Every Steed Needs a Knight

This is an Avengers fan fiction story that I wrote a long time ago.

Chapter I
Mrs. Emma Peel stood pressed against the huge plate glass window in her office on the top floor of the Knight Industries. Skyscrapers lined the rest of the street, towering over the miniature cars and people far below. The glass was cool and soothing against her forehead. She remembered the last time she had stood this close to the window. It had been five years ago, just a couple of days before her wedding to Peter Peel. They had stood against the window gazing out and Peter had said, ''Look at that view, Emma. Doesn't it call to you? We could do it, you know. That new invention - the hang glider.''

Emma had smiled at him, knowing he was completely serious. ''Open the window and jump out? Swoop down on the unsuspecting populace below like gigantic pterodactyls?''

He'd laughed heartily. ''Yes! Yes!''

She'd drawn him away from the window with a hand around his waist. ''I'd love to do it, darling. But if I opened one of these windows it would void my lease. Even with as much money as we pay for this suite of offices. We'll have to wait til our honeymoon.''

Now, though, all she could see was the long...long...fall to the unyielding earth.

It had been two weeks since she'd gotten the news. Peter was dead, killed in an accident while testing a new plane. Worse than dead. The plane had exploded and burned on impact, incinerating him. She would, literally, never see him again.

It was a long way down, Emma thought. How horrible it must be, to fall thousands of meters to be smashed into the ground, watching the ground coming up to meet you meter by meter. The seconds must seem very long. But Peter wouldn't have been thinking of that. He'd have been desperately trying to save the plane - he'd never have thought he couldn't bring it back in one piece. He would never have seen the end coming...would only have felt anger at the end if he had seen...

Emma turned away from the window and walked back to her desk. She picked up the framed photograph - the only personal photograph she had of him in the office. It was her favorite picture of him. Peter with his arm around her, but both of them looking out and smiling for the camera. He had accompanied her to a business function dressed as the traditional British businessman with bowler hat and sober black business suit. She'd enjoyed the contrast so much - his devil-may-care attitude concealed behind that sober 9-5 outfit...that he'd decided to adopt the costume permanently. She looked at his face, the whisps of corn-blond hair escaping from beneath the bowler, his intense blue eyes, the lantern jaw. The mobile lips stretched into a broad smile.

Emma picked up the photograph and placed it in her briefcase. There was no hope for it. She wasn't going to be able to do any work today. She had thought she could - until she'd arrived at the office that morning and been ambushed by a phalanx of reporters who'd wanted to know how she felt to suddenly be a widow. Hadn't it been enough that they'd done the same thing at the Memorial Service that had been held for him? Did they have to come to her business? And would they be lurking around her apartment as well? Damned vultures. It had been with great difficulty that she'd passed through them without laying some of them out on the carpet, and her anger at their insensitivity had only faded with the sudden welling up of sadness when she'd gone into her office. She'd forgotten until this moment that Peter's presence would be felt even here.

She'd have to take another week off. ''Get her head together,'' as the in-saying was this year.

Emma punched a button on the intercom on her desk. ''Doris, would you ask Franklin to come in here, please. And you too.''

She had put Franklin, the Vice President of Knight Enterprises, in charge of running the company for the last two weeks. She told him now that he could do the job for another week, and he and Doris - her executive secretary, expressed their commiseration once more.

''Have Paul bring my car around to the West entrance, will you?'' Emma asked Doris finally. ''I'd like to avoid any reporters who still may be lurking down in the lobby.''

''Certainly, Emma,'' said Doris.

After they had gone, Emma changed her clothing from the dress she had worn to casual denim slacks and sweater, and tied a scarf over her head. No reporter looking at her would give her a second glance. She took her private elevator down to the first floor, then took the stairs to the Ground floor and out of the West Entrance of the building. She stepped out into the sunlight and took a deep breath of the fresh air. So early in the morning...there was little traffic on the roads, but lots of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalks. Her white Lotus Elan was waiting for her at the curb. The key was in the ignition, but it was a specially outfitted car that had secret buttons to push before one could drive off in it.

Suddenly Emma heard a shout behind her...cries of, ''Hey, watch it!'' and ''Stop that man!''

She turned to look and saw an individual racing down the sidewalk, bowling people over. There was an ugly expression on his face and an even uglier knife in his left hand. He was going to run right past her.

Emma timed it perfectly. The fool was not afraid of her, he was going to brush right past her. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, twisting it as she pivoted and straight-armed him into the side of the building. His face hit the brick with a sickening crunch. His knees were already buckling as she flipped him around and applied the coup d'grace, a knee between the legs.

Emma didn't even watch as he slid all the way down to the concrete and rolled over in a fetal position. Newspaper reporters could smell a story, if they saw her they'd be all over her. She'd stopped the man and if the crowd of people around him didn't have the gumption to keep him down, it was nothing to do with her.

Very quickly Emma strode over to her Elan, climbed in, pressed the button underneath the dash that unlocked the steering and sped off down the street. She didn't bother to look back.

She turned the corner onto Dickon Street and merged into traffic. She would head out of the city limits into the country, where she could put the Elan through its paces and leave the memory of this morning far behind her.

Once she reached the rolling hills of suburbia, Emma put her foot down on the gas pedal. Birds keened overhead and the hills were green and yellow with new growth. She sped past the occasional car with ease.

She slowed down as she came to the little village of Uppington, went into her favorite Chinese restaurant and had lunch. It was an unusual Chinese restaurant in that it gave out fortune cookies in the American style. With a little smile Emma broke open her cookie - 'You will meet a handsome stranger.' Emma crumpled up the piece of paper and threw it away. She didn't want to meet anyone.

When she came out of the restaurant she looked casually down the street and stopped dead. A car had just turned out from the curb and out into the road - a large green Bentley being driven by a man wearing a bowler hat at a rakish angle. The set of the shoulders seemed familiar. Emma felt a cold hand grasp her chest and squeeze. It couldn't possibly be Peter! He loved ancient planes, not cars, but those shoulders... and that hat! Who else would dress like that in the bucolic village of Uppington?

There was no way to describe the sensation that welled up within her, of incredible joy and happiness held in check by a nagging doubt that it was all impossible. Emma sprinted to her car, jumped in, revved the engine and set off with a squeal of tires. Normally a championship-caliber driver, Emma ignored all rules of safety and set off like a driver at the pole position at Le Mans.

The Bentley had driven past the final stop sign that led out of the village. The driver began to accelerate. Emma glanced both ways and saw no cars and sped on through. Suddenly, without warning, the car in front of her braked. With lightning quick reflexes Emma applied her own brakes, but she still hit the Bentley with a resounding thump.

The driver rocked forward, then raised up to vault over the side of the Bentley, and turned and came towards her.

Chapter II
John Steed, a British intelligence agent and member of the super secret Department S, was quite pleased with the success of his plan. He had engineered the accident and his target had been very obliging. He got out of the Bentley and headed towards the woman, his eyes sharp for any reaction from anger to embarrassment, hysteria to hatred. He was prepared for anything except the reaction that he received. There had been an expression of hope on her face, expectation, as she first caught a glimpse of his features, as if she knew who he was, but as suddenly as with the twist of a knife blade the look of recognition in her eyes faded, and all light and happiness went out of her face, to be replaced with utter sorrow. It was a look that impacted Steed more than he would have thought possible.

Immediately he changed his planned tactics. He doffed his bowler and smiled his most winning smile.

''I'm terribly sorry,'' he said. ''That was inexcusable of me. I thought of something I'd forgotten and my foot just automatically hit the brake. Terribly stupid. I do hope you're not hurt?''

The woman took off her scarf, revealing perfectly coifed auburn hair. That terrible expression of disappointment had been wiped off her face as if it had never been, and she smiled at him, revealing perfect white teeth and a sense of humor.

''It wasn't entirely your fault. I was following you a bit too closely.''

''You're too kind. My name's Steed by the way. John Steed.''

The woman took his extended hand. ''Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Oh.'' Steed felt a slight frisson of shock. ''I read about...your husband's crash a couple of weeks ago. I'm terribly sorry.''

''Thank you.''

''Well,'' said Steed, to cover the awkward moment, ''let's see what damage was done.''

He stepped back to the juncture point between the two cars, where Mrs. Peel joined him. She was tall, about five foot eight, he judged, with a slender figure, but a good posture and easy movements which hinted at physical fitness.

''Thank heaven for ten-kilometer-an-hour bumpers,'' Mrs. Peel said with a smile. ''No damage at all.''

''It certainly doesn't look like it,'' Steed said. ''Nevertheless we mustn't jump to conclusions. I'll give you my insurance information. And you must have your car seen to as quickly as possible.''

''Yes, of course. When I get back to town.''

''Are you on a long trip?''

''No, I was just out for a drive. I find it very relaxing, driving alone in the country.''

''Until you run into absent-minded buffoons like me,'' Steed said with a smile. ''Well, I won't keep you. Let me just write down my insurance information for you.''

There was no point in keeping the woman, Steed decided, beautiful though she was. He had found out what he needed to know. He quickly scribbled his name, address and insurance policy number on a card and handed it to her.

Steed waited for the woman to start up her car and drive off. She flashed him a wave and a smile. Steed turned his Bentley around and headed back for London.

Chapter III
Steed and Dankworth walked down the hallway towards Station B. ''The best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley,'' Steed told Dankworth cheerfully. ''It had been a nice little set-up. O'Reilly got the microfilm, as planned. We let him escape, as planned. He was supposed to go to his Contact. Instead he ran down Gloucester Drive and had the misfortune to meet up with Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Emma Peel? That name sounds familiar.''

''Yes, widow of Peter Peel, the test pilot who crashed a few weeks ago. She is also the President of Knight Industries, and has made that a multi-million pound corporation. It's only natural that a woman with that much power learn to defend herself, both physically and mentally.''

''Well, she wasn't defending herself though, was she? Plucked O'Reilly right off his feet as he ran past her, that's the way I heard it. Slammed him into a wall and then put the boot in.''

Steed shrugged. ''Well, she thought she was apprehending a criminal of some kind. And she was, of course. Unfortunately it wasn't a criminal that we wanted apprehended at that particular place and time. Still, we've got the microfilm back, and we do have O'Reilly. We'll just have to get the information out of him another way.''

Steed opened the door to Department B and followed Dankworth into the room. Clemens looked up from his desk, his face grim. Clemens was their search expert. Dead or alive, when he went over a body he found what he was looking for.

''Well, Clemens, what's wrong?'' demanded Steed.

''O'Reilly didn't have the microfilm on him.''

''What do you mean? He must have done!''

''Steed, I searched that man. His clothes, his orifices, even x-rayed his stomach. The microfilm was originally in a small pack of cards, as you know. Those cards were gone. The microfilm is gone.''

''But that's not possible. He was on the run from the time he got his hands on that pack of cards. Arch and Powell were some hundred yards behind him most of the time, but they would have seen him throw those cards somewhere. And I was in front of him and I certainly didn't see him do anything with them. He didn't have time.''

''He must have come into contact with somebody while he was on the run. He gave that microfilm to somebody.''

''Or somebody took it from him,'' John Steed said, his eyes very cold. ''Excuse me, gentlemen. I have to go see a lady.''

Chapter IV
Steed looked up the address of Mrs. Emma Peel in the phone book. She lived in Hampstead. He pointed his Bentley in that direction. He was not in a good mood, cars around him had enough sense to get out of his way. He was seething. Not at Mrs. Emma Peel who had turned out to be a traitor to her country, but at himself.

He had always fancied himself a good judge of people, but of women especially. He'd witnessed her little take-out of O'Reilly. And he'd seen her run off immediately afterward, and this action had struck him as suspicious. So he'd followed her, and then arranged that little car accident at Uppington.

And she'd had him completely fooled. That expression of utter despair on her face, when she had looked at him at the very beginning. He had not thought that that had been the expression of a spy who thought she had been caught and was doomed to go to prison. He had ascribed a more personal motive to it. But he'd been wrong. Clearly he'd been wrong. She had nabbed that microfilm off O'Reilly as slick as you please, thought she'd gotten away with it, and then been nobbled, and it had terrified her. And he'd let her get away!

But why would a woman like Emma Peel get involved with the Russians? He thought back to what he knew of her. He remembered, of course, the article some seven or eight years ago. Her father had died and she, Emma Knight at that time, had succeeded to the business. Much had been made of the fact that she was very young, more had been made of the fact that she was a woman. This publicity had seemed to annoy her extremely and she'd kept a low profile after that.

Her marriage to Peter Peel had made news but focus was on Peel as a dare-devil test pilot rather than on Mrs. Peel as a millionaire in her own right. And two weeks ago the news report that Peel had been killed in a crashed had merely said that the widow had been prostrated with grief. And there'd only been a blurry photograph of her.

There could be no monetary reason why she'd go over to the other side, so it must be philosophical. Something about the Russian system appealed to her. Foolish woman. Let her go into Russia and see how the common people survived - that was it - survived rather than lived - and perhaps she'd realize what a mistake she was making.

But it was too late for such a salutary lesson. It would be the big gray box for her, now.

Steed rolled up in front of the Highpoint apartment block and circled around until he found a parking spot. He settled his bowler securely on his head, flourished his brolly and strode into the lobby of the building. A security guard looked up at him. ''Yes, sir.''

''I'm here to see Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Is she expecting you?''

''In a sense. I ran into her car today. I'd like to talk to her about it. My name's John Steed.''

''Oh, I see. Well, half a mo'''.

He picked up a phone and dialed a number. ''Mrs. Peel. Chap to see you. Says he ran into your car today.'' He listened for a few moments. Glanced at Steed as if comparing a description. Then, ''Right. I'll send him up.''

He replaced the receiver. ''Stop a bit,'' he said as Steed headed for the lifts on the left side of the guard's desk. The guard gestured toward the other side, where there was but a single set of doors. ''She's in the penthouse. That elevator there, sir. Doesn't stop at any other floors.''

''I see. Thank you.''

The elevator rose smoothly to the top floor and the doors slid open. Steed stepped out into the hallway. In front of him was a door. On the door, at head height, was a vast circle, and within it a large human eye, with fluttering eyelashes. It blinked at him, and before he had time to knock the door opened. She was wearing a shapeless gray sweater and shapeless gray plimsolls and managed to look charming in them. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

''Mr. Steed,'' she said, ''please come in.''

Steed walked into her apartment, doffing his bowler, and looked around curiously. The place was elegantly furnished, with sofas and chairs around a central, free standing fireplace. But...the apartment was circular...could it be possible that this was a revolving room? How much lolly did it take to live in a revolving penthouse apartment?

Mrs. Peel gestured him toward a chair. Her face was open and friendly. ''I didn't expect to see you. I dropped off my car at the garage this afternoon but I won't hear anything about it until tomorrow.''

''I cannot tell a lie, Mrs. Peel,'' Steed, who remained standing, said. ''I'm concerned about your car, of course, but the real reason I came up here was I was simply anxious to see you again.''

Mrs. Peel smiled, but it seemed a little forced. ''You flatter me, Mr. Steed. I appreciate your concern for my car, and I will call you if there's any news.'' And she headed toward the door.

Steed walked over to a table on which were decanter and glasses, and he poured himself a drink. Then he turned, and looked at Mrs. Peel. She was gazing at him with a raised eyebrow. She did not seem tense in any way, merely annoyed.

''It wasn't an accident, that you ran into me this morning,'' Steed said, sipping his whisky. His eyes closed in pleasure...it was very good whisky. ''I arranged it.''

''And why did you do that?''

''Well, I happened to be driving past your office building...at the time that that man was running past. You remember that man - the one you threw into the wall? I thought that was quite impressive.''

''Oh. Him. Why should you think that was impressive?''

''Well, most women - most men, too, would have let him just run on by. He was carrying a knife, after all. How on earth did you learn how to...well, to throw him into a wall like that?''

Emma Peel shrugged. ''My stepmother was Japanese, a descendant of samurais. You've heard of the Samurai?''

''Oh, yes.''

''Well, there weren't a lot of female samurais but her family was one of the ...well, top ones, to put it ungrammatically. Even after Japan's defeat in World War II she kept the martial tradition alive. She was proficient in many martial arts including karate and ju-jitsu, as well as weapons like the naginata. And she found in me a willing pupil. She was an excellent teacher and I was an excellent student.''

''I daresay. You certainly proved it this morning.''

''Yes, well that's all by the by. I haven't listened to the news since I got home, but I doubt if it was such an important incident that it got reported.''

''No,'' said Steed cheerfully, ''it wasn't reported.''

The woman was looking at him, curious and a little amused, and did not seem frightened at all. ''If you're going to drink my Scotch,'' she said, ''you might pour me a glass.''

Steed poured her a generous amount and handed her the glass. She took it and then went and sat down on the arm of the couch. Ready to spring into action like a tiger, Steed thought.

''All right, Mr. Steed. You witnessed my martial prowess this morning and it impressed you. Now, what is it you want?''

''Well, I wanted to talk to you about O'Reilly.''

''O'Reilly? Who's he?''

''The man whom you...threw into the wall.''

She raised an eyebrow. ''You know his name? What are you, the police?''

Again she didn't seem afraid at all, just curious and wary, not of him as the police but of him as an escaped lunatic or something. What a marvelous actress she was.

''No, I'm not from the police.''

She took a sip from her glass. ''Well, I'm waiting.'' she said.

''While Mr. O'Reilly was running down that sidewalk, he had in his possession something of value. Immense value. Then he ran into you. After that, he no longer had that item in his possession.''

''I see. But all I did was throw him into the wall. I left immediately after that, as you must have seen. But there were at least ten people running up to us at that time. What was to prevent anyone of them from having taken this...object of value?''

''No one got close to him, after you left him. A few people ran up to him, but they formed a circle and just stared at him until a couple of my men arrived. No, Mrs. Peel. Only you could have taken the object from Mr. O'Reilly.''

Emma Peel took another drink of whisky. ''Show me some identification.''

''I beg your pardon?''

''I think you're a confidence man, Mr. Steed. I'm a rich woman, and you've managed to get yourself up here in my apartment with me, alone. You fancy I'll protest my innocence and tell you to search the place for this mysterious object of yours. But that will give you your opportunity to mark out various items of value which you will purloin, either now or in the future.''

Emma Peel put her drink down, went to her door and held it open for him. ''I'd like you to leave now.''

Steed turned to pour himself another drink. ''Almost you convince me, Mrs. Peel. But if you didn't take the object, who did?''

''Be logical about it. Do you know he had it on him while he was running in my direction?''

''Yes. I know that for a fact. Witnesses behind him would have seen him get rid of it.''

''Alright. And do you know that there was no one who could have touched him while he was lying unconscious on the sidewalk?''

''My two men were there all the time.''

''And they searched his body at that time?''

''No, of course not. He was brought into headquarters, put into a private room, and searched at that time.

''So, who found out he did not have the object on him?''

''Clemens.''

''Clemens. Clemens and who else?''

Steed stared at her. ''Just Clemens...'' he said slowly.

''Well, Mr. Steed, I don't know your Clemens. But I know that I do not have the object you are looking for. I suggest you talk to Clemens about it.''

Steed stared at her. If his judgment of women was any good - and he knew it was, then he had made a horrible mistake.

''Mrs. Peel, may I use your telephone?''

She gestured toward it like an excellent hostess. ''Be my guest.''

Steed dialed his superior at Department S very quickly. ''One-Ten? Steed here. Urgent that you put Clemens in custody, right now.''

He looked at Mrs. Peel, looking at him with cool amusement, and gulped down the rest of his whisky. ''I'm on my way, sir. I'll explain when I get there.'' He hung up the receiver, doffed his hat to Mrs. Peel, ''been a pleasure,'' he murmured, and strode quite briskly out the door. She closed the door behind him, not gently.

Chapter V
''So he's gone?'' said Steed, standing in One-Ten's office.

''Yes.'' that worthy replied. ''He must have skipped out just after he told you that O'Reilly didn't have the microfilm. He knew that once you'd questioned that woman you'd find out, sooner or later, that she had no knowledge of it, and latch onto him as the only other logical choice.''

''But, what a terrible step for him to take! The microfilm O'Reilly had was important, of course, but surely not important enough for him to break cover over it! The Other Side has lost him for good, now. It wasn't worth it!''

One-Ten shrugged. ''Who knows what was in Clemens' mind? Maybe he'd gotten tired of the game and seized this opportunity as a chance to end it for himself.''

''Well, it's a bit of a facer, though, isn't it. Clemens being a traitor.''

''Yes. We're going to have to institute some better recruiting and security arrangements in future, Steed. Weed out people like Clemens.''

'I should hope so.''

''Having said, that, Steed, I've lined up a new partner for you, to replace Mrs. Gale.''

Steed held up a hand. ''One of the old guard, who went through the same screening as Clemens?''

''Maybe,'' said One-Ten sourly.

''Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer to recruit my own partner. From outside the ranks.''

''What? Another one of your talented amateurs?''

''At least I know I can trust them, sir.''

One-Ten's face flushed. ''That's a terrible thing to say about the British security service, Steed!''

''Yes, sir. Indeed it is, sir.''

One-Ten glared at him, sensing that there was something ironic in Steed's comment. But he chose to let it lie.

''All right, Steed. Go get your talented amateur. God knows England needs her.''

Steed nodded and left, saying only under his breath, ''So do I, sir. So do I.''