steed and he stopped dead. Steed’s genial façade didn’t alter as he took a step toward his subordinate and reached for his hand to shake it. McCall’s knew his grip was overly tight although Steed showed no sign of it.

“Steed, this is a surprise,” he shouted. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Steed replied. “Working for the Louvre now?”

Steed was joking, but the way McCall’s face drained of color forced him to consider whether something insidious was going on. He hoped not, for Tara’s sake. With a nod toward the other man who’d arrived with McCall, whom Steed assumed really was from the Louvre, he took McCall’s arm and drew him away from the airplane.

When they were far enough that conversation was possible he stopped and removed the earmuffs.

“Do you have something to report McCall?” he asked, all pretenses of cordiality gone.

“No Steed. The Ambassador asked me to ensure the security of the artifacts for this exhibit. It’s very important, diplomatically.”

“McCall, you are not here to be his Excellency’s errand boy. Ensuring security does not mean acting like a mail room clerk.”

“I should think you’d appreciate my diligence, Steed. These are priceless artifacts,” McCall bristled.

“And of no concern to the ministry.”

“Then why are you here?”

One of Steed’s brows arched as his expression turned from irritation to genuine annoyance. And for a long moment – a very long moment as far as McCall was concerned as his fear of Steed’s anger deepened – he could not summon a response. McCall had a point.

“These doors are extremely fragile,” he said, looking at the huge, flat crates just then being unloaded from the airplane. “See that they’re safely delivered and prepare a full report on your involvement with the artifacts for this exhibition. On my desk day after tomorrow.”

He stuck the earmuffs back on and strode back toward the airplane leaving McCall to stare after him for a moment and then run to catch up.

 

Robbie McCall dropped his pen and tore the sheet of paper he’d been writing on from the pad. He crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it across his office. It hit the wall and landed on the floor in the middle of a pile of similar paper balls. He stood up and walked around his desk, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets, kicking dejectedly at the pile of discarded papers.

He watched them scatter to all corners of the room and then took a deep breath and shut his eyes. A moment later they popped open and he looked at his wristwatch. He had two hours to finish his report and get it into the diplomatic pouch to London. He had to decide what to do.

Tara had begged him to tell Steed everything. But his gut told him that he was on to something so big that Steed would not let him work it alone. He’d put that fellow Gambit on it, or take over himself. McCall would not mind some support, but not yet. Not until he had followed up on the list of names from the microdot. If they checked out, then he was about to expose an extensive and potentially dangerous spy network that had infiltrated several European governments. It might even have a presence in the United States.

His resolve bolstered, he went back around the desk and took up his pen.

 

“I’ll miss you James,” Sally sighed, caressing his angular jaw as she smiled into his sapphire eyes. He turned his head to press a kiss into her palm, then drew her to himself and feathered more kisses on her face. They were standing just inside the door of her apartment, James’s small bag at their feet. His flight would depart in two hours.

“Sally,” he murmured, “I want you to think about something.”

“I am thinking about something,” she replied with a lascivious smile. He’d learned the previous evening that he would have to return to London. Sally was remembering the particularly delicious activities that had followed.

James grinned back and kissed the tip of her nose.

“Not that,” he said. “Think about this: Joining MI6.”

“What?” Sally impulsively pushed back from him a little, her saffron blue eyes flashing.

“Think about working with me.”

“You work alone,” she shook her head, too confused to understand what he was asking.

He shrugged one shoulder a little, watching her, waiting for comprehension. She frowned at him.

“I get lonely sometimes,” he finally said.

Sally’s heart hurdled up into her throat and thumped a few times. She gulped it back down so that it hung racing in her chest.

“I, um, I’ve never thought about --.”

“I know love. So I’m asking you to. That’s all,” he shrugged again, suddenly uncharacteristically awkward. “If you’d like to.”

“I --.”

“Shhh,” he kissed the tip of her nose again. “Think about it. I’ll call you tonight.”

 

“Little hellion!” Steed cried, leaning away from his screaming son as a blob of puréed peas dripped down his chin. Baby John slammed his open hand into the bowl again and more of the warm green mush splashed out onto the highchair tray.

A liquid chuckle distracted Steed from his son’s tantrum. He looked past the baby to see Emma standing in the kitchen, one arm wrapped around her middle, the other hand raised to her face to conceal her grin. At my expense.

“I think the child rearing experts should rethink who needs to wear a bib for this process,” he growled, dropping the little spoon he’d been using to feed John onto the tray and pulling at the hem of his jumper to look down at it. It was spattered with an array of colored muck – samples of each of the flavors of food he’d tried to feed John.

Emma giggled again and went to the sink to retrieve a damp dishcloth. She crossed to the pair and looked at each of them for a moment – John was covered in food, and his tantrum had subsided at the sight of his mother. He peered up at her with his mouth half open. Emma knew the look – he was still hungry and his bad behavior was entirely a result of being fed by Steed rather than Emma or his nanny.

“Is Siobhan sleeping?”

“Yes. She was feeling positively awful. She left me in charge.” Steed sounded unduly proud.

“Umm.”

Emma reached down and wiped the peas off of Steed’s chin with the dishcloth.

“What about him?” Steed asked, peering up at Emma with much the same expression as baby John.

“Him I can just put in the bath,” she replied, turning the cloth to wipe him again.

“You could put me in the bath,” he suggested, eyes sparkling. Emma shot him a wise smirk and set the cloth on the highchair tray. Then she slipped her hands around Steed’s neck. His rose to her waist out of habit, but when he tried to tilt his face up for a kiss she pushed his head back down and tugged his jumper at the back of the neck.

“Is this washable?” she asked, looking at the tag. “Yes. At least you’ve learned something about life with children. She straightened and pulled the sweater off over his head so that he emerged, hair mussed, looking slightly non-plused. She dropped the garment onto his lap and turned to John.

“Go put that on the washer, will you?” she asked as she unsnapped the tray and carried it to the sink. Steed obediently stood up, watching Emma open the straps holding John into the highchair.

“He hasn’t eaten much,” Steed said.

“Clearly,” she agreed, wiping the worst of the food off of John’s hands and face before picking him up.

“But he’ll be hungry. Poor little bloke.”

“Then you’ll feed him a little later. When he’s hungry enough he’ll eat what he’s given instead of throwing it at you.”

“Me?”

Emma favored Steed with her most luscious smile, her head inclined slightly toward John’s, who she was holding in her arms. Then she turned her face toward the baby and sniffed loudly.

“He needs changing,” she said, “that could be why he wouldn’t eat for you.” She nodded sagely and headed for the back stairs.

She continued to chuckle to herself at the sight of England’s most important spy covered in baby food. Once in the nursery she wiped John’s face and hands again and set about changing his nappy, dropping his soiled shirt and pants in the laundry basket.

“You’re going to have a little brother or sister, my darling,” she crooned to him as she worked. He waved his hands and legs and gurgled back. “Will you be a good big brother? I’m sure you will. Yes,” she nodded her head reassuringly as she lifted his legs to slide a fresh diaper under him. “Would you like a little sister, or a little brother?”

“Emma?”

Steed stood in the nursery doorway, his expression a mixture of surprise and restrained happiness. Emma glanced over her shoulder at him, then looked back at John long enough to pin his fresh diaper. She shared a conspiratorial smile with the baby, who she could swear looked as devious as his father. Then she picked him up and carried him to his crib. Steed met her there, his eyes locked on her face as she set John inside, then faced him.

“Are you?” he asked, eyes scanning her face, searching for confirmation.

She nodded, letting one hand slip up to stroke his jaw while the other remained in the crib. She felt John use her arm to pull himself up unsteadily onto his feet. Steed’s expression shifted from curiosity to obvious joy, his hands rising again to her waist and on around her back. John transferred his grip to the crib railing and Emma brought her freed arm up to wrap it around Steed’s neck.

“Ready to do it again?” she asked, their mouths nearly touching, on the verge of a kiss.

“Emma,” was all the reply he could manage before succumbing to her. He squeezed her tight, remembering how he’d been afraid to hurt her the first time. It had seemed like an impossible miracle – he’d never thought it possible to experience the same feelings all over again. Another baby. He felt buoyant with joy.

“How long?” he finally asked, still holding her tight, but releasing her lips in order to take a breath. Beside them John slapped his open palm on the crib railing just as he’d done in his food earlier. Emma glanced down at him, her lips curled in an enigmatic smile, then back at her husband.

“Two months,” she said. And at his slightly raised eyebrow she added, “I had missed, but that had been happening before.” She went no further, seeing no need to refer to what she regarded as the dark days of last winter when her body and mind had lost touch with one another. “But then I missed again – remember just before we left?” he nodded. “I saw the doctor when I got back. He called me back in today.”

“Two months,” Steed said thoughtfully and she knew he was thinking back, trying to pinpoint the moment of conception. She smiled indulgently. It would be nearly impossible, given their very active intimate life. But she already had a moment in mind, so she waited to see if he would reach the same conclusion. She saw by his suddenly wicked smile that he had. “Your riding experiment,” he said.

“I like to think so,” she agreed.

“I shall look forward to telling our daughter that she was conceived on horseback. Do you think it will improve her riding?”

“Daughter is it?”

“Please, Emma. I adore John, but won’t you give me a chance at raising a girl?”

“I do believe the choice is entirely yours, Steed. And it was made two months ago.”

fin

I hope you enjoyed this story. But whether you did or not, please submit your comments for the review page.