Emma by Gaslight ch 4

Emma by Gaslight by Gale Force Part 4 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering. The file on 1973: Events of January - May January January 3 - CBS sells the New York Yankees to a syndicate led by George Steinbrenner. January 14 - The Miami Dolphins defeat the Washington Redskins 14-7 in Super Bowl VII to complete the NFL's only Perfect Season. January 20 - U.S. President Richard Nixon is inaugurated for his second term. January 22 - Roe v. Wade: The U.S. Supreme Court overturns state bans on abortion. January 27 - U.S. involvement in the Vietnam War ends with the signing of the Paris Peace Accords. February February 21 - Libyan Arab Airlines passenger Flight 114 is shot down by Israeli fighter aircraft over the Sinai Desert, who suspect it is an enemy military plane. Only 5 of 113 survive. March March 7 - Comet Kohoutek is discovered. March 8 - In the 'Border Poll', voters in Northern Ireland endorse remaining in the United Kingdom. Irish nationalists largely boycotted the referendum. March 17 - Queen Elizabeth II opens the modern London Bridge. April April 3 - The first handheld cellular phone call made by Martin Cooper, who conceived the phone, in New York City. April 4 - The World Trade Center officially opens in New York City with a ribbon-cutting ceremony. April 6 - Pioneer 11 is launched on a mission to study the solar system. April 17 - The German counter-terrorist force GSG 9 is officially formed. April 17 - Federal Express officially begins operations. May May 1 - An estimated 1,600,000 workers in the United Kingdom stopped work in support of a Trade Union Congress "day of national protest and stoppage" against the Government's anti-inflation policy. May 3 - The Sears Tower in Chicago is finished, becoming the world's tallest building. May 5 - Secretariat wins the Kentucky Derby. May 14 - Skylab, the United States' first space station, is launched. May 17 - Watergate scandal: Televised hearings begin in the United States Senate. May 19 - Secretariat wins the Preakness Stakes. May 22 - Ethernet is invented by Robert Metcalfe. May 25 - Skylab 2 (Pete Conrad, Paul Weitz, Joseph Kerwin) is launched on a mission to repair the Skylab space station. ...File ends Part Four: June 3, 1973 Emma Peel wended her way through the long lines of blackjack tables that ran from one side of the room to the other. She carried a champagne glass in one hand, from which she sipped occasionally, and a handful of jetons (or betting chips) in the other. A black mink stole covered her bare shoulders and set off her white gloves and white evening gown. Formal dress was de rigeur at the Casino of Monte Carlo. She paused occasionally at a table to watch the play - invariably half the players would lose the hand, while the other half would win. And each half generally alternated with each new hand. Emma would suppress a shake of her head as she walked away. Emma had never understood why people played blackjack, or chemin de fer, or poker, any other card game that depended more on luck than skill. Oh, of course those people with fantastic memories (such as herself, though she did say it), who could "count cards," perhaps had a slightly better chance of winning...but overall it was a mug's game. Give her a decent game of bridge any day. Emma hadn't intended to go back out into the city that night, but after reading the news about poor Jouvert, she'd decided she wasn't yet ready to retire to her room. She walked out of the blackjack pit and into an adjacent room, which featured roulette and craps, and once again commenced her stroll around the tables. She was looking for someone, though she didn't really expect to find him. But if he was alive...he'd been a great one for the gambling tables. No matter what he was doing in any city, if there was a casino there, that's where he would invariable be found. "Where the casino is, there are eagles gathered," she paraphrased to herself. "And vultures." She watched a tuxedo-clad man push a stack of 100-franc-jetons onto the number 24 on the betting table, watched the roulette ball spin, saw him half-rise from his chair in anticipation as it seemed the ball was heading straight toward 24, and saw him sink back in despair as it fell into the adjacent slot. He uttered a brief profanity, stood up from the table with a jerk and strode away. "And fools," she thought, controlling that shake of the head again. She wouldn't find him in this room. Emma thought. Roulette and craps - two of the silliest games for anyone to play -ever. The chair in front of her was still empty. With a smile twitching her lips, Emma sat down. "Hey ho," she thought to herself. She'd risk a few francs. The croupier called for everyone to place their bets. Emma placed a one franc-jeton on the 24, and on the two numbers on either side of it, 16 and 5. She wasn't surprised when the ball followed the same trajectory as in the previous spin, and this time landed right in 24. The croupier pushed 36 francs worth of jetons at her. Emma gathered her winnings and rose. "Masterfully done," said a voice behind her. A deep, rich voice that she'd been impressed with this morning...it had belonged to the man at her breakfast table. The author of the Mark Caine spy stories. Jason King. She turned and gave him a brief smile. He wore a black tuxedo, with a frilly white shirt. "Mr. King." "Oh, Jason, please. And I hope I may call you Emma. You're looking very lovely this evening." "Thank you." She wished she could return the compliment, but although she quite liked his slenderness, and the ramrod straightness of his back, and the voice, the bouffant hairstyle and the Fu Manchu moustache did nothing for her. She knew it was the coming style...but just because something was in style was no need to embrace it, in her opinion. "I see you've finished your champagne. Would you like another?" "Thank you." She accompanied him to the bar, and waited while he purchased two glasses of champagne from the bartender. "Thank you for paying my bill this morning," said Emma, accepting one of the glasses. "I apologize for leaving you in the lurch, as it were." "Oh, don't give it another thought," said the author. "Did you find your friend?" "No," said Emma. "No, I didn't." "He must have been a very good friend, for you to go to such lengths to try to catch up to him." Emma glanced at him, but he was innocently sipping champagne. She shrugged and took pains to smile ruefully. "I know it was a bit foolish of me, but I've always been impulsive. It was someone I'd known in my university days. We were always doing outrageous things back then, and I'm afraid I just...regressed for a moment." "I see." "By the way, I left my tablet behind. Did you pick it up, by any chance?" "Yes. It's in my room at the Grand. Are you staying there?" "Ye-es," Emma said. "You don't sound very sure." She looked at him. He was smiling, and devouring her with his eyes, and concentrating on her absolutely. Oh, he was smooth, all right, and as self-confident as any man she'd ever seen, up to and including John Steed. She'd have to scotch this - she didn't want anybody hanging around while she investigated a possibly-defected agent, and murderer or murderers unknown. "I wasn't very truthful with you this morning, Jason," she said demurely. "You see..my real name is Emma Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel. I'd been going through a bad patch with my husband...and came here to be alone. But...he's coming here tomorrow. I don't know if he'll want to stay there, or if he'll want to whisk me away on a second honeymoon. He can be as impulsive as me, sometimes." "I see." He reached into his pocket and drew out a gold cigarette case. He offered it to her, and she shook her head. Long fingers withdrew a cigarette, tapped it on the case, and inserted it into his mouth. Cigarette case returned, gold lighter produced. He lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. "Well, I'm pleased for you, of course, but I must say I'm disappointed for me." Emma took a sip from her champagne. At the same time, her eyes looked past Jason King and down the corridor and she saw that long-thought-dead agent, deep in talk with another man. Both in tuxedos. Both clearly about to go into the casino. Quietly, quickly, Emma slid around the booth so that she was sitting with her back towards that walking dead man. Unfortunately, she was now sitting side by side with Jason King. "Emma," he said in a delighted tone of voice. A sudden rush of longing for John Steed rose in her. It was all very well to be working alone...but Rioridan - for that was the name of that walking dead man - knew what she looked like and would invariably cut and run if he caught sight of her. Of course, he knew Steed as well...but Steed would be able to call someone to get to the casino to shadow him. She knew no one in Monte Carlo. She'd have to shadow him on her own. She had driven her rental car to the Casino, just in case she did come across someone she'd need to follow, and had some sets of spare clothing in the boot - slacks, shirts and boots better for running and jumping in than this evening gown. But...how to get rid of Jason King? She didn't want to place him in danger. He was clearly a dandy who liked to live vicariously through his super spy protagonist, but in the real world he would probably collapse like a house of cards at the first harsh word. She had to get rid of him.

Emma by Gaslight Ch 3

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 3 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

Part Three:

You Can't Go Home Again

I.

Emma Peel sat alone at a table just beside the entrance doors to the Milano restaurant. She'd requested the table deliberately - her back was to the wall, and she'd be able to see anyone who entered the restaurant before they saw her. And she'd be able to make a quick exit if she had to.

Precautions that she never thought she'd have to take again, but due to the event of this morning…

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror that lined the wall on the other side of the large room, and stared at it, as if she'd never seen it before.

Unbidden, a voice rose in her mind. "You can't go home again." She'd come to Monte Carlo as Mrs. Emma Peel, and she'd more than half expected to leave it as Emma Knight, but…

Emma lifted a glass of champagne in a toast to her solitary reflection. "No…you can't go home again."

It was 8 pm., and she was dining alone. She'd come to Monte Carlo alone, and she intended to stay alone, now and for the next six months, if not longer.

It was a new experience. She'd never been on her own before.

First there had been her parents, always there when she needed them while she was growing up. Then they had died in a car accident and she'd become head of Knight Industries…but within months she'd married test pilot Peter Peel. Would she have found that quick wedding to have been a mistake…if they'd been together for more than six months? Or would everything have

been so different…what sort of a person would she be now…?

She shook her head quickly. Too late to think about that now.

Six months. That's all the time they'd had together until he disappeared whilst test flying a plane over the Amazon jungle. Even then she hadn't been alone, at least not for long. Within weeks, she'd met secret agent John Steed, and spent three years in close partnership with him…saving the world…

And then Peter had returned, and like the dutiful wife that she'd wanted to be, she had returned to him, leaving Steed behind.

She had wanted things with Peter to be exactly the same as they had been…but they weren't. She'd changed too much…and she didn't want to change back. After six months of stilted co-habitation, they'd decided on a trial separation.

She needed to think things through.

She had no need to work. A millionaire, she had a steady income coming in from the business that now ran smoothly without her. But work was a joy, not a burden, and in any event one must keep active - something Peter hadn't wanted to accept. Or rather - it was which activities she chose that he'd seemed to have problems with...

So she'd decided to "get outta town," spend some time as a roving journalist, contributing articles to the many magazines that one of her subsidiary companies published, and she'd decided to start with an investigative report into the luxurious tax haven of Monte Carlo.

Only to see someone that she thought had been dead for over a year. A fellow agent, who'd supposedly died in a car crash. But unlike her prodigal husband, that man's body had been found - albeit burned to a crisp. Identification had been made via dental records. That was the thing - identification had been made. And yet she'd seen him getting into a taxi not five hours ago.

She'd reacted instinctively - jumping off the roof and running for another cab. She spared a smile at the thought of what her table companion must have thought of her.

II.

Her driver had been marvelous…she smiled at the memory of it.

"You are a James Bond girl, eh?" he'd asked, in a rapid-fire monologue of questions that left her no time to answer. "Or the Princess, in charge of the Network? A secret agent on the trail of a master criminal? Always I have dreamed of such a moment as this…trailing the desperate criminals in my little cab…what has he done…broken the bank at the Casino, perhaps?"

"No, I…"

But he'd merely pressed on with his monologue.

"We are passing through many historic districts, madame," he'd commented finally, while the tires squealed as he took a corner on two wheels. "Shall I describe them all to you?"

"Perhaps another time, Pierre," she'd told him with amusement. "Right now I want to concentrate on that cab in front of us."

"Yes, yes, never fear. I do not…. Sacre bleu!" He stomped on the brakes as a lorry cut them off. Several precious seconds went by as the lorry did, and then several more seconds as Pierre leaned out of the window and hurled abuse at its driver as it proceeded, unheeding, up the road.

Emma had peered around anxiously, to no avail. The other cab was gone.

"Do not distress yourself, madame," Pierre said airily. "You forget I know the driver of that cab. It is Phillipe Reynaud. When he returns to his space at the port - that is our…how you say… home base…. I will ask him where he take his passenger."

"Pierre. That's marvelous! Such an easy solution."

"Of course! I will ask him…and then I will tell you. How can I get in touch with you?"

"I'm at the Grand Hotel. Leave a message for me at the desk. Mrs. Emma Peel."

"I shall, Madame. I shall be the Watson to your Holmes, eh?" and he'd laughed cheerfully.

"Well, I think I'll get out here…" she peered into her purse for money, and remembered for the first time that she had not brought her tablet with her. She'd left it on the table at the Grand's roof-top café. She needed that tablet.

"On second thought," she said briskly, "I'll return with you to the hotel."

III.

She'd breathed a sigh of relief to see the same maitre-d as before, and she gave him her most charming smile.

"Messieur, I am so ashamed. This morning I left without paying for my breakfast."

"It is all right, madame," he'd said cheerfully. "M'sieu King, he paid it for you."

"Did he? How kind of him."

"Oh, Mr. King, he is a gentleman. You must have heard of him. He is the creator of Mark Caine."

Emma shrugged her shoulders. She didn't read much non-fiction.

"He is better than James Bond," the maitre-d said enthusiastically. "The bookstore in the lobby carries all his books - in French translations of course. You should look at them."

"Yes, I will. Now, tell me….did he by any chance turn in a tablet that I'd left on the table."

"No, madame, he did not."

"Ah, well. Anyway, I can't let him pay my debts for me. If you'll give me the bill…"

The maitre-d searched through his tickets, and took out one. He glanced at the bottom line before handing it to her. "Not very much, for a coffee and a brioche."

Emma scanned the bill, and saw the writing across it.

Jason King, Room 382.

She handed over the money.

"Merci, madame. I shall remove this from M'sieu King's account."

Emma had left the roof-top café and went immediately to room #382. She knocked briskly. No reply.

Well, she'd stop by later.

Emma returned to the harbor, and sought out the MonteCarlo Sailing Club, where she proceeded to rent a sail-boat. She didn't feel like setting up appointments to talk to bankers today...that could wait until tomorrow. She felt like tasting the freedom of the seas. And indeed, she spent the rest of the day sailing close to the coast of the French Riviera…enjoying the sun and the wind and the intricacies of coaxing more knots of speed out of the little boat.

She returned to shore and, her appetite burgeoning, went immediately to the Milano for dinner, as it was a restaurant that catered to the yachting crowd, and it was not necessary to dress formally to dine there.

Finally, she walked back to her hotel, and stopped on the corner to pick up a newspaper. She paused to read the headlines.

Cab driver drives into harbor, drowns

Oh, no...

Emma read the article quickly, standing there at the street corner, fingers crumpling the pages with the force of her grip - then she looked up and stared blindly at the taxis still waiting at their stands for possible customers.

His death was her fault. She should have seen how eager he was, how convinced that he was playing some kind of game. He must have done more than ask the other cab driver a simple question...he must have tried to snoop. And been killed for his pains.

This was what came of letting amateurs get involved in serious business. She wouldn't make that mistake again. She'd discover what was going on, without involving anyone else. And poor Pierre Jouvert would be avenged.

Emma By Gaslight Ch 2

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 2 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

The file on Monte Carlo

The Principality of Monaco, a country in Western Europe located along the French Riviera between the Mediterranean Sea and France, is the most famous of the six "microstates" located in Europe. It is the world's most densely populated country and second-smallest independent nation; with a population of about 32,000 in an area of 485 acres.

The city of Monte Carlo is not the capital of Monaco - the country doesn't have one. It's just the most famous and wealthy city in the world. The permanent population is about 3000 - most of them incredibly wealthy immigrants from other countries - the city is a tax haven for wealthy individuals from all over the world.

In addition to its famous casino, Monte Carlo is home to the Formula One Monaco Grand Prix; the Monte Carlo Masters, and the Monte Carlo Car Rally.

...File ends

Part Two:

Emma, by Jason King

I.

Well, how to find her, thought Jason to himself.

Chances were she was staying at the Grand Hotel - the hotel beneath this very café, and the hotel in which he himself was staying.

However...just to be on the safe side... Jason peered down at the handful of cabs parked along the streets. All of the cabs at the port used that square there as their "home base," just as only selected cabs were allowed to ply their trade at each hotel, at the casino, and so on. If he wrote down the numbers of all the cabs that were still parked down below, he could eliminate them from any future inquiries, when he would discover exactly what the lady had instructed her driver.

His eyesight was 20-20, but he couldn't see the license plates for all that. However, there was an easy solution. He pulled a pair of collapsible binoculars from an inside pocket of his jacket, and trained them on the cars far below, jotting down the numbers for ten cabs. That'd do to get on with.

Jason nodded to himself, and, finishing off his coffee, took his own l'addition to the maitre-d. He handed him both slips of paper. "Charge these to my room. #382. Jason King."

"D'accord."

II.

Jason never liked taking lifts in old buildings. He never quite trusted the machinery. So he trotted down the five fights of stairs to the ground floor of the hotel and strolled over to the check-in desk.

He spoke briefly and flatteringly to the girl there, before asking her if a Miss Emma Knight was registered.

She obligingly looked through their registration cards. "No, Jason, no Emma Knight."

"Look, would you be a dear, and call around all the hotels in Monte Carlo, and ask if she's registered anywhere else."

The girl pouted at him prettily. "I suppose I could do that, Jason, but..."

He took her hand and brought it up to his lips. "You'll be doing me a tremendous favor, my dear."

She withdrew her hand with a smile. "Oh, very well. I will make calls as I have spare time throughout the day."

"You're a darling. I'll be back after lunch to check on your progress."

Jason walked out of the hotel, pausing by the door to light a cigarette. Was there any point in quizzing the cab drivers now? Perhaps...yes...prime them to be on the lookout for the driver he wanted to see.

Jason walked over to the taxi-stand, judging by eye where Emma Knight's cab had been in the string, and stopping at the one he judged to have been just behind it.

"The cab, just in front of you a few minutes ago," he began in fluent French.

The driver eyed him warily.

"A young lady entered that cab. Blue slacks and a white shirt. Did you notice?"

The driver smiled a lascivious smile. "Of course, m'sieu."

"Do you know the name of the cabby?"

"Of course. It was..."

"Yes?"

The driver held out a hand and rubbed two fingers together.

Jason smiled, withdrew a banknote from his wallet and handed it over.

"Pierre Javert. He is always here."

"I'd like to speak to him. Will you be seeing him later today?"

"Doubtless, m'sieu."

"Will you have him call me? I'm at that hotel, the Grand. Have him ask for me at the desk, any time of the day or night."

"I shall tell him, m'sieu."

"Thank you."

III.

"The Grand Prix of Monaco is taking place on June 3, this year," Jason King told the microphone he held close to his mouth. His portable tape recorder was slung over his shoulder. "It is a Formula One race. The "Formula" in the title refers to the set of rules which all participants and cars must meet. The race takes place on a circuit built in the center of the city - it takes three weeks to construct the circuit...and it'll take a week to tear it down after the race is over. The race is in four days time."

Jason walked along the observer's platform, where the people of the city could watch the track being constructed.

"Jackie Stewart, the great Scottish racing driver, is retiring this year, so this will be his last Monaco Grand Prix. [Note to self - ask Nicola to see if Stewart would like to review the book when it's finished. An account of the race will be wonderful local color for my next Mark Caine adventure."

Jason turned off the recorder and tucked the microphone back into its slot in the carrying case. He had intended to spend the day tracking down some of the drivers who had already arrived in the city, but he couldn't get the mystery of Emma Knight out of his mind. He would return to the Grand Hotel and see if any of the two hares he'd set in motion earlier in the day had borne fruit.

Hares set in motion earlier in the day had borne fruit, he said to himself with a grimace. "Talk about a mixed metaphor. Oh well, never mind I'll come up with something better when I start writing it."

IV.

Yvette, the girl at the check in desk, was his first disappointment.

"I have called all the hotels, Jason, and she is not registered anywhere."

"Well, not registered as Emma Knight, anyway," thought Jason to himself. Perhaps that was the meaning behind her hesitation when he'd asked her her name earlier. Not that she'd recently been divorced, but that she was traveling under false colors and hadn't yet gotten used to her pseudonym.

There was also no message from a cab driver named Pierre Jouvert, either.

Jason sighed and went up to the roof-top café to have lunch. This was out of character for him - he generally liked to sample new restaurants every day in his travels, but as long as he was here...

The same maitre-d who had been on duty for breakfast was there for lunch. His eyes lit up as he saw King.

"M'sieu King. You will notice the adjustment to your bill at the end of your stay?"

"I will? Why?"

"The young lady, you remember, with whom you shared the table this morning. She returned a few minutes ago, and apologized for leaving without paying her bill. I said that you had paid it, and she insisted on reimbursing you."

"How kind of her," said Jason warmly. (He was indeed touched. He hadn't expected her to do such a thing.) "But how long ago was this?"

"Just a few minutes ago. Perhaps half an hour."

"Is she staying in this hotel, then?"

The maitre-d shrugged gallically. "She paid cash to me. And I have just taken it off your bill. Now, what can I get you for lunch?"

Jason placed his order absently.

If she had returned...had she returned in a different cab? Why hadn't Jouvert contacted him? Well, perhaps he'd picked up another fare straight away. One mustn't be paranoid or impatient in these matters. There was still the afternoon and evening to go. He'd track down Jouvert soon enough.

V.

Jason King spent the rest of the day speaking to various racing car drivers. He returned to the Grand Hotel around 8 o'clock, taking a cab because his feet - encased as they were in snake-skin boots - ached from all the walking. He had picked up a paper - fresh off the delivery trucks - to read on the journey. The headline caught his eye.

Cab driver drives into harbor, drowns

A cold chill ran down Jason's gut. His eyes moved to the first paragraph.

Yes...it was as he suspected. The cab driver had been Pierre Jouvert, and he'd driven full speed into the harbor at around 3 pm that afternoon. Witnesses reported that another car had been chasing his. That one did not stop, but continued on its way.

There had been no passengers in Jouvert's cab at the time.

Jason took a deep breath, and then lit a cigarette. His death was too much of a coincidence. It had to have had something to do with Emma Knight.

And if it did...chances were she was on the run now, from God knew what villains. He had to find her...help her.

Playtime was over, he thought grimly, as he waited for his cab to wend its way through the streets toward his hotel. Now, things were serious.

Emma By Gaslight

(Peter Wyngarde)
Another Avengers fan fic story that I wrote a while ago. I do intend to get back to Underwater Stories but life is crazy right now....

This story is a crossover with the Avengers and a TV show called Jason King, which starred Jason Wyndarde.

Emma by Gaslight

by Gale Force

Part 1 of a multi-part story in which Emma Peel copes with the dangers of 1970s Europe, where eagles...and vultures... are gathering.

The file on Jason King

Jason King was a successful writer of spy novels when he was tapped to join Department S, a secret government agency dedicated to solving "impossible" crimes. He served in Department S for two years, from 1969-1970, before growing disenchanted with government work. Although he resigned from the service, the Department was loath to let him go and frequently drew him back into the fold by means of trickery. After 1973, however, they declined to use him again.

King is distinguished by a bouffant hairstyle, Fu Manchu moustache, and utter narcissism. He is attracted to women of all ages and appearances - although he prefers those who do not evidence an interest in "women's lib," and the surest way to gain his affections is to praise his books to the skies.

...File ends

Part One:

Emma, by Jason King

Jason King stepped out onto the rooftop café and paused by the door to light a cigarette. Whilst simultaneously taking a deep drag of the cigarette and returning the lighter to his pocket, he scanned the various tables to see if there was anyone of interest about.

Couple. Young couple. Elderly couple. Group of men and women...tourists...Italian by their gestures. Two men. Elderly couple. Well, well, well...who was that?

At the far end of the rooftop - her table practically at the edge of the roof, a woman sat alone. He could see only her back, as she faced outward, looking over the scenery below, but her brunette hair fell about her shoulders in a stylish wave. By the set of her shoulders he could tell that she was young. Relatively young, at any rate. She also seemed to be resting her chin on her hands as she gazed seaward.

Gazing contemplatively seaward... (Jason had a habit of processing everything he saw as if it was taking place in one of his books.)

Jason took a couple of steps to one side to get a better view, and caught his breath. What a lovely profile. She was in her early thirties, he estimated, with flawless features. She wore a short-sleeved white linen shirt and dark blue slacks...he clicked his tongue at this...he so preferred women to wear dresses. She'd obviously just had breakfast - a tray was pushed to one side of the table.

As he watched, she picked up a pen and tablet from the table and began to write. Almost immediately she stopped. She gazed out to sea again, tapping the pen against her teeth. Finally, she made a little moue of disgust and tossed both pen and tablet back onto the table.

Aha, thought Jason. Writer's block, if he'd ever seen it. Perhaps she'd appreciate some assistance from the famous author, Jason King.

It was 1973, and Jason King was the best-selling author of spy novels featuring protagonist Mark Caine. His photo decorated the back jacket of all his books - hair in a rather bouffant style, a Fu Manchu moustache. His only regret was that the photos were in black and white - and so his brown eyes, brown hair and deep tan didn't show up to their best advantage. Still, he was recognized all the time, which was as it should be.

Jason withdrew a notebook and pen from his own pockets and paused beside the table the aspiring writer.

"All the tables seem to be full," he said cheerfully in his perfect French. (He had been born in France of English parents, and had been traveling the world ever since - not the least because tax difficulties at home made it impossible for him to return there for more than six months out of the year.)

"May I join you?"

She looked up at him, with her dark brown eyes under straight brows, and lovely lips that smiled only faintly as she gestured at the other chair.

Jason sat down and devoted his full attention to her. Her arms were tanned, with a smooth curve of bicep muscle which he found quite attractive. So many women had arms that were stick-figure thin! Her hands were well kept, with long, tapering fingers, but the nails were cut short. She wore no rings.

"My name's Jason King."

She smiled faintly, again, but it wasn't a smile of recognition, more's the pity.

"Emma... Knight."

She'd hesitated there. He wondered why. Newly married? Newly divorced? She couldn't be newly married - she wouldn't be sitting here on her own, let alone not wearing a wedding ring. So she must be newly divorced.

"You're English," he said, dropping into that language.

"Yes."

Jason took a drag on his cigarette. She was playing hard to get.

He gestured at the tablet before her.

"I see you're a writer."

"Yes."

He raised an eyebrow at her laconicalness..(is that a word, he asked himself mentally), but persevered.

"I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to be having difficulties. I saw you throw that pen down in disgust - an emotion I'm familiar with. Are you having writer's block?"

"I wouldn't call it writer's block," she said calmly. "I'm just...not in the mood to do any writing yet. It will come. I'll just sit here and enjoy the view."

"It is lovely, isn't it?" said Jason, running her eyes over her. But she wasn't paying attention to him and didn't notice this implied compliment. Instead, she was looking out over the scenery. He turned his own attention to it.

Below them stretched the Port of Monte Carlo. Dozens of piers stretched out into the azure water, and moored to each of these piers were dozens of luxury yachts. Across the harbor, hotels lined the beach. People dotted the white sand, stretched out in the typical pose of sun-worshipers every where.

"Have you been in Monte Carlo long?"

"No, not long."

This was turning out to be a real battle, but Jason was intrigued. He wasn't used to women ignoring him in this way, and the harder the chase, the more he liked it.

Suddenly, she leant forward, as her eye caught something on the quay below. Her eyebrows raised in what seemed to be astonishment.

"I don't believe it," he heard her murmur.

"Something the matter?"

She didn't take her eyes off whatever she was watching below. Jason turned to try to see what she was looking at. People - tourists - were walking to and fro. There was a man, getting into a taxi...could that be it?

She darted a quick look at him...an expression on her face that he couldn't quite fathom. Was she going to ask him for help? But then, she made a grimace, as if she had mentally dismissed his ability to help her. "I just saw someone I have to talk to," she said with a bright smile. "Do excuse me."

She stood up, and slung the strap of a small purse over her shoulder. And then, to his complete surprise, Emma Knight stepped over the short fence dividing the rooftop from the empty space beyond it, and then, jumped.

Jason blinked for a few seconds, then stood up and peered downward. Twenty feet below, the intriguing woman was just regaining her feet. She must have dropped and rolled in the soft grass. She must be a splendid athlete.

He watched her trot across the sward of grass in front of the café, and out into the street. She hailed a taxi - they were plentiful here - get into it, and it drove off.

Jason sat back in his chair, smoothing his moustache meditatively. A waiter appeared, and he ordered a large brandy. He felt the need of it.

Then his eyes fell upon the paper on the table. In her haste she had left her tablet behind.

Jason drew it towards him. He couldn't help but smile a little at the evidence of a writer without a clue. There were doodles of boats, of men in bowler hats, various geometric shapes, all surrounding a few words of text at the top of the page.

Obviously a title: Politics and Women in 20th Century Europe.

Jason was vaguely disappointed. Not another feminist! They were all the rage these days. It was so unnecessary. Perhaps he wouldn't bother with her after all.

A shadow fell over the table, and he looked up to see the maitre-d.

"The bill, messieur."

"I beg your pardon? I've only just started."

"Your companion at this table. The young woman. She did not pay for her petit dejeuner. You will remedy this oversight, non?"

Jason plucked the bill out of his hand. "Oui."

The maitre-d bowed and walked away.

Jason ran his eye over the bill casually. She'd had only a cup of coffee and a brioche. Not the type of order from someone intent on defrauding café owners out of the price of a full meal. But had that been the meaning behind it all? Had she deliberately been waiting for someone to sit next to her, so that she could stick them with the bill?

Hardly. A 20-foot drop was not something to be undertaken likely - certainly not for the cost of a coffee and a brioche!

No...something was going on.

Idly, Jason flicked over another page of the tablet. And his cigarette froze on the way to his lips. Quietly, he completed its journey and took another long drag.

On this page, it seemed she'd had no problem writing text. But it was funny. A couple of sentences, with words formed out of letters that didn't spell English words. Below them, letters in blocks of five, stretching across the page.

It was as if she was trying to figure out some kind of cipher.

He turned more pages. Each page was full of such jumbles of letters. And apparently ineffective attempts to solve them.

Why would an English woman summering in Monte Carlo be trying to figure out page after page of codes?

Jason felt a thrill run through him. More than his interest in a beautiful woman was his interest in a beautiful woman with a secret. And if he was not mistaken - Emma Knight had plenty of secrets. He'd have to find out what they were.

Jason picked up his pen and pulled his own notebook towards him. He wrote down the title for his next novel.

Emma.

Ever After Chapter 5

THE PRISONERS

I.

There was a fight, of course. They couldn't be expected to give up without a fight. Fred held Steed at bay with the machine gun pistol while Emma Peel attacked Tara King. They exchanged karate strikes and blocks, then Emma delivered a blow a bit too slowly and Tara King grabbed and twisted her arm behind her back, tripping her simultaneously face first down onto the floor. A karate chop to the neck and Emma Peel lay still. Steed started to rise but Fred lifted the machine gun pistol menacingly and he subsided back into his seat, giving his best insouciant look.

Tara King stood up, her face glowing triumphantly as she gazed from Fred to Steed.

''Youth over age every time,'' Fred said.

Good thing Emma was unconscious, Steed thought.

''What happens now?'' he demanded. Tara King peered into her handbag - a large, white, squat leather bag which looked as if it were about to sprout arms and start grabbing things, and removed two pairs of handcuffs. She knelt and applied one pair to the wrists of Emma Peel. Then she began patting Emma down, found the walkie talkie in her jacket pocket and removed it. She rolled Emma over and completed the search, finding the gun which had been tucked into the waist band of her trousers. She held it up to Steed. ''So she thought she could defeat me without using her gun? Self-confidence goes before a fall, eh, Mister Steed?

''So I've heard,'' Steed said with a chagrined smile.

Tara King took the machine gun pistol from Fred, and held it to the head of Emma Peel. ''Let Steed...my Steed, put the handcuffs on you.''

Steed rose to his feet and put his hands behind his back, allowing Fred to cinch them together tightly. Then Fred searched him, and found the walkie talkie in his jacket pocket.

They were remarkably lax, Steed thought, as Tara King brought a pitcher of water and poured it over Emma Peel, causing her to sit up gasping. They'd searched them superficially, but they hadn't examined the soles of their shoes, his belt, things like that...didn't they read Modesty Blaise or watch James Bond movies?

Tara waved the machine gun pistol at them. ''Parked behind Steed's Bentley is my car. Get into it.''

''Where are we going?'' demanded Steed.

''To the Village.''

''You can't let Mrs. Peel go like that,'' Steed objected, nodding at her wet hair and face as she gave him a Peelish look.

''She'd draw attention without even trying,'' Fred told Tara King.

Tara brought out a towel from the lav and wiped Mrs. Peel's face and hair. Emma gave her a Peelish look as well.

They were herded out into Tara King's car and placed in the back seat. Fred drove, with Tara King right beside them. Tara flashed the machine gun pistol at them. ''Any attempt to escape, Steed, and Mrs. Peel will suffer for it. And vice versa, Mrs. Peel.''

Steed and Emma Peel exchanged glances. Emma Peel closed one eye in a wink. Steed's head inclined unobtrusively to anyone except Mrs. Peel.

When Tara King looked back at them via the rear view mirror, which she did frequently, she found Steed with his eyes closed, and Emma Peel snuggled close to him, with her head against his shoulder. Tara King's lips would curve in a triumphant smile. They were defeated...she had defeated them.

Far behind, a car...not a white van but a hastily traded-for, much more unobtrusive car, followed them.

II.

''Shouldn't we be blindfolded?'' John Steed said, a couple of hours later.

Tara King turned to face them, smiling her triumphant smile once again. ''It's not necessary,'' she said smugly. ''You won't be leaving. No one escapes from the Village.''

''You're very confident,'' Emma Peel said.

''The Village has been in existence for five years, Mrs. Peel, and no one has ever escaped. No one ever wants to escape. You won't want to, either. All of your wants and needs are cared for. All of your desires are met. It's a paradise.''

''From which we can never leave.''

''Well, if you're going to look for a down side...there'll be no pleasing you.''

They were driving down a long road between two Welsh mountains. The road seemed to go down and down...and down and down...until it swallowed them up and they were driving through darkness. The car came to a halt, and they were suddenly surrounded by men dressed in white form-fitting suits. Steed and Emma were unceremoniously dragged from the car.

''Good-bye, Steed, Mrs. Peel,'' said Dr. Tara King.

III

''What a quaint village,'' observed Emma Peel. She was walking arm and arm with John Steed down the gently rolling pathways of the village, with its quaint gingerboard houses, its seemingly pastoral simplicity...the men and women all dressed in the same outfits - men in black shirt and slacks, women in white dresses and carrying sun parasols.

''It will drive me crazy in a week,'' Steed said out of the side of his mouth.

''That's undoubtedly their plan.'' Emma sided back to him.

Steed paused and addressed himself to the lighting of a cigar.

''How many days are we going to give them?'' she asked as he attempted to blow a smoke ring.

''None at all. I say we make our move tonight.''

'''Tonight?'' Emma nodded. ''Audacious, Steed.''

He smiled and blew one smoke ring inside another. ''They'll expect us to wait a day or two, to feel our way around and get the lay of the land. They'll also be expecting us to be trying to get out.''

''As opposed to taking over the asylum with the help of the inmates? I don't know if that's going to be possible, Steed. Everyone here looks pretty contented.''

''Bunch of sheep,'' Steed said disparagingly.

Emma glanced around, twirling her parasol. ''Except for that man...there.''

Steed casually glanced in the direction that her parasol was twirling, and as casually glanced away. He saw a tall, brooding man standing on the edge of a gigantic chessboard, contemplating the game..a loner - the only person they'd seen who was not with someone else...a man whom he recognized. ''It's John Drake. He died, a year ago.''

''Time to bring him back to life, then.''

John Drake turned around. He was tall, an inch or so taller than Steed, with a lankier build. Brown hair cut short, face handsome in a gaunt sort of way, eyes angry. He stared at them for long seconds. Then he turned and walked away.

IV.

John Steed gazed downward with eagle eyes, searching, probing...finding. Ah, there was another straight-edged piece. He picked it up and fit it into the border he was building. ''Ever read 1984, Mrs. Peel?'' he asked, quietly. It was hard to hear, over the loud jazz music on the Victrola, but Steed and Emma Peel were so attuned to each other's voices that they had no problem.

Emma Peel was sorting through the pile of pieces, separating out those with matching colors. They were busy working on a jigsaw puzzle featuring a fantasy golf links.

''Years ago, Steed,'' she said, absently, using her long fingers to turn over piece after piece. ''I was never impressed with it. Orwell wasn't much of a science fiction writer, in my opinion. And it was boring.''

''Quite...but I was thinking more along the lines of the surveillance in the book. Big Brother is watching you.''

They turned to look at the big screen television set behind them. Although it was switched off, one button on it glowed red. Was it watching them?

''How many residents would you say this Village has?'' asked Emma.

''About...two hundred,'' Steed said, musingly, pouncing on another piece.

''And there can't be two hundred...watchers...watching them.''

''You wouldn't think so. Surely there couldn't even be one hundred watchers...watching them.''

''Ye-es.'' Steed glanced at the big black box again. ''I envision a rack of television sets, with cameras alternating between each one.''

''Hard on the neck, looking up and down all those television sets every few seconds,'' Emma commented, discarding one piece she'd been trying to fit into another with a sigh and moving on. ''And sound.'' she continued. ''Hard on the ears, listening to a jumble of hundreds of people talking to each other.''

''But at night, that changes.'' said Steed. ''Everyone is supposed to be asleep, and nobody's talking. The watchers have it easy. They see someone moving, they hear someone talking, and they set off an alarm. Nights are not our friends.''

Emma glanced out at the sunset. ''So what are you saying? We're not going to wait for the witching hour of midnight?''

Steed fit a final piece into place, and the border was complete. ''No time like the present, Mrs. Peel.''

They stood up as one. Steed held the front door open for her and they went out into the fresh air.

''Going somewhere?'' asked John Drake.

IV.

The next morning Emma Peel and John Steed slept late and awoke betimes.

Waves of sunlight poured in through the open windows, rolling over the furniture and saturating them with warmth.

Then came the voices. Murmurs of discontent.

Steed rolled out of bed and padded to a window. He stood to one side, peering out cautiously. All of the inhabitants of the Village seemed to be out in the streets, looking around, lost as sheep.

''The natives are getting restless,'' he told Mrs. Peel.

Emma propped several pillows behind her back and sat up comfortably, looking as smug and as satisfied as an oriental potenate. ''They're missing their television in the morning.''

''No radios, no television, no electric can openers, no cooking,'' said Steed. ''Which reminds me, I'm hungry.''

''Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Steed. And tepid water.''

Steed sighed.

Among other things, they had spent the night before in snipping away at the electrical system of the Village. It was now quite dead.

Steed glanced out of the window again. ''Uh oh,'' he said.''

''What's the matter?''

''A mob seems to be forming. And they're not heading our way.''

''How silly of them.''

There was a rustle of silk and Emma joined him at the window. Steed was right.

''They're going to John Drake's,'' Steed snapped. ''He's the only discontented one here, and they know it. They think he's done this on his own.''

''We'd better get dressed for action,'' Emma replied, whirling away from the window.

III.

There were bicycles in the Village. Old fashioned bicycles, the kind with a very large front wheel and a very small rear wheel. Several of those bicycles had been cannibalized and now Steed and Emma rode down the streets on fast bikes, the kind with which you could really get some speed up if you needed to.

They rode past John Drake's house, and paused. ''It's like a scene out of Frankenstein,'' Emma said sadly. ''I'm surprised they don't have pitchforks and flaming torches with them.''

A mob was milling around Drake's house, but they had not yet acquired the courage to go in after their quarry. They were working themselves up to it, however. Steed and Emma exchanged glances, in essence saying, 'leave them,' and then pedaled on. They made for the high ground.

There was only one 'high ground' around the pastoral village. Now it contained a stack of wood laid out as a bonfire. John Drake had never returned to his house but had spent the rest of the night creating it. Emma and Steed biked up to it and dismounted. John Drake appeared, none the worse for wear for having spent the entire night out in the open.

''They're bound to come up here sooner or later,'' Drake said in his abrupt manner.

Steed looked at his watch. ''Noon. We have to hold out until noon.''

''Why so sure it will be noon?''

Steed shrugged. ''Noon. Midnight. Those are the times when Things Happen.''

It was all too easy, thought John Drake, as his eagle eyes were the first to see the dot on the horizon. He nudged Steed and then pointed to it. Steed nodded and looked at his watch. Good old Mrs. Gale. You could always depend on her in a crisis. But it was too easy, thought Drake. For two years he'd struggled to leave this place, and never succeeded. And now...just like that...a helicopter was coming over the horizon. And here they were, just waiting for it. He hid his face in his hands for a second or two. Hope was springing within him, and he was all too familiar with that old story, of a man imprisoned by the Inquisition. He too thought he'd been about to escape, and just as he'd breathed freedom's sweet air, the Inquisitor had appeared and drawn him back, deliberately crushing all hope at that penultimate moment. Could it happen this time as well?

The helicopter was closer now, and they could hear the steady beat of its rotors. Drake lit the bonfire. ''That will bring them coming,'' he commented.

Steed and Emma nodded. ''Only to be expected that we'd have to fight a few people before we made our escape,'' Steed said. ''That's the way of things.''

''The people I want to fight are at 3 Stable Mews,'' Emma said coldly.

Steed nodded. ''We'll be taking care of them next. No holds barred, this time.''

It happened very fast. The helicopter, a huge one, swooped in. It landed right beside them on the hilltop. There was a woman piloting it. Mrs. Catherine Gale, Drake deduced. They piled into the rear and Mrs. Gale took off again, sweeping the helicopter into a wide arc and returning the way she came. The madmen of the Village were still a hundred yards away from the top of the hilltop as they passed over them.

Drake looked at his hands. He took a deep breath. ''Rather anticlimactic,'' he said, hoarsely. ''But, God, how good it feels.''

IV.

Cathy Gale dropped them off at a small county airport nearest London, and then took off to return the helicopter to whomever she'd borrowed it from. John Drake offered to come with them to 3 Stable Mews, but Steed declined with thanks. ''This is something just between the four of us,'' he explained, and Drake nodded.

''Keep in touch,'' he said, extending a hand.

Steed nodded, tapping his blazer pocket where various code names and addresses now dwelled. ''Will do.''

V.

John Steed and Emma Peel arrived once more back at 3 Stable Mews. They looked at each other.

''We can't go home again,'' Emma Peel said sadly.

Steed shrugged. ''Wherever we are will be home. America was rather nice. That California...we'd be right at home there.''

Emma nodded. ''California...here we come. Well, let's leave on a happy note.''

Simultaneously they climbed out of the car and made their way up to the false Steed's flat.

This time, Steed didn't pussyfoot around. He raised a foot and kicked the door in. He was in in a flash, just in time to shove the false Steed back into his chair. ''Ladies first, old man.'' he said, cheerfully.

Tara King rose to her feet slowly, her face a frozen mask of consternation. Emma Peel waited for her, standing on the balls of her feet, snapping her fingers rhythmically. She wanted Tara King to make the first move. Steed smiled inwardly. Mrs. Peel was going to have some fun.

Tara grabbed a vase from a nearby table and flung it at Mrs. Peel. Emma moved her head out of the way with a sinuous twist of her torso, but otherwise remained unmoving. The vase crashed behind her and shattered into a thousand pieces. The two Steeds winced simultaneously.

Tara glanced around for something else to throw. Her eyes caught the swords hung on the wall. With a long stride she was there and ripped one down. She did not have the decency to flick a sword over to Emma. The age of chivalry had withered away, as far as Tara King was concerned.

Tara brought the sword around in a swinging arc. Emma ducked underneath it and lunged forward, burying her shoulder into Tara's diaphragm and literally picking her up and carrying her several feet, slamming her back into the wall. Tara gasped and lost her grip on the sword. Emma caught it before it fell to the floor and backed up. She gestured with her head for Tara to get the other sword.

But Tara King wasn't a swordswoman, and Emma Peel was. Tara merely advanced, carefully. She'd judged Emma's character correctly. Emma wanted to do this mano a mano. She tossed the sword to Steed, and then turned her attention back to Tara King, just as Tara had known she would. But the rest of the fight did not go as Tara had expected. They exchanged karate blows and blocks, in much the same way as they had done a few days previously. Only this time, Emma Peel's blows were very fast and very sure very no-holds-barred. Tara King wasn't prepared for the increase in speed and precision, and she was extremely disconcerted by the beatific smile on the older woman's face. When the final blow came that knocked her unconscious it was almost a relief.

Steed looked at Fred with a beatific smile of his own.

''Our turn now, eh, old chap?'' Fred said.

Steed shook his head.

''Not at all, old chap. Although I could beat you to a pulp, make no mistake about that. But there's no point in proving it. We've won, you've lost.''

''Hardly sporting of you, old chap.'' Fred said.

Steed only grinned. Coldly.

''I'm still John Steed,'' Fred said tightly.

Steed nodded. ''And you're welcome to him. But you're to leave us alone, understand?''

Fred blinked at him. ''I beg your pardon?''

''We're going away, Fred. We're going to make new lives for ourselves. You and Tara King can keep Department S.''

Fred blinked again.

''That's it?'' he said.

Steed nodded. ''If knowledge of the Village were to get out it would seriously undermine the work of all of our secret service departments. If knowledge of what you did to Mrs. Peel and myself were to get out, it would also undermine things. So knowledge isn't going to get out. And Mrs. Peel and I are sick to death of Department S, which could do these types of things to loyal agents, so we're just going to go...elsewhere.''

''I see,'' said Fred. ''So that's it, is it? You're just going to leave?''

Without warning Steed whipped the sword around so the edge was just under Fred's chin. To his credit Fred only blinked.

''We're just going to leave,'' Steed replied. ''And as long as no one tries to find us, or interfere with us in any way, all will be well.''

''I'd nod if it wouldn't mean giving myself rather too close of a shave,'' Fred said. ''But your terms are accepted. You're free to go.''

''Thanks,'' Steed said laconically. He removed the sword from Fred's throat and stood up.

''Mrs. Peel?'' he said.

''Ready, Steed,'' she said, calmly.

John Steed and Emma Peel exited the flat, closing the door of 3 Stable Mews behind them.

''California,'' John Steed said musingly. ''Hollywood, you think?''

Emma nodded. ''Hollywood. I think I'll make a good actress.''

''Mrs. Peel,'' said John Steed, ''You'll be the best. Especially with me as your agent.'' He took her arm, and they walked out into the sunshine of a new day.

Ever After Chapter 4

THE RETURN

I.

''These peapods are marvelous,'' said John Steed, helping himself to more from the bowl with his chopsticks. ''Here, try one, Mrs. Peel.

He extended the chopsticks towards Emma and placed a peapod in her open mouth. ''Mmmm,'' she agreed. ''Delicious.''

Emma Peel surveyed the table and scooped up selections of sweet and sour chicken and pork. ''I love eating in American restaurants.'' she commented. ''They give you such big portions.''

''Well, it's such a big country,'' Steed replied, eying the mussels with askance.

''I'd like to travel to China sometime,'' Emma said, ''See what real Chinese food tastes like.''

''You've been to Hong Kong.''

''Yes, but that's not China, is it? It's very Westernized. I want to see the real country. Peer at the peasants. View the rice paddies. Eye the Forbidden City. Gaze on the Great Wall.''

''You know,'' said Steed, ''I've always wanted to walk on Hadrian's Wall. That's still there, isn't it?''

''Hadrian's Wall? Well, yes, bits and pieces of it.''

''Ah, Roman England,'' Steed said musingly. ''So romantic, isn't it, Mrs. Peel? I can see you as Boudicca, grasping your spear and standing in your war chariot, ready to ride down the Roman legions.''

''You have a funny idea of romance,'' Emma said with a smile.

''I'd be the Roman centurion whom you'd have to run over.''

Emma smiled. ''Have some more sesame shrimp, Steed.'' She popped a morsel into his mouth.

They ate for a few minutes in silence.

It was their second night together after having recovered their memories, which had been wiped away by the evil Dr. Tara King. Doctor Hartley had used hypnosis to bring back not only their memories as Steed and Emma, but also their actions in the past year - Steed as a concert pianist and Emma Peel as a department store display designer.

''The question remains, Steed, and I can't let it go,'' said Emma, leaning back as a waiter stopped by to refill their water glasses, ''Are we alive, or are we dead?''

The waiter raised his eyebrows.

''Well, I'm certainly alive, Mrs. Peel. I thought I proved that last night,'' Steed said, sipping water.

''I meant,'' Emma Peel enunciated every word, ''are we alive or dead. In England.''

''Ah. In England. Yes, of course. That is the question.''

''It affects everything, Steed. If we're dead...then our wills have been read, our possessions dispersed...all our friends and family have been grieving for us for two years...''

Emma's smile faded and her eyes turned bleak.

Steed put his hand over hers.

''Unfortunately, Mrs. Peel..how could we not be dead? Indeed, it would be worse if they replaced us with doubles.''

''Doubles...'' Emma murmured, comforted by the feeling of Steed's warm, strong hand over hers. She lifted her eyes to his. ''How are we going to find out?''

''We have to get back to England. But incognito. We can't go as Brian Harris and Diana Smythe - the villains will have a watch for us at the airports. We'll need new papers, new passports.'' ''And where will we get them from?''

''I'll have to call an old friend. Mrs. Gale.''

''Steed! You can't just call her out of the blue! What if we are dead?''

''Then she'll get a pleasant surprise. Or, knowing Mrs. Gale,'' Steed smiled reminiscently, ''an unpleasant surprise. You're right, Mrs. Peel. Mrs. Gale is the ideal person to call, because she can tell us right away if we're alive or dead.''

Their waiter, who had stopped by to ask if they'd like more tea, went away again.

They walked slowly through Chinatown on the way back to their hotel room, hand in hand. The Californian night was warm and very pleasant, and when they arrived at their hotel they decided to go for a swim in the outdoor pool. They felt safe at the hotel, for they'd checked in under assumed names. (It was the 1960s, a more innocent time, and there was no asking for IDs before handing over the room keys). They swam together leisurely, they played frisbee with some kids who were also enjoying the pool, Emma borrowed a dolphin float from a young girl and floated around in it til Steed 'sharked' her, rising up from underneath her and dumping her into the water.

They returned to their rooom and showered together, and then got into bed. Steed checked his watch, then picked up the phone and spoke to the operator. ''I'd like to make a long distance call,'' he said. He gave the number, and seconds later the call went through. ''I love the American telephone system,'' he mouthed at Mrs. Peel as he listened to the chirping of that distinctive British telephone ring.

''Cathy Gale,'' came a familiar voice.

Steed's mouth went suddenly dry. What was he going to say to her? What if she believed he was dead? If he did this indelicately, she'd punish him for it when they met in person.

''Hello?'' came her voice.

Steed handed the phone to Mrs. Peel. ''You talk to her.''

Emma glared at him as she took the phone. ''Hello, Mrs. Gale?''

''Yes, speaking.''

''Mrs. Gale...this is going to be rather difficult...we talked, many years ago. I don't suppose you remember my voice?''

''No, I don't. Who is this?''

''Mrs. Gale, my name is Emma Peel.''

''Emma Peel?''

''Yes. Do you...remember me at all?''

''Of course.'' Cathy Gale said warmly. ''We talked a few times, after you joined Steed in working for Department S.''

''And we bouted a few times,'' Emma reminded her, ''on the piste.''

''That's right. I was impressed with your fencing skills. I knew you'd do well with Steed. And when your husband came back, I was so happy for you.''

A cold hand clutched Emma's heart.

''I beg your pardon?''

''Two years ago, when your husband was found in the Amazon?'' Cathy Gale said, suddenly cautious.

Emma took a deep breath. Steed looked at her in alarm and she smiled at him reassuringly. She returned her attention to the phone, but put one hand over her eyes, as if to help her concentrate.

''Mrs. Gale...have you seen Steed recently?''

''No, I'm afraid not. His new partner...a bit too immature for the job, I think. Wants to keep him for herself...I'm surprised Steed puts up with it, but, there you are.''

''Steed's new partner. What's her name?''

Beside her, Steed stiffened indignantly, mouthing the words, 'new partner?'

There was a silence, then, slowly, Mrs. Gale said, ''Surely you know?''

''Please, Mrs. Gale. All will become clear. What's Steed's new partner's name?''

''Tara King.''

Emma's hand across her eyes clenched. ''Tara King.''

''That's right.''

''Mrs. Gale, when's the last time you saw Steed?''

''A couple of years ago. He brought Miss King by - introduced us.''

''And how was he looking at the time?''

''Well, he was his usual self.''

''I see.''

''All right, Mrs. Peel, I've answered your questions, now you're going to have to answer some of mine. What's going on?''

''Let me put it this way, Mrs. Gale. My husband never returned from the Amazon, and even if he had, I wasn't around to hear about it.''

''Oh. Dear.''

''And, Steed is right next to me. I'm going to give him the phone. Talk to him, will you?''

Steed grimaced at her as she handed him the receiver. He tried to give it back to her, but she gave him one of her looks. He put the receiver to his ear. ''Hullo, Mrs. Gale,'' he said cheerfully.

''You sound like Steed,'' Mrs. Gale's voice came grudgingly. ''But you're going to have to do better than that.''

''Ask me a question, Mrs. Gale. Something that only you and I would know.''

''Very well. In all the time we worked together, did we ever kiss?''

''Oh, Mrs. Gale, what a question!''

''Yes, but can you answer it?''

''I was playing the role of 'Johnny-the-horse,' and you were my bird. I had to impress a few mugs, and I gave you a kiss. You weren't best pleased. I was dressed like a vicar at the time.''

''It was the kiss and not your costume as a vicar that displeased me, Steed.''

''Quite.''

''After I left Department S, I went on a vacation. What was my first communication with you?''

''You sent me a Christmas card. It was postmarked from Fort Knox, Kentucky, USA. And in a curious coincidence, Mrs. Gale, I am actually calling you from the United States at this precise moment in time.''

''All right. Steed. Tell me what's going on.''

''Mrs. Peel and I need your help.''

''Go on.''

Steed took the glass of whisky that Mrs. Peel handed to him, and began to talk.

II.

''Well, howdy there, pardners,'' Cathy Gale greeted them.

''Don't be cruel, Mrs. Gale,'' said John Steed. He pushed the Stetson back on his head, and rubbed his large belly. ''These high heeled boots are killing me.''

''You can say that again,'' said Emma Peel, rearranging her massive bosom. ''If I could see my feet, I'd take mine off.''

''I wish I could help you, Mrs. Peel,'' Steed sighed.

They'd arrived at Gatwick Airport, rented a car with their fake passports, in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Tex Wayne, and driven to to the Blue Boar Inn just a few kilometers away, where Mrs. Gale was waiting for them with a large white van.

''Get in,'' Mrs. Gale told them, indicating the van.

In the privacy of the rear of the van they changed into less bulky clothing, removing the wigs, face and body padding. And the boots. They still didn't look like themselves, for Mrs. Peel was now a red-head with a short, short hairstyle, and Steed was blond with a military style haircut and a goatee.

They climbed into the cab of the white van with Mrs. Gale. ''What is that noise?'' Steed asked, putting his hand on a small black box that separated the driver's from the rest of the front seat.

''I've got a little Pekinese in there,'' Cathy Gale said. ''Pay no attention to him.'' She engaged gears and brought the van out on the road. As she drove she checked the rear view mirror frequently. ''I've been doing some research,'' she reported. ''John Steed and Tara King are still the top agents at Department S. And they've been doing some good work. Foiled quite a few dastardly plots from the Other Side. More to the point, no information has disappeared while on their watch. So, whatever their purpose in replacing you, it doesn't seem to have been in an effort to steal secrets.''

''What about me?'' Emma Peel asked. ''Have I been in the picture at all?''

Cathy Gale shook her head. ''You'd sold Knight Industries shortly after joining Department S, and set up The Peel Foundation. That was your doing, I hope?''

''Yes.''

''All right. , when Peter Peel...came back...you left St... Department S. You joined Peter Peel in the Amazon, setting up a mission to fly medicine and supplies to the indigent peoples. You're supposed to be there right now. The Peel Foundation is still functioning and giving significant monies to charity, and Knight Industries is doing fine as well.''

Mrs. Gale drove in silence for some minutes, as Steed and Emma Peel mulled over this information. ''Well, at least we aren't dead.'' Emma said.

''We've been replaced,'' Steed said quietly. 'And we've been replaced by Our Side.'' Steed massaged his forehead with both hands. More than Mrs. Peel, he'd given his entire life to Department S, and was feeling extremely betrayed right now. He hadn't wanted to believe it. But now...he dug his fingernails into his skin...but the pain didn't make him wake up. He released his forehead and faced reality. He nodded. ''I am afraid you're right, Mrs. Peel.''

''But why?'' she demanded. ''It's been tormenting me for days. Why? Why would they do this to us?''

''More to the point,'' said Cathy Gale, ''What are we going to do about it?''

She said it in a matter of fact way, with no emphasis on the word 'we.' She had taken it for granted that they would take it for granted that she was in this with them. Steed glanced at her and then held out his hand to her. She shook it firmly. Emma gave her a thumbs up sign, and she grinned.

''I think the first step is to find Tara King,'' Emma declared. ''Both Steed and I remember her as the Doctor who brainwashed us - at least initially. She would seem to be the prime mover in this little...tragedy we have here.''

''Steed...or Tara King...'' Cathy mused. ''I know where Steed lives.''

''I would certainly like to see this Steed,'' said John Steed. ''And perhaps...turn the tables?''

''Replace him?'' Emma said. ''No, Steed.'' She said it more urgently than she meant to.

Steed looked at her. Took her hand.''All right, my dear. All right.''

Emma took a deep breath. She didn't want to play identity games. She hadn't liked it in the past, and she definitely didn't like it now. She didn't want to do anything that would separate her from Steed - place him at risk of being brainwashed again. Not with a double for him out there. They had to work as a team, now so more than ever. Because they had only the two of them...well, the three of them, now. Them...against their Own Side.

''We're going to Steed's place.'' Cathy said. ''We'll persuade...let's call him Fred for the sake of distinction...to tell us where to find Tara King.''

''They may be expecting us,'' Steed said. ''They know we've regained our memories.''

''If he's anything like you, he'll be in his flat, waiting for you to attack him.'' said Cathy. ''With Tara King at his side. Just the two of them.''

''Should we do exactly what they expect, then?'' Steed said cheerfully. ''They went to so much trouble to create new identities for us. They didn't kill us then. They won't kill us now.''

''Probably not,'' said Cathy Gale.

Emma Peel smiled. She let the two of them argue - or banter - or whatever it was they were doing together, while she sat thinking. Why...why would their own side replace them? It wasn't for money - if her Peel Foundation and Knight Industries were still in business. It wasn't for secrets - if Steed was still an agent and Tara King was an agent and they were doing 'good things.' Why, then? Why?

If it had just been Steed and Peel, she would have been willing to believe that it was a personal thing. Some agent had wanted to work with Steed and so had her replaced. But the scope of what had occurred was too vast for that. A great number of Department S members must have been involved. Unless...someone had combined business with pleasure?

''Steed...'' she said, ''do you remember...it was an old joke...an in-joke, I heard you say once. No one escapes from Department S.''

Steed looked at her. ''Yes, of course.''

''Tell me what that meant again?''

''It was just a saying...coined a few years ago. A couple of agents had wanted to retire...they were in their prime. But before they could retire, they'd died.''

''In accidents. Not from natural causes.''

''That's right.''

''And that was it? Just two agents?''

''Well, three from Department S. I'd heard a couple of other departments got hit as well. The whole of the Service went through a bad patch.''

''Of agents dying before they were able to retire.''

''Well, plenty of agents retired. Old ones. But young ones...young ones were never allowed to leave, anyway...what is it you're driving at, Mrs. Peel?''

Emma shrugged. '''No one escapes from Department S.' We did. Not voluntarily, but we did.''

''What are you suggesting, Emma?'' asked Cathy Gale.

''I don't know, Cathy. I'm just trying to think of reasons, of motives for this insanity. And that's all I can come up with.''

''But...if we weren't planning on retiring...and we weren't...why would they go after us?'' demanded Steed. ''Why not go after someone who wanted to retire?''

Emma shrugged. ''Steed...Fred, rather...is still there. In Department S. With a new partner. I'm gone. And Fred's new partner is Tara King, who brainwashed us. Why would someone with the skills of a ...a mad scientist, settle for being a mere agent?''

''Mere agent? I think I resent that,'' said Steed.

''With Fred instead of you, she settled for being a mere agent,'' Emma said.

Cathy Gale made a choking sound and then started to cough.

''Keep your eyes on the road, Mrs. Gale,'' Steed told her.

''I'm sorry, Steed. Anyway, we're here.'' She brought the van to a halt. At the end of the road was Steed's apartment block.

''You two get into the back,'' Cathy ordered. ''I'll perform a reconnaisance and be back in fifteen minutes.'' She placed a wig on her head and large glasses over her eyes - the kind that were in style, took the Pekinese out of its kennel with the words, ''Come along, Snookums,'' and left them behind. It took them some seconds before they could control themselves.

''That's not the name of her dog,'' Steed said. ''She doesn't even have a dog.''

''Oh, Steed, I'm sure she took one look at Snookums in a pet store window and couldn't resist.''

''My auntie Genevieve had a dog once,'' Steed mused. ''It was a gigantic Doberman Pincher, and she was a tiny woman. But she had forearms like a lumberjack. Around children and other little old ladies, she had it under tight control. But when it was a postal worker or some smart aleck young man ...whoosh. It went to the end of its telescopic lead like a rocket.''

They dissolved into laughter.

Cathy Gale returned to the van and stuffed Snookums unceremoniously back into his kennel. ''Streets are clear. No other vans, no occupied cars, no surveillance equipment that I could see. And...your Bentley is there.''

''Which probably means that Fred is there.'' Emma observed.

''Which means you two are probably walking into the lion's den,'' Cathy retorted.

Steed nodded. ''Keep the engine running, Mrs. Gale.''

''Wait.'' Cathy reached into her purse and removed two identical keychains, one of which she handed to Steed, one to Emma. ''Just in case we're separated. This one is for my cottage in Lancs, this one is for my Peugot, which is currently at my flat here in London and which I certainly hope will remain there, and this one is for this van. If we are separated, our rendezvous point is the British Museum. Every day at noon, until we show up. Right?''

''Right.''

''And here...'' she reached into her purse again and took out two walkie talkies. ''If I haven't heard from you in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in.''

Steed and Emma stepped out of the van. ''Emma,'' Cathy called. Emma turned back to her. Cathy handed her a pistol. ''Better safe than sorry,'' she said. Emma nodded. She stuck the pistol into the waistband of her trousers, pulling out her shirt to hide it, then turned and followed Steed toward the block of flats.

Cathy Gale took a deep breath, and checked her watch. Fifteen minutes. It was going to be a long wait.

John Steed and Emma Peel walked on cat-like feet into the entrance way of Stable Mews. . Numbers 1 and 2 were on the ground floor, Steed's flat was on the first floor. They took the stairs rather than the elevator, but did not stop at the ground floor. Instead, they went up the remaining two flights, checking the landings of each of the floors, to see what they could see. Nothing. They returned to the first floor.

''Do we knock?'' Mrs. Peel whispered.

''I say we go right on in,'' Steed replied. ''It's my flat after all.''

He stood to the left of his door, so that his silhouette would not appear in the glass, and pressed the button on top of the door jamb. The door clicked open. Steed nudged the door wide open with his foot. Silence on the inside.

Steed stopped, lost. Normally, he'd put his bowler on top of his umbrella and poke it around the door, waiting for a reaction. But he'd left his Stetson in Mrs. Gale's van, and he didn't have an umbrella, anyway.

''Helloooo,'' he called. ''Anyone home?''

No response.

Steed looked at his partner. ''After you, Mrs. Peel.''

Emma grinned. She took off her jacket, and, holding it by the collar, walked into the living room.

She came to an abrupt halt. A man looking remarkably like John Steed was seated on the divan, a newspaper scrunched over his lap as if he had been reading it when disturbed. On the over stuffed chair beside him was a young woman wearing a preposterous wig and a miniskirt, drinking a large Old Fashioned.

''We've been waiting for you,'' said the man who looked...and sounded...like John Steed.

He wasn't quite like Steed. His hair was greyer, the hairline higher, his sideburns came down to the end of his ears. His belly strained slightly at his doublebreasted suit.

''Hello, Fred,'' Emma said. ''Hello, Dr. King.''

The impostor raised an eyebrow. ''Fred?''

Steed heard this outside the flat. He raised the walkie talkie to his lips. ''They're both here,'' he whispered. He stuffed the walkie talkie into his pocket, keeping his hand on the transmit button, and entered the room with a casual air. ''That's right.'' he said coldly. ''Fred.''

Both he and Emma looked not at the fake Steed, but at Tara King. They both recognized her.

''All right, Dr. King,'' said John Steed. ''Start at the beginning.''

''Sometimes people get burnt out,'' Tara King said abruptly. ''Or they lose their nerve. Or they start...second guessing their superiors. They want to leave the Department...but they can't leave.''

Steed and Emma exchanged glances.

''They are sent to the Village instead,'' Dr. King said. ''A miniature city where they are kept and cared for, where they have all the comforts of home. Where they stay for the rest of their lives.''

Steed and Emma exchanged glances. Horrified ones this time.

''It was thought to try a more humane approach,'' Dr. King said. ''Instead of imprisoning them...recondition them. Wipe out their old memories and give them new ones. Put them back into society. It was decided to experiment with you two.''

''Who decided?'' demanded Steed.

''One Ten. With input from myself.''

''So...Major Bee knows nothing about this?''

''Only the highest levels know this...Steed.''

''So this Village still exists?'' demanded Emma Peel.

''That's right!'' Tara King rose to her feet. ''That's right! And thanks to you it will continue to exist! You've proven that the best brainwashing in the world can't prevent agents from regaining their memories. So that experiment is no more. The Village continues.''

Fred lifted the newspaper from his lap. In his other hand he held a submachine pistol. ''And you two are its next residents.''

Ever After, Chapter 3

Ever After, Happily...Interlude

by Caroline Miniscule

Emma Peel lay nestled in the arms of John Steed. They had not made love - though they had started out to do so. But as they had started to undress each other while they kissed, Emma had suddenly began to cry, and Steed had wound up holding her in his strong arms while she had sobbed uncontrollably.

''I'm sorry, Steed,'' she had mumbled. ''It's okay, my darling,'' he murmured, stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. They had comforted each other many times in the past, but he had never, ever, seen Emma Peel cry before, and his heart was breaking. But he held her close and after a while her sobs lessened until finally she fell into a sleep. Steed lay beside her contentedly, stroking her hair and thinking pleasant thoughts.

The next morning, Emma Peel woke up. She lifted her head from Steed's chest and kissed him gently on the lips. His eyes opened immediately. They stared at her questioningly, and this time when they began to kiss, she did not cry.

After a time, they showered, dressed, and went for a walk on the beach outside their hotel room, which Steed had decided to rent in the name of Brian Harris. They walked slowly, enjoying the scenery, the sound of the waves lapping the shore and the cries of the birds, and enjoying the feeling of their fingers intertwined.

''The first question is,'' said Emma Peel, ''are we alive or dead?''

Steed looked at her. ''I didn't think you'd have to ask that question after this morning,'' he said regretfully.

She shoved him with her shoulder. ''Don't be silly. I mean us. John Steed and Emma Peel. Are we alive or are we dead? If we're dead...how did we die and how easy will it be to resurrect us? If we're alive, what are we doing, and how can we arrange a swop?''

Steed nodded. ''I think a more important question is, who did this to us? That will dictate our actions in either case.''

Emma looked at him grimly. ''It's obvious, isn't it? Our Side did this to us, Steed. If it was the Other Side, why set up these elaborate charades - these new lives? All the planning, the money that must have been involved. Why not just kill us and have done with it? No...it must have been Our Side...our own side...''

Steed quickly put her arm around her and hugged her. She returned his hug.

''Why would Our Side want to do this to us, come to that?'' he said. ''We were the best..the elite agents of Department S. It doesn't make sense.''

Emma nodded. ''Well, we'll have to find out. One way or the other, we're going to get our lives back. And a couple of people are going to pay, very dearly.''

Steed, thinking of the Emma Peel crying in his arms the other night, nodded. Yes, someone would pay.