In the meantime...

Should have a new chapter up here in a couple of days. Meantime, thought this was a pretty interesting story.

Blisteringly sexy, she killed Nazis with her bare hands and had a 5 million-franc bounty on her head. As she dies at 98, the extraordinary story of the real Charlotte Gray

She stares into the camera with a coquettish half-smile and an unflinching come-hither look. The eyebrows are plucked, the lips full, the long auburn hair a classic 1940s style, falling onto the shoulders of her khaki uniform.

She could easily have been one of the sassy songbirds who brightened up World War II. But this was the face of Nancy Wake, one of that conflict’s bravest underground fighters against the Germans in France — and certainly the most stylish.

A male comrade-in-arms in the French Resistance summed her up as: ‘The most feminine woman I know, until the fighting starts. And then she is like five men.’ She lived up to both parts of that compliment.

So feminine was she that when escaping from pursuers on one notable occasion, she dressed in a smart frock, silk stockings, high-heeled shoes and a camel-hair coat, arguing that she didn’t want to look like a hunted woman.

In that same outfit, she jumped from a moving train into a vineyard to avoid capture at a Nazi checkpoint

And so aggressive was she that, after being parachuted into France as a Special Operations Executive agent, she disposed of a German guard with her bare hands and liked nothing better than bowling along in the front seat of a fast car through the countryside, a Sten gun on her lap and a cigar between her teeth, in search of Germans to kill.

Passionate and impulsive, with a tendency to draw attention to herself, she was not the ideal undercover agent. Her superiors didn’t think she would last long behind enemy lines.
But Wake proved them wrong and died this week, aged 98, in a nursing home for retired veterans in London. Her death brought to an end a life of such daring, courage and glamour that she was the inspiration for the Sebastian Faulks novel Charlotte Gray, which was made into a film starring Cate Blanchett.
Much of Wake’s extraordinary life was lived under assumed identities. She carried papers as Nancy Fiocca (her married name) and Lucienne Cartier. Her official SOE identity was Andree, though a gay friend in the service called her ‘Gertie’. On one operation she was tagged ‘Witch’.
But the best-known name was the one the Gestapo gave her when they put her on their ‘most wanted’ list, with a five million franc price on her head — that of ‘the White Mouse’, because she always managed to wriggle out of their traps.

Nancy Wake was born in New Zealand and brought up in Australia, a difficult child who took the first opportunity to leave the Antipodes for Europe.

There, she partied between assignments as a journalist, before marrying a rich businessman from Marseille who could indulge her taste for champagne, caviar and the good life.

Nancy was visiting London, for, of all things, a slimming course, when war was declared in September 1939. When she tried to join up to fight she was pointed, to her disgust, in the direction of a Naafi (Navy, Army and Air Force) canteen.
So she went back to France and, when that country fell to the invading Germans, she proved herself as brave and as aggressive as any man — and more than most.

In 1940, in the half of France unoccupied by the Nazis, Marseille was a magnet for downed RAF crew and British soldiers left behind after the Dunkirk evacuation, all hoping to make their way home via Spain.
An escape route over the Pyrenees was organised underneath the noses of the pro-German French authorities. Nancy’s wealthy husband, Henri, financed operations, while Nancy herself, dressed up to the nines, carried messages between members of the group.

Then she progressed to escorting the ‘packages’ — escaped Allied soldiers and airmen — along the coast to the border.
It was dangerous work, with constant fear of discovery or betrayal. At one stage, she was arrested by French police and interrogated in prison for four days. The leader of the escape line bluffed his way in and secured her release. After that, it was clear her days were numbered and she went to ground.

As the net closed around her, she headed for the mountains, leaving Henri behind, and made the punishing two-day trek over the Pyrenees to neutral Spain and from there, via Gibraltar, to Britain by mid-1943.
Nobody could have objected if, by then, she had decided she had done her bit. Instead, in London she volunteered for SOE’s French section and, despite reservations that she was too much of a party-girl, she was taken on and trained in survival skills, armed combat, Morse code and surveillance.

Six weeks before D-Day, she was parachuted into the heavily-forested and mountainous Auvergne region of central France to prepare local Resistance groups, the Maquis, for the job of harrying the Germans and delaying their reinforcements once the invasion began.
The 7,000 partisans were disorderly, disorganised and riven by personal rivalries, more of a rabble than an underground army that would do damage to the Germans. They had little interest in newcomers from across the Channel sorting them out, particularly a woman.
Nancy proved her mettle, arranging air drops and hiding supplies of weapons, travelling between the groups, paying out money, urging them to co-operate, knocking them, as best she could, into shape. She was as tough as the old army boots she eschewed for heels. With an escort of Maquisards, she shot her way through enemy patrols and roadblocks.

She led attacks on German convoys and even took on armoured cars. When asked why she insisted on travelling in the lead vehicle, she said it was because she couldn’t bear dust being thrown up in her face by cars in front.
In one mini-battle, her car was strafed by German fighter planes but she crawled out of the wreck, hanging onto her prized possessions — a jar of face cream, a packet of tea and a satin cushion.
When the roads were too dangerous to travel by car, she cycled more than 300 miles in three days to find a working radio set to contact London.
Nancy never lost her softer side, for all the horrors of war. Two American weapons instructors dropped into her forest hideout found a jar of flowers beside their makeshift beds.

But for all the feminine wiles she employed to get what she wanted, she knew where to draw the line. She was loyal to Henri, the husband she loved.
Any Maquis who fancied his chances was rebuffed. ‘If I had accommodated one, the word would have spread and they’d have been coming over the mountains for more,’ she once explained. ‘So, no love affairs, and that was that.’
This was made clear from the start. When she dropped into the Auvergne, her parachute snagged on a tree. The agent who met her simpered that he hoped all trees could bear such beautiful fruit. ‘Don’t give me that French s**t,’ she snapped back.
The sadness was that after the liberation she returned to Marseille to discover that Henri was dead. Shortly after her flight from the city, he had been caught, imprisoned and tortured. The Gestapo shot him.

She blamed herself for his death. If he’d told them where she was, he might have lived. But he refused.
She was festooned with honours — a British George Medal, the French Legion d’Honneur and three Croix de Guerre. She remarried, returned to Australia to live, took up politics for a while, then came back to Britain to retire in 2001.
Her body is to be cremated, but at her request the ashes will be scattered in the Auvergne.

Berlin, Not Long Ago

Berlin, Not Long Ago or Every Knight Needs a Steed
C

Chapter I
The Templehof Airport in Gatow, British Sector, Berlin, was extremely small and crowded, and getting through it was time-consuming at the best of times, but Emma Peel liked airports and had worn comfortable shoes. As she waited in queues, first for her luggage and then for officials to check her passport, she quite frankly people-watched.

''And why have you come to Berlin, Mrs. Peel?'' asked the official thumbing through her passport.

''I want to see Duke Ellington,'' she informed him cheerfully.

''I beg your pardon?''

'The American jazz musician and his orchestra is having a series of concerts here. In Berlin, that is to say. American sector. It will be a historic performance.''

The official nodded. ''I see,'' he said, though Emma was willing to wager that he didn't. He gestured at her suitcase and she opened it for him. Prominent on top was a large black metallic item in the shape of an upside down heart. He looked at this with one raised eyebrow. But there was no one so used to British eccentricity as British officials. He merely gestured her to close her suitcase, stamped her passport with a flourish and handed it back to her. ''Enjoy your stay.''

''Thank you. I'm sure I shall.''

Templehof Airport had a small cafe, and although Emma wasn't particularly hungry one must always sample the cuisine at airports. It was part of the travel experience. She ordered a wiener schnitzel and it was surprisingly good.

Outside the airport, Emma flagged down a taxi. ''Hotel Britannia, please.'' she told the driver. He nodded cheerily, popped out of his cab to stow her suitcase away in the boot, and then drove her there with efficiency. This was Emma's first time in Berlin but she had studied a map of the various places she wanted to go, and she knew he was taking the most efficient route. She tipped him properly, then followed the doorman who carried her suitcase into the Hotel Britannia.

As she walked up to reception, Emma passed a placard prominently displayed: International Bridge Tournament Weekend.

This was yet another reason why Emma had come to Berlin - to play in the bridge tournament.

''Mrs. Peel!'' the hotel clerk beamed at her. ''Welcome to the Hotel Britannia! I trust you had a good flight. Your suite is ready for you - Aachen here will show you up. (Aachen was a short, smiling bellboy who appeared like a genie out of the lamp when the clerk touched a bell). There will be a reception tonight for our bridge players, 1800 hours. It is to be a costumed reception.''

Emma smiled at him. ''Thank you.''

Once in her hotel room, Emma took a long, refreshing shower. Much as she liked planes and airports, she didn't care for the way the distinctive aroma of them permeated her clothing. She changed into yet another comfortable outfit, and laid out her costume for that evening. All of the bridge players were supposed to come as their favorite playing card. Emma's costume was that of the Queen of Spades.

Without any further delay, Emma went out into the city. She did not hail a cab, but began to walk down the streets.

Her third reason for coming to Berlin was something of a pilgrimage. Her husband, Peter Peel, had been just too young to serve during World War II, but had joined the RAF and flown cargo into West Berlin during the Berlin Airlift of 1949. He had loved the city, and spent several years there, before returning to London to become a test pilot, and where the two of them had met.

He'd talked often of his days in Berlin, and promised that he would take her to see the city, with its four sectors - Russian, English, American and French, and all the complications and red tape that that entailed.

''I've always been fascinated by the city,'' she had told him. ''One city, an island of Western ideals in the midst of communism, surrounded by a high wall erected by a government to keep its people imprisoned. If that's not a damning portrait of communism I don't know what is!''

She smiled now, as she thought of that long ago conversation. A wave of melancholia rushed over her, very briefly, and receded. She had done her grieving. Anyone married to a test-pilot knows that the end may come at anytime. They had lived their lives together to the fullest, and while she would still get a pang, when she saw something or felt something that she'd like to share with him and would never be able to, the sadness welled up.

Chapter II
That evening, Emma was at her radiant best, wearing a clinging outfit in blue which showed off her curves and her tan. The Britannia's ballroom was full of people dressed as playing cards. They were all bridge experts, and Emma knew most of them.

The costumes were many and varied. Some wore costumes almost like sandwich board, with cards painted on either side. Must be incredibly uncomfortable to dance in costumes like that, Emma mused. Others wore skin tight outfits representing the characters on the playing cards. Emma's costume was one of these. She wore a gown of black and white, and carried a long spear, the top of which was in the shape of a spade.

As Emma circled about the room, meeting old friends and having a brief chat with each, she noticed that there were several people gathered in one corner of the room. Curious, she drifted over. They were all spectators, in a semi-circle around a man seated on a chair. In his left hand he held a pair of scissor, in his right a piece of heavy black construction paper. In front of him was a young woman, standing self-consciously still. As Emma watched the man in the chair, dressed in a black tuxedo, but with a crown on his head, worked his long, sharp scissors around the paper quickly and expertly and soon had produced an expert silhouette of her features. He handed it to her with a flourish. The crowd applauded politely.

The man looked up, and his brilliant blue eyes caught Emma's. He was not handsome, in the conventional sense, his nose being rather too large, but he exuded vitality and charm.

''You, he said, in a German accent, pointing the scissors at Mrs. Peel. ''Please, you must allow me to do a silhouette of you.''

Emma smiled, flattered, and moved into the forefront of the circle of admirers. The silhouette artist stared at her face very intently for a few seconds, then quickly went to work on the paper in his hand, and there was silent but for the snick, snick, snick of the scissors cutting through paper. At last he held out the silhouette. He had caught her hairstyle, the tilt of her nose, one could even imagine he'd caught the curve of a smile in her cheek.

''It's lovely,'' she told him, applauding him. He rose and deposited scissors and paper on his chair. ''My name is Prendergast,'' he told her. ''Max Prendergast.''

''My name is Emma Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel.''

''Emma. What a beautiful name.'' He took her arm with easy European familiarity - the arm that wasn't carrying her sceptre, and they walked around the room.

''Have you ever been to Berlin before, Emma?'' he asked. ''If not you must allow me to escort you. I know all the best sights. All the best sounds.''

''That's very kind of you, Mr. Prendergast. I wouldn't wish to take you away from any pressing business.''

''Don't be silly, Emma. Nothing could be more pressing than escorting a beautiful woman around the most beautiful city in the world.''

''You regard Berlin as beautiful?'' said Emma thoughtfully.

''Well, I am prejudiced, perhaps. It is my home city, after all. Much progress has been made since the war...''

''Oh, I didn't mean that,'' Emma said quickly. ''I meant only, to me, for one reason or another Berlin has become the most exciting city in Europe. Certainly the most dangerous.''

''Dangerous?'' Max Prendergast smiled. ''You are right, there. I could tell you stories...''

Before he could say another word however, there was a commotion in front of them, as a man burst into the room. He was not dressed in costume but instead wore shabby clothing...and carried a gun.''

''Prendergast!'' He yelled, and then continued in German, ''I know you're here, you pig, you Judas! Show yourself!''

His eyes lit upon the man at Emma's side, but before he had a chance to bring his pistol around, Emma picked up her sceptre and hurled it like a javelin. The weight of the metal was not such that it could penetrate him, but it caused him to lose his grip on his gun. Emma took three long strides forward, and gave him a kick in the jaw. He settled into a heap onto the polished marble floor.

''My dear,'' said Prendergast, ''how marvelous of you! The poor man was deranged. Waving a gun around at people like that! Could you understand what he said?''

Emma smiled at him. ''I don't speak German,'' she told him. Prendergast's face relaxed slightly. It was a half-truth. Emma understood several languages, but she rarely spoke in any of them. In her business at Knight Industries it was important to know what people were thinking, and they were so much more revealing when they were speaking in their own language.

The unconscious man was dragged away without any ceremony by a couple of bellhops, and the party resumed its festive nature. Not another word was said about it, although Mrs. Peel received a few 'good shows' as people in the crowd passed by.

Emma was thoughtful. ''Judas,'' she thought to herself. Somehow the charming Mr. Prendergast had acquired that sobriquet. She wondered how.

Chapter III
The next morning Emma Peel met with a couple of RAF officials, who knew her because of her husband, Peter Peel. She received tours of various facilities, and had tea with the commander of the airbase.

One of the officers walked her out the gate and flagged down a taxi. ''Back to your hotel?'' he asked Mrs. Peel.

''Yes, please.''

Emma got into the taxi and the driver started up and pulled away. It was only then that she noticed the driver wore a bowler hat. There was no question of it being Peter Peel - for some reason Emma knew immediately that it was John Steed.

''Steed,'' she said coldly.

''Mrs. Peel.''

''I must learn to select my taxi drivers more carefully.''

''That would certainly be the case in Berlin,'' Steed agreed. ''However, you must listen to me. I learned of what happened last night.''

''Many things happened last night.''

''At the costume party,'' Steed said, impatient of her whimsicalness. ''A man tried to kill Max Prendergast. You stopped him. That was a mistake.''

''You expected me to just stand by and watch a defenseless man get shot?''

Steed pulled the taxi over to the side of the road and turned to face her. ''Mrs. Peel, have you ever seen a movie called The Third Man?''

''1949. Orson Welles as Harry Lime. Joseph Cotten. Post-war Vienna. Yes, what about it?''

''Well, substitute a snake for Orson Welles, and Berlin for Vienna, and you've got Max Prendergast.''

A sense of foreboding rose up in Emma's breast. But she said, ''Are you sure? You were wrong about me, remember, not so long ago.''

''I can't give you a sheaf of documentary proof, because Prendergast has covered his tracks too well for that. But that man you knocked unconscious - we have him now, and he's being interrogated. If he can give us the proof we need...''

''This is Berlin, 1965!'' Emma said. ''Surely you can pick up Prendergast on suspicion?''

''It may be Berlin, but this is the British sector,'' Steed said reprovingly. ''Besides, Prendergast has friends in many places. But we're getting close to him now.''

''Why are you telling me all this?''

''From all reports, Prendergast was quite smitten with you, Mrs. Peel. And you didn't seem to be...unattracted.''

'So?'' said Emma Peel very coldly. Her eyebrows raised at him dangerously.

Steed gestured. ''I just wanted you to know what he was, that's all.''

''Well, thank you for telling me, Steed. But it was a needless precaution. I'm going to a Duke Ellington concert tonight. Alone.''

''Wouldn't you like to help put Prendergast behind bars?

She stared at him curiously. ''Are you seconding me for police action?''

''Not police action. Not even action for king and country. But action for...the right. God save the right, as the knights of old used to say.''

Chapter IV
Emma sat sipping tea in her hotel room, and munching on shortbread. She had turned on the tv and was listening to programs in German, but her mind was far away.

Although her step-mother had taught her martial arts, Emma had never actually used her skills until just recently. And the feeling of exhilaration she had felt, in using those skills to successfully subdue a villain - she had never felt anything quite like it. Well...had she? Her first solo in her own small plane. Her first hang-gliding off the Cotswolds. All those events had made her feel very alive and so did these small triumphs. Adventurer, Mrs. Peel thought. The love of adventure. The same love that had got her husband killed while in the prime of his life. Mrs. Peel smiled. The same love that had caused him to live every minute to the full.

The phone rang, disturbing her reverie. She picked up the phone to hear Steed's voice. ''Mrs. Peel, this is urgent. I'm having a delay getting the appropriate warrants. Prendergast has a reservation on a plane that leaves in an hour. You've got to delay him for me. If he gets on that plane, we'll lose him.''

Emma, conscious of the tone of urgent desperation in Steed's voice, didn't argue. Just, ''Delay him? How?''

''Use your feminine wiles or something. Please!''

''Alright, Steed. He'll be in my room when you're ready to get him.''

''Good. Thank you.'' said Steed, and he hung up the receiver.

Emma took one glance around her suite. The bed looked very inviting. She grabbed up a handful of magazines and a couple of plush toys she had purchased and strewed them on the bed to make it less so. As she strode out of her room she picked up a bottle of champagne.

She rapped on Max Prendergast's door. A cheerful little rap.

He opened it with a jerk. He wore a tuxedo, but his tie was undone and his normally impeccably coiffed hair was the tiniest bit mussed. ''Emma,'' he said in delight. ''''How nice to see you! Please come in. I am busy packing, as you see.''

She entered his room. ''Leaving so soon?'' she said, striving hard to act natural, casual. ''The tournament isn't over yet.''

''Yes. Unfortunately business calls me away. Unexpected business. I must catch a plane tonight.''

''Why, that's too bad,'' Emma commiserated. ''And here I am with a full bottle of champagne and no one to share it with.'' She displayed it to him.

Prendergast froze as if electrified. His eyes looked at her face avidly. ''My dear Emma, what an unexpected invitation.''

''But a pleasant one, I hope.''

Prendergast closed the lid of his suitcase. ''Oh, yes.''

''Well, then. You've such a clutter here. Why not come to my room? We can enjoy a glass or two before you leave.''

Prendergast looked at his watch, and teetered on his feet like a man on the edge of an abyss. ''Very well, my dear. Just a glass. A quick glass.'' He glanced at his suitcase. ''I will just take my suitcase with me, if you don't mind, and leave directly from your room.''

''Lovely.''

They walked back to Emma's suite. Emma gave him the bottle. ''If you will do the honors?''

Prendergast hurried to the sideboard on which stood the glasses, while Emma turned on the little radio that came with the hotel. The song, ''Meine liebling, meine rose'' started to play.

''A love song,'' Prendergast commented.

''Really? So difficult to tell, in German. It's such a ...brutal language.''

''Oh, surely not,'' Prendergast said, handing her a glass of champagne and looking at her intensely. ''The language of Goethe, of Mozart...and this song they are playing...it's a very popular one right now. All the little German boys are singing it to their sweethearts.''

He looked at Emma with such an expression of love on his face that she simply couldn't stand it any longer. ''Feminine wiles, indeed,'' she said below her breath, and without warning, without hesitation, she punched him on the precise point of his jaw, a blow calculated to leave him unconscious for at least thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes was just long enough. Prendergast stirred feebly as a knocking came. Emma opened the door to Steed and two police officers. Emma was not sure if she was amused or angered by the shock on Steed's face. Had he really thought that she'd occupy Predergast in her bed until he got around to showing up?

Without ceremony one of the police officers lugged Prendergast to his feet, brought his hands behind his back and snapped on cold steel handcuffs. Prendergast gazed around wildly, at the police officers, at Steed, lastly at her. She saw the naked look of shock and anguish on Prendergast's face as he realized what she'd done, but his emotion bothered her not all. So must all of his victims looked and felt, when they took that much anticipated step into what they thought would be freedom, only to find that the man they had trusted had betrayed them.

The police officers led Prendergast to the door. He passed quite close to Steed and Emma and came to a stop. ''Look behind you,'' he purred, his eyes on Steed. They shifted to Emma. ''Often. One day I will be there.''

The police officer tightened his grip and Prendergast was led away.

''What a thoroughly unpleasant character,'' Steed commented.

''Thoroughly,'' said Emma. She glanced at her watch. ''He's made me late for that Duke Ellington concert.''

''I have a car waiting downstairs.''

As they were driven by chauffer to the American sector Steed said, ''You've done the free world a service, Mrs. Peel. Prendergast will be going away for a long time. In fact I doubt if they will ever let him out.''

''Too bad he couldn't have been caught years ago, before he had time to do so much damage, hurt so many people.''

''Yes, but the important thing is he was caught in the end. Thanks to you,'' said Steed. He glanced at her. ''You enjoyed it, didn't you?''

Emma looked at him, and didn't pretend not to know what he was talking about. But she asked a question that may have appeared as a non sequitur. ''When you arrived with the police, you seemed a little surprised to see Prendergast out on the floor, and not ...elsewhere.''

''Not at all!'' Steed said indignantly. ''It was simply that that was such a straightforward thing for you to have done. It reminded me of a friend of mine. I had expected you to take a rather more subtle approach - I thought I'd find the two of you playing a game of chess or gin rummy or something.''

''I see,'' said Emma. She looked out thoughtfully into the darkness. ''If he had just been...lusting after me...I suppose I would have played it out that way. Teased him. Toyed with him. But ...I think he truly loved me. I couldn't stand it. I had to knock him out.''

''I see,'' said John Steed. ''I shall bear that in mind for future reference, Mrs. Peel.''

''You would do well to do so,'' commented Emma with a grin.

''But that of course means there will be a future,'' said Steed. ''And actually, I got word tonight...''

Emma Peel held up her hand. ''Not tonight, thank you, Steed. I have a date with a Duke.''

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.''

God, time goes fast

So sorry not to have updated this story since June 18!

After July 4, should be able to get my girdle in gear and continue with this story.

The Gambler Part II

What was it about human attraction, Amanda Sutton thought as she sat opposite Alex Cleland, gazing into his eyes...but only because he was gazing so deeply in to hers.

Men had two types of physiques, she mused to herself. (Well, people did, but she was only interested in men's physiques!)

They were either square or rectangular - square faces or long narrow faces, square bodies or long, slender bodies. Like... like William Shatner's Captain Kirk and Leonard Nimoy's Mr. Spock. Although that TV show was over 40 years old, it still had an enormous following - of which she was one. And so she knew that many women liked the slenderness of Mr. Spock, whereas she had never found that look attractive. Wlliam Shatner's Captain Kirk, on the other hand...whoah baby!

And Alex Cleland definitely had a Captain Kirk type of face, and body. Well muscled, well taken care of...and his face...everything in just the right proportion, very handsome.

Alex Cleland, for his part, was fascinated by women who were tall, with small breasts and slender hips, with the musculature of a lifelong athlete, topped by a beautiful face. But it was always the body that first attracted him...

"I wonder," he said aloud, "If you, and your sisters, and of course Mr. Wade, would care to dine with me on my yacht one evening soon."

Nick and Nora Charles

New chapter coming tomorrow!

The Gambler

The Palau casino could not compare to the sumptuous casinos such as that of Monte Carlo, or those on the Las Vegas strip, but the gamblers were serious about having their fun. Most people were playing the slot machines - games that required no skill whatsoever. A smaller percentage were playing blackjack, and some were playing baccarat. A few were playing roulette.

The three Sutton girls were not gamblers...they had spent too long wandering around the casino at Bimini, watching people lose money, or if they did win...giving it all back within the space of a few hours. Nevertheless it was fun to watch the gamblers themselves - to see how they disported themselves among the gaming tables.

Amanda, the eldest sister, nodded her head at the roulette table. "I"m going to stick around here for a while," she said.

The twins, Stacy and Chelsea, nodded back and continued meandering along.

The roulette table was not a computer game, but rather featured a live croupier, and a secondary individual with a long rake-type instrument, which he used to rake the chips off the betting table after every spin.

There were six seats around the table, and each of the six had different colored chips. After each player placed their bets, the croupier behind the table spun the wheel, and a white ivory ball spun around the wheel, and spun and spun, until finally settling into one of 37 slots (for it was a European roulette wheel - numbers from one to 36, and one green slot, the single 0. If the ball fell into the single zero, anyone who had bet on red or black, or odd or even, would lose, as well as those who bet only one the numbers.)

Amanda snagged a coke from a passing waitress, and watched play for a while. At one point in her life, when she'd been a few years younger, she'd found such gamblers to be somewhat sexy...well, the male gamblers, anyway! Like the men of old, chancing their life on a card...but all that had been in the fiction she'd seen - the movies like Casino Royale and the TV shows like The Gambler, but in real life she had seen far too many men lose fortunes at these tables, and their mere presence as gamblers only served to de-sexify them in her eyes. (Amanda smiled inwardly at this. Well, it was Stacy who was the writer, not her! Besides, de-sexify might be a word...)

Except...that guy had quite a few chips in front of him. He seemed to be doing very well.

The guy in question was dressed in a dark purple shirt and black slacks, and appeared to be in his early forties, although his hair was already silver. It set off the bronze of his square face quite well.

He seemed to be playing mostly red and black, betting only one chip on each. But occasionally he'd bet on another number - usually the reverse of a number that hit, such as 23 after 32, or 31 after 13, and vice versa. Occasionally it worked, and it was working now. He placed a couple of ten dollar chips on 31, and she watched as the little ivory ball spun around and landed in... 31.

"Leave," she advised him silently. "Leave now."

To her surprise, he looked up at her as if he knew what she was thinking. He looked down at the pile of chips in front of him - he'd won $720 - and then he actually stood up and picked up the chips.

He was walking away from the table a winner!

Now that was sexy!

She waited a few seconds for him to get well away from the pit area, and then she headed in the same direction. She wasn't following him, she was going to join her sisters.

But as she watched his back, as she walked, he suddenly stopped and turned, and waited for her.

"Good evening," he said to her, with a British accent.

"Oh...good evening," she responded, with a smile.

"May I buy you a drink?"

Amanda stared at him. Although she knew she was attractive - a girl couldn't get to be even 18 years old without learning whether boys found her attractive or not - and she was 26 - she had never been approached in quite this way.

"No, thank you," she said. "I'm here with friends."

"You're here with your sisters," he said. "And with a man named Robert Wade."

Amanda looked at him warily now.

"Yes, how did you know that?"

He only smiled. "Please. Let me buy you a drink. Then I'll explain."

Amanda was curious. She was also no fool. She'd let him buy her a drink, and watch very carefully so that only the bartender touched the drink before handing it to her.

"Thank you," she said graciously.

He smiled again, showing strong, white teeth. "This way," he said, and placing a hand lightly above her elbow, escorted her through the room to the bar.