The Boat   by Mona Morstein Author's warning: Mona Morstein adamantly states that any reader MUST be over 18 years old to read her stories and if someone DOES read her story they are agreeing to that point and ARE over 18. If you ARE over 18, ENJOY; if you are NOT, then other authors have stories you can read and enjoy.   Chapter One Emma Steed would have married her husband John two years ago even if he had still insisted on motoring around London in a large, awkward, and conspicuous 1928 Bentley. The fact that he had decided to purchase a Range Rover and Jaguar for daily use a few years before their nuptials, reserving his beloved Bentley for rare weekend jaunts into the country, just made everything so much better for her. Especially since she herself still had the proclivity to still foolishly drive a tiny little sports car that barely seated her tall and handsome husband, let alone the three well to do women that she was chauffeuring in Steed's roomy and elegant Jaguar to the opening of the latest show at the Excalibur Ten, the most prestigious art gallery in London. It was the only thing about Steed that had changed since she had known him for ten years, and she could think of nothing else about him that she didn't want to stay just exactly as it was. Steed had left early this lovely July morning to continue an investigation with Purdey and Gambit; Emma had plans to meet him later at Steed's Stable Mews apartment to prepare for her favorite party of the year. First, though, Emma's day was taken up with these women. They had just finished a luscious lunch at The Burgundy Room, and now were on their way to the gallery opening, Emma maneuvering the Jaguar through streets of London. "So, Emma, dear, I've heard that Clive convinced you to put another couple of landscapes in the gallery again," Martha Kendrick-Ratherly said. She was seated next to Emma, a sixty year old patron of the arts. Dressed in an elegant dress draped with three rows of pearls and pearl earrings, Martha was a refreshing and unusual member of the upper class --independent, out-spoken, opinionated-- who was unfortunately married to a man with a trouble with alcohol. "Yes, Martha, he did," Emma answered. "Though my water colors don't really belong in a showing of French and German modern oil painting. He's just doing it to be sweet." "He's doing it because your last three paintings sold within two weeks of being hung on the wall," Constance Woodward said from behind her, a lovely blond just a few years older than Emma, and like Emma, still shapely and vivacious. "No need to indulge in false modesty around us, Emma. You've a beautiful style and real talent." "Thank you, Constance," Emma said, touched by the praise for a mere hobby she dabbled in. "And a fantastically handsome husband to boot. Some women have all the luck, eh, girls?" Emma smiled at the general "mmm-mmming" that took place. "Marion, why didn't Howard drive you to the opening, as usual? He isn't ill, is he?" Constance asked. "The poor old lad is down with the gout, I'm afraid," Marion Whitfield said. "Constance, what about you? You don't usually carpool. Where is Teddy?" "Off to the doctor about his stomach this afternoon. Digestion is rather a difficult affair of late," Constance answered. "I never should have married a man sixteen years older than me; it's just one illness after another. And you Martha? Why are you riding in Emma's Taxi Service today?" "Mallory was a perfect ogre last night. Went through half a bottle of gin and then decided everything he looked at was wrong, myself included. We had a terrible row and I'm still cross at him." "For god's sake, Martha, why don't you just divorce the beast?" "Oh, Constance, because I love him, and it would take the lawyers years to wrangle out a divorce settlement we would both agree to." "Teddy can be a bear at times, as well. Barristers! If a case isn't going well, neither does our marriage. Rows about dinner, travel destinations, clothing purchases…" "Howard had a falling out with our son, Denis," Marion added into the confessional, "because Denis is leaving his vice-president position to work for a charity, transferring to a considerable pay cut as one can imagine. I support Denis; it's put a strain between Howard and I". Silence fell over the car. "Emma, what do you and your John argue about?" Constance asked. Emma blinked several times at the question. "Argue about?" she repeated. She tried to remember if she and Steed had ever argued… she couldn't think of one situation. They allowed each other their own busy lives, and were always so glad to see each other that they naturally gravitated into their consistently fun and amiable relationship. "We don't argue," Emma said, shrugging. "Steed is a very easy-going fellow." "Oh, come, come, Emma, it's us, your friends. You've been married for two years now, surely you must have had a bone of contention with Steed somewhere along the line," Constance said. "Constance, honestly, we haven't," Emma protested. "We mesh perfectly." The Jaguar approached an intersection, and the women saw a man with a large briefcase running at full speed from the street on their left to the intersection; a tall, brown-haired, well-dressed man closely followed on the man's heels. The lead man ran to a sedan across the intersection in front of the Jaguar, and opening a car door as the vehicle began to move forward, he dived into the interior while slamming the door closed. The tall man turned the corner and in one great effort launched himself onto the back of the sedan just before it quickly accelerated. Scrambling desperately he was able to pull himself up to the roof of car, laying flat and holding onto the sides of the roof as the car sped off. The four women sat frozen in the car, staring after the sedan and the man hanging onto the top of it, his legs swinging wildly from side to side. "I say, Emma, wasn't that your husband, John?" Marion asked. "Er, yes, yes, it was," Emma answered, her eyes bugging out for a second. She tapped her hands on the steering wheel as she impatiently waited for the light to turn, her heart racing inside of her chest. The light taking forever, and seeing no cars approaching from the left or right, Emma hit the pedal and illegally sped through the intersection. "Dear me," Martha said. "John is a little bit older than you, isn't he, like my Teddy?" Constance asked. Emma drove forward as fast as she was safely able to following the sedan with Steed on top. The car had turned off the larger street and began moving through the side streets of London, whenever possible swerving from side to side in an attempt to dislodge its undesired overhead occupant. "Yes, Constance, he's fourteen years older than me." "So that makes him…" "Fifty-one." "Goodness, is he always so…active?" "When he wants to be, he is." Then Emma glanced at Constance through the rear-view mirror, smiling, "Day or night." All three women said, "Ooohh." Emma turned her attention back to the road and was horrified to see the sedan crash into another car in the middle of the cross roads ahead of her, knocked to the side as a result of the impact. Her breathing stopped as she saw Steed fly forward off the roof of the car and slide over the bonnet and onto the road, landing hard on his right shoulder and turning over several times before coming to a complete stop. As the sedan, its bonnet terribly crinkled, tried to turn over the engine again, Steed stood up shakily, unsteady and momentarily disoriented. Just when a policeman approached the scene of the accident, the sedan started up and Steed dove onto the deformed bonnet as it sped off again, using his body to obscure the wind screen as much as possible. Emma drove the Jaguar around the victim's car and took off after the sedan again. "Terribly sorry for the detour, ladies," Emma said, feeling that some explanation was necessary. "I hope you won't mind arriving at the art gallery a few minutes late." "No, no, not all at," Constance said. "Perfectly understandable." The other women nodded their heads in agreement, repeating 'Yes, perfectly understandable." Thank goodness for English reserve, Emma thought. "Uh, does Steed do this often?" Martha asked. Emma sighed. What could she tell these women? They didn't even know The Ministry existed; no one did outside of Ministry employees. Or ex-employees. Let alone know that Steed was the absolute best agent in that most secrete organization in the country. "Oh, sometimes," she said. The sedan did not get very far with Steed on the bonnet; by the zigzagging of the driver, it seemed obvious to Emma that the man was panicking. Her eyes widened as once more the sedan crashed, this time into a Peugeot parked at a kerb; Steed was once more thrown from the car. He flew backwards over the Peugeot, landing on his side on the pavement, rolling again in several tight circles before coming to an abrupt stop at the cast iron gate of a house. This time the sedan was too damaged to continue being driven. The driver, less stunned than the man with the briefcase, who sat bent over holding his forehead, opened up his car door and exited with the clear intention to escape. "Steed…" Emma whispered. She wondered what to do. Long off the Ministry rolls, still in shape but long out of fighting form, Emma felt helpless watching Steed and knowing that if she joined into the situation she very well might do more harm than good. If Steed noticed her, she knew his attention would be drawn to her, his concentration ruined. So, torn by her concern for her husband, Emma kept the car far enough away that Steed wouldn't notice it, yet allowing Emma to see everything occurring, so that if Steed did get gravely wounded, she would be right there to help him. Emma said a silent prayer when Steed stood up using the fence for leverage, and stumbled over to another parked car at the kerb. He stayed bent over its bonnet, his hand held against his head for a second or two. Brushing his hair back, Steed then looked up and noticed the man escaping. Garnering reserves from somewhere, Steed leapt over the bonnet of the car and within a few steps had tackled the driver. They both got to their knees, but Steed was surprisingly quicker, and grasping the man by his shirt, Steed thrust him up against a car and punched him several times in the abdomen and then several more times in the face. The driver slid to the pavement, and as Steed gasped for air in his lungs he flashed his red card at an approaching Bobby, who immediately fell to obeying Steed's directives. Motioning for the policeman to arrest the driver, Steed took off after the other fellow, the one with the large case, who had recovered and was running down the street away from Steed. Limping slightly at first, but then smoothing out to a full easy gait after twenty-five feet, Steed fumbled in his pocket for a small radio which he briefly spoke into as he dashed away from Emma. "Steed must be in rather good training," Constance said. "Yes, indeed, rather good training," Marion repeated, Martha nodding her head in agreement. "Yes, and he certainly, er, has a capable punch," Constance added. "Well, he does play quite a bit of billiards," Emma said. As the women looked at her their eyebrows drawn together in their confusion, she added, "Strengthens the shoulders." They say that spouses begin to look and act like each other; it was only to be expected Emma would develop an ingrained and covertly misleading manner like Steed had. Emma, driving carefully around the two badly damaged vehicles, followed her husband down the road, progressing slowly. She was thankful that for the moment no other cars were behind her. After passing three streets Steed caught up to the man and brought him down from behind, their velocity causing them to stumble forward several paces before they landed on the sidewalk, rolling out of control a few times. As they got to their knees, Steed's target swung his briefcase and hit Steed a powerfully solid blow to the chest. Steed crumpled backwards to the ground, his arms reflexively protecting his torso and head. Holding the briefcase in both hands, the man struck Steed's back and arm a couple of times more and then ran away, turning right at the next intersection to head back to Lancaster road. Emma watched Steed turn prone on the sidewalk and then gradually push himself up, pulling his legs under him. A few helpful civilians who had seen him hit lent firm hands to get him on his feet. He swayed a few times, glancing around apparently gathering his wits. One of the civilians pointed the way the man had run and Steed, taking a few deep breaths, began jogging off, once more talking into his radio. "Emma, I'm sorry, I have to ask. Exactly what does Steed do?" Constance asked. "That policeman back there hopped right to his orders." "Constance… he doesn't tell me what he works on," Emma said, honestly. Since Emma was no longer working for the Ministry, Steed wasn't able to share his cases with her. "But, what organization employs him? We've all wondered for years." Emma didn't answer. They'd have to wonder longer. She drove off after her husband, and by the time she had turned right she saw Steed, his jog accelerating almost into a run again, dodge left onto Lancaster Road. Emma took the turn and was amazed at what she saw. The man with the briefcase was stopped on the sidewalk over the bridge, Purdey and Gambit aiming their guns at him, his hands up over his head with the briefcase held high in them. Purdey and Gambit were frantically gesturing for the man to put the case down, but instead, as Steed neared him from behind, the man tossed the briefcase up high over the bridge. Purdey and Gambit lunged forward in instinctive desperation but were much too far away to do anything. What Steed did next broke Emma's silent self control and she cried out "Oh, my God!" Steed leapt onto the low protective wall of the bridge with one leg and then launched himself horizontally far into the air. Impossibly catching the tossed the briefcase, with a mighty sideways heave he twisted and flung it back over the wall where it landed safely on the sidewalk. Emma's stomach shrank when she then lost sight of Steed as, arms and legs spinning, he continued falling to the cold, terribly polluted, and dangerous Thames river forty feet below the bridge. "Steed's fallen into the river!" Martha yelled out. "Good heavens, what a drop!" Emma was barely aware of Gambit shooting the man, the whole problem to all of this, as the fellow reached for the briefcase again once it landed by his feet. She screeched the Jaguar to a halt in the middle of the bridge, the cars behind her breaking suddenly to avoid a collision. Grabbing a pair of large binoculars from the glove compartment Emma dashed out of the car, and blithely mindless of the danger she traversed the remaining three lanes of the four lane road hardly noticing the cars that went out of their way, with skid, horn, and swerve to miss her. Standing on the opposite sidewalk she looked for Steed in the swiftly flowing current that had taken him under the bridge, praying that he would surface safely after such a long fall into the deep river. Forty feet! That could have kill him! The Thames was at high tide. That meant the waterway was even more dangerous due to the rapid speed and strength of the current. Biting her lower lip, Emma swept her eyes back and forth along the river. "There he is, Emma," Purdey said, pointed from Emma's left. Following Purdey's finger she saw Steed floating downstream from the bridge, struggling to remove his jacket and tie. As he got those articles off, releasing them into the dank water, Steed opened his upper shirt buttons then, bobbing up and down, already filthy from the tainted water, with some difficulty was able to remove his shoes. Once those impediments to swimming were eliminated, Steed began a breast stroke fighting the current as he headed for the far shore, three hundred and fifty feet away. His right arm broke his smooth rhythm as Steed had trouble lifting it completely over his head in the full sweeping motion required to effectively enhance his movement forward. "What's the matter with his right arm?" Purdey asked. "He injured it, er, being thrown from the top of a car when it crashed into another car. Twice," Emma explained in a monotone, her emotions so embroiled inside her that all that could squeeze out of her was a shocked deadpan. At Purdey's questioning look, Emma added, "I just happened upon him chasing the man with the briefcase and followed him here. I think he must be injured, at least slightly. Can't you call for a boat to pick him up?" "Gambit's doing that now," Purdey said. "But it may take too long." Emma wanted to ask what was in the briefcase, why was it so important that Steed would do such a rash and insane thing, but she didn't, knowing that Purdey would not have been able to tell her anyway. Her forehead wrinkled in rising anxiety; the Thames was unsafe for the strongest and healthiest of swimmers, let alone her tired, injured, and weak husband. She glanced back and saw the shadowy cars of The Ministry directing the police activities in collecting the dead man and the briefcase; she was relieved to see that her car was being ignored by the police, probably on either Purdey's or Gambit's orders. She turned back to the water and saw that Steed, quickly drifting far away from her, had changed to a left sidestroke position which kept his right arm from needing to raise above his head. He made very gradual progress cutting across the uncooperative current, and putting the binoculars to her eyes she saw Steed just float for a few seconds as he tried to gather his strength and recover his breath. He wiped his hand over his face, holding it over his eyes, as if something had got into his them and caused some irritation. Emma prayed that Steed would be able to fight the fast and powerful current to reach the bank soon, thus preventing him from being floated down where the river widened out, having his laborious journey be extended beyond what his stores of energy might be able to supply. "Steed will shower for three hours after this, I bet, using up six bars of soap, and two containers of shampoo," Purdey said, though softly. Emma appreciated her attempt both to joke through their nervousness and affirm her confidence in Steed's successful navigation through the river. Steed began to swim again. Though his strokes grew less and less perfect in quality he steadily maintained them, cutting through the rush of defiled water, his incredible level of fitness and his immeasurable determination seeing him through this crisis. Long minutes passed. By the time Emma was scarcely able to view him through the strongest Ministry binoculars Research had developed, she was rewarded with seeing Steed reach the bank, and with the help of pedestrians who had noticed him swimming and who had run down the nearby Embankment steps to offer aid, he was dragged out of the disgusting river and laid, barefoot, half-dressed and completely enervated, on the ground. It was then Emma saw a darkly painted motorboat zipping through the water towards the bridge. "Nothing like closing the barn door after the horse has run off," Purdey murmured, in obvious disdain for the late appearance of Steed's rescue craft. Emma felt the tension drain out of her like a blinding sun inside her had becoming a cooling sunset. Steed was alive and safe. "Thank God," Emma said. "Thank God," Purdey repeated. Emma took a deep breath in and exhaled fully. "Purdey, I would very much appreciate that you don't tell Steed that I was here today. There' s no reason to, and I don't want to upset him." Purdey looked at Emma. "Don't worry, Emma. Steed won't find out. It's a good idea to keep it from him. I think he'd be quite put off to learn you saw him act like an idiot." Good old Purdey. Never one to mince words. Emma was glad that they had become close friends after her marriage to Steed. It certainly helped that Steed had been instrumental in Purdey meeting her fiancé as well. Emma smiled, and decided to risk a comment. "I'm sure he thought the briefcase was important enough to cause him to 'act like an idiot'." "Oh, it was, it was. Fate of all England, and all that. Oh, yes, he's quite the hero in the hush-hush world now, again, I can tell you that. If the contents of the briefcase had hit the river… sshh, don't tell anyone… some scientist's poison… strongest ever discovered… Yet…" she shrugged, "the thing is, Steed is quite important himself." "Yes, yes, he is. He is indeed," Emma agreed. She leaned forward and gave Purdey a quick hug, which Purdey returned. "You're a dear. Thank you. I better get back to my car, before my passengers mutiny." With a little more care and awareness Emma made it back across the wide road in one piece. She entered the car and put the binoculars away as if she had stopped for no more important reason than to view a rare bird she had espied chirping in a tree. The women asked her a million questions in less than a minute and finally Emma, waving to Gambit as she drove off, raised a hand and asked for peace, deciding it was best just to be curt and to the point. "Ladies, my husband is safe and sound. I should like to forget this whole event took place, and to that intent, please let's just drop the subject and head to Excalibur Ten, where our presence, though late, will be most welcomed. I also ask you to keep this afternoon just among the four of us; it is highly recommended you do so as you will not find any substantiation of this story in any news sources, from television broadcasts to The Times." The ladies stared at her as if she was announcing she had decided to have a third arm surgically implanted in her head. Finally Constance spoke. "What a life you must live, Emma," she said. "It's not a bad life at all, Constance," Emma said, feeling a little defensive. Then to lighten the mood, she added, "Remember, we never argue." The four of them laughed at that all the way to the art show. Emma arrived at 3 Stable Mews at 7:00 p.m. that evening. She parked the Jaguar in the garage, and began climbing the stairs to their apartment. She was right on time to shower and dress for Sir Eustace Rosten's yearly fete, the party that Emma had to admit she enjoyed more than all the other endless social gatherings she and Steed attended. This was the affair Emma actually looked forward to. Full of scientists, philosophers, clergymen, judges, artists, and so on, Sir Eustace's house became, for twelve solid hours the epitome of an intellectually oriented salon, and Emma thrived on the conversation and ideas shared and discussed throughout the night. After lauding the sunrise from the top of Sir Eustace's large townhouse in Chelsea, Sir Eustace served his famous breakfast --whose international delicacies surpassed even that of his Epicurean supper of the previous night. For Emma, it was the perfect party --she reveled in the intellectual, philosophical, and gastronomical satiety. Sir Eustace tendered invitations to married couples only, both of whom had to arrive together to gain entrance into his home. In Sir Eustace's eccentricity, his obsessive need to promote the birthing and nourishing of ideas and concepts, of creativity and respectful debate, he needed the evening to be pure in it's design to stimulate and enlighten his guests. He was loathe to have any visitor descend to the trivial allure of flirting within the confines of his home; a risk he believe existed with any unaccompanied individual. The fact that his own wife had left him for another man when he had traveled extensively on business had only solidified Sir Eustace's judgmental attitude towards single people at parties, whether married or not. Thus Emma's conundrum. Would Steed be able to attend tonight? Or would his fatigue and/or his injuries prevent him from doing so? Of course, Emma wasn't supposed to know about Steed's difficult afternoon, and she had no hopes that Steed would be forthright about what had happened. In the two years since they had married, Steed had returned home three or four times, acting as if his day and the case he had been on had ended easily, with no strenuous activity imparted. It was only when he had stiffly undressed at night and her wide eyes had taken in the gauze and his bruises… "Tripped over an ice cream cone in Regents Park" he had sheepishly and ridiculously told earlier this year, in March, when he had returned home from a case hardly able to bend his spine forward or backwards. That had been the last time he had attempted to frivolously distract her from the results of his dangerous life with a patently untruthful remark designed to have her roll her eyes at him and afford her the knowledge that he should rather have his injuries pass unmentioned. She had let it pass unmentioned. She had married a man split in two halves --he could be loquacious, even gregarious at times, friendly, chipper, a fascinating raconteur; yet, he was also the most silent of men when it came to his work and his past. Two and a half years of marriage and eight years since she had first met Steed, Emma still didn't know the full story of the scars on his muscular body she otherwise knew so very, intimately well. She had asked about them once or twice, been soundly redirected to some other conversation and never asked again, respecting Steed's need for privacy. Steed had never offered to tell about his scars on his own, proving that need existed. Emma unlocked the door to the apartment and was greeted by the sight of Steed, cleansed to a pristine sheen and resplendent in his dinner jacket, slouching on the sofa, a brandy resting on his leg. His head rested against the top of dark brown leather couch and his eyes were closed. Emma wondered if he was asleep. "Hello, lovely lady," a familiar voice said, warming her, as she closed the door behind her. "How was your day?" Well, Emma thought as she smiled back at his handsome face, I saw my husband roughly tossed off a car twice, hit by a briefcase several times, dive into the Thames, and fight his way to the shore. I've decided to call a spade a spade and just sew him a bulletproof cape with the giant letters JS in the middle, for him to wear when he goes flying out to defend the innocent against the crazed and evil. Super Bowler Man, fighter of diabolical masterminds. "Fine," she said. "And yours, how did it go?" Steed waved his hand about, "Oh, swimmingly." Swimmingly. If she didn't love Steed so very much she would have thrown her handbag at him. Instead, she fought back a resigned laugh, and walked over to him kissing him on the top of his rich thick hair, still solidly brown with no grey hairs. "Case closed?" Emma asked, plopping down next to him on the sofa. He took her hand in his and kissed the back of it. "And hermetically sealed. Did your Excalibur Ten opening go well? Sell any paintings?" She told him about the showing and had to relate that, unsurprisingly, none of her paintings sold. Instead she had purchased a landscape of the Eifel valley in Germany. "You're dressed early and ready to go," she stated, admiring how his trim figure enhanced the perfect tailoring of his dinner jacket. On a mischievous whim, she decided to see how far she could push her husband into remaining his unspoken self regarding his afternoon adventure. "Yes," he said. "Got a little, well, disheveled this afternoon, and thought an early shower would be best." Only Steed would use the word "disheveled" to describe being subjected to all the poisonous effluvia simmering in the Thames, the result of hundreds of years of uncontrolled dumping of all of London's waste products into the foul waterway. "Too bad. I was hoping to shower together." Emma let her hand travel down the buttons of Steed's fine white shirt, then over his black cummerbund, to rest lightly on the zipper of his perfectly creased pants. Steed leaned forward and kissed her lips, then nodded towards the kitchen and the circular stairway in it that led to the large bedroom and bath on the upper level of the flat. "We'll save that for later. Don't want to be late for the party, or should I say "The Party." Mustn't keep all the big brains waiting for the smartest one of all to arrive. Their brilliant opinions will seem pointless without you there to expand and elucidate upon them." "You flatter me," Emma said, affecting a nose in the air pose of superiority. Yet her mind was busy analyzing Steed's mood. Steed was not interested in sex? Then indeed he must be bruised, bandaged, and sore underneath his clothes; nothing else would have stopped him from undressing Emma right then and there. Or hopping back into the shower with her. Emma kissed his forehead and stood up, deciding to push things one little bit more. "Let's walk to Sir Eustace's, shall we? It should only take a half hour, and since," she grinned at him, "we'll shall be ready do go with plenty of time to spare, considering it doesn't take me long to get ready, and nothing apparently and unfortunately will prevent me from doing so. Since it's a lovely summer evening, the stroll would be quite delightful, don't you think?" Steed looked up at her blinking a few times. "Yes, a stroll would be delightful," he said. A certain little sadness suddenly fell over Emma, and saying "Great" she hid her discomfort at forcing Steed to exert himself further by waving at him and heading for the stairs. If only, she thought climbing upwards, if only, just once, he would open up and share with her. She would see his injuries later this evening as they disrobed for bed, but just once before they wrapped their arms around each other, Emma conscientiously striving to avoid holding him too tightly over a wound, just once she would like for Steed to tell her his day had been hard, and he was in pain. It was not his nature, she knew, but if Steed could just break out of his marbled ideals of silence, codified through thirty years of intelligence work, he would find that he had nothing to fear from Emma in his doing so. They walked along the street arm in arm, Steed limping slightly, Emma's heels clicking against the sidewalk as they sauntered. When Emma made an obvious glance down at his right leg, Steed mumbled, "It's an old roller skating injury." "Indeed," she answered, waiting and willing for his upcoming lie, masquerading it as an inevitably entertaining yet questionable tale of his incredibly accident prone youth. Steed twirled his umbrella a few times building up the tension. "Mad Cousin Lewis," he began, "in his 'racing phase,' convinced me that being attached via strong hemp to the back of my father's Mercedes, whilst I was on roller skates and as he drove the car quickly down the country lane, would be a grand old thing to do." "And you agreed?" "As any eight year old red-blooded lad would." "The result being…" "…an immediate spill followed by being dragged down the road for nearly one hundred yards; the shredded ruin of the wedding suit I was wearing for Cousin Ellen's marital event; the almost complete removal of all my epidermis; a broken right kneecap; and a firm agreement by all the relatives that Cousin Lewis needed to be 'sent away' for some little time." "And what ever happened to poor misguided Cousin Lewis?" "He decamped to Bolivia and made his fortune in coffee beans." "Ah." The unsettling thing was, even through the fantastical evasive verbal maneuvering Steed incorporated as regularly as he incorporated air into his lungs, sometimes Emma had the worrisome idea that maybe those unbelievable childhood stories of his had actually occurred. If so, John Steed had been immensely lucky to reach sixteen years old, let alone survive World War II and a lifetime of spy work. They chatted about last year's affair at Sir Eustace's, Emma hoping that the specialist in Jungian studies from Bonn would be there again; Steed hoping that Sir Eustace had stocked up on enough chalk to keep his pool cue shooting straight all evening long. Hours and hours of "cerebral debauchery" did not appeal to Steed, although he could hold his own on a variety of erudite subjects if pinned into a corner. Steed was much smarter and more astute than he often openly demonstrated, secure enough to contain the impressive depth of his knowledge on many topics, and content to be seen just as a witty conversationalist. It was solely part and parcel of him hiding so much of his life from others, his sanguine nature comfortable with showcasing himself in public as merely a light-hearted gentleman with a bantering and convivial demeanor. He was attending mainly as Emma's escort, to allow her entrance into the brimming tide of educated wordplay that so excited her. Steed glanced down the length of her body, ogling her. "You look ravishing in that dress, my dear," he said. "I fear that Sir Eustace knows too well the reaction of the male gender. If you were to appear alone, like that, the male philosophers and scientists would remain speechless the entire evening. It would put a decided crimp in eliciting the answers on how to match plaid with paisley, or whatever else you discuss so avidly." Emma never tired of hearing Steed compliment her. She beamed and placed her arm around his back, allowing it at times to slip a little too low for Steed's public ease. Steed wrapped his arm around her waist, and then suddenly stopped their forward progression, his head stock still and his eyes slightly blank, as if he was sensing something beyond the level of normal perception. Which he was. "Something's wrong," he said, and removing his bowler he ran to the corner of the block with Emma right behind him. That occasional sixth sense he had developed, Emma thought. A tickle of danger on the nape of his neck. As they glanced down the street to their right they saw the trouble; a terrace house was on fire, several open windows showing the macabre dance of the flames while a dark smoke poured out of them. Steed jogged toward the crowd as a spare woman dressed in a plain frock and carrying a bag of clothes came running down the street from the other direction, screaming hysterically. "My children! My children! They were in the house! I just went to my sister's for a few minutes, to get the clothes they left there. Oh, my God! Has anyone seen my children!" None of the neighbors had. As panic escalated among the increasing crowd, Emma watched feeling a bit thick and numb as she saw Steed shake the woman gently to focus her coherency, asking her questions about the number --two-- and age of the children --four and six-- and where she had last seen them in the house --a bedroom on the second floor. As tears streamed down the mother's face and no fire trucks approached, Steed cast a quick, open glance at Emma, his face unreadable, blank, yet in his eyes Emma saw a universe of emotions all directed at her. Emma felt a chill run through her, and then Steed simply turned, dropped his bowler and brolly to the road, and ran towards the front door of the three story tall inflamed building, opening it and hunching over as he disappeared into the fiery structure. A comic book hero, Emma thought, dully. I shall have to sew him up a bulletproof cape. Long minutes passed. People stood all around Emma, and random noises and sounds filtered into her ears. "Where's the bloody fire engines! Bloody slow fire brigade!" "My children, my children!" "Jesus, look at the flames. House must be a tinderbox." "Do you think he'll find the children?" "I can't believe he ran into the house, children or no. No one could survive in there." And then there in the distance, growing quickly, the sound of a siren. But more immediately, more importantly, a yell, "Sweet Mary, look!" They looked, everyone one of them following the man's arm midway up the house, to the second floor, where Steed leaned out a window holding onto two small children wrapped in towels, flames visible behind him, and smoke encircling him. His voice, hoarse and raspy from behind the wet hand towel he had wrapped around his mouth, cried out, "Catch the children!" All the men in the street hopped over the low fence that separated the sidewalk from the small patch of grass that lay in front of the house, holding up their arms for the small ones to be dropped into. One by one, the children fell into strong, waiting arms, and their mother fell to her knees, sobbing in thanks. As the fire engine pulled up, Steed sagged, and fell back into the room, seeming to land directly on the flames. People screamed; Emma closed her eyes. She opened them a few seconds later when she heard someone say, "There he is!" and as the firemen came tumbling off the engine, grabbing their hoses, unhitching the fire hydrants, Steed leaned out of the window and fell forward, his left arm holding onto the window frame so that his downward momentum was jerked to a halt as his long body straightened out. His right pant leg over his calf was on fire. Steed released his left hand and landed on the ground beneath him, but he was tilted awkwardly so his legs slipped out from under him upon impact and he crashed hard to the grass on his side. The firemen were right there; their hoses put out the flames, then they lifted him by the arms and dragged him away from the structure, as other firemen began spraying it with the high velocity water from their hoses. Steed's head sagged forward and as the men sat him on the step of their truck they put an oxygen mask over his face, which Steed grabbed and used to take deep draughts of air, coughing quite a bit at first. Emma came to him. Steed was filthy and wet, again, covered in smoke and sweat; a walking, watery ash tray. His lower right pant leg was in rags from the fire. "Oi, sir, what's your name?" a fireman asked. "Crofford. Elliot Crofford," Emma answered. The fireman looked at her. "I'm Mrs. Crofford, his wife." Aliases. Never rescue children without one. "Mr. Crofford, are you okay?" the man asked. Steed's eyebrows raised high at that question and in an indignant manner he moved the mask off his face and said, stonily, "No, I'm not okay! Do I look okay?" Emma froze at those words. For Steed to admit to being "not okay," he had to be seriously injured. "What's wrong, sir?" the burly fireman inquired. "What's wrong? Look at these clothes!" Steed said, loudly, sucking on more pure air before he could speak again. "Do you know how well tailored this dinner jacket was? It fit me perfectly! Now look at it. It's ruined. Completely ruined!" Or Steed had to have had his sartorial elegance decimated beyond repair. Steed put his face back behind the mask, his face fairly glowering, coughing regularly, his hand rubbing his right lower leg. The fireman looked up bewildered at Emma, and she said, "I think he's fine. I'll take over from here." "He should probably go to a hospital, ma'am. He may have had, er, a bump on the head inside the house." "No, no, he's normally this way," Emma assured him, patting his arm. The man wasn't so reassured. "Run along now and put out the fire," she directed him, delicately pushing the man away from them. A coughing fit came over Steed. When it settled down, Emma held out his bowler and umbrella and said, "Well, you've still got these." And then her heart melted and she knelt in front of him and added, "Steed, I love you. But sometimes you scare me to pieces, you dear, brave man." After a few minutes the woman and her two children came up to Steed. Like Steed the children were filthy, but they had escaped the smoke and flames by hiding in a closet and then being immediately wrapped in wet towels by the man who had found and saved them. "My God, sir, how can I ever thank you for saving my children?" Steed took the mask off again. He stood up and turned to put the mask on the step, uncomfortable with the intensity of the woman's gratitude. Emma knew Steed would have stayed breathing behind the mask longer if the woman hadn't appeared. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad they're safe and sound," Steed mumbled, hiding some coughs behind his fist. The woman took his hand. "God bless you, sir," she said. "Thank you," each of the little ones rang out, turning back to him and waving as their mother lead them away. Steed waved back. As more fire trucks arrived, and the police, Steed said, "Let's get out of here." They walked back to 3 Stable Mews, only fifteen minutes away, although Steed limped a bit more and he had random coughing fits. Steed told Emma what had happened inside the house, Emma taking it in calmly like a nice agent's wife should, as if he was merely relaying his performance on a polo field. Once back at their apartment, Steed told Emma to wait downstairs for him, and he slowly climbed the stairs to shower again and change into his spare dinner jacket. Emma would have liked to examine him for all the wounds of the day, and was concerned about whether his calf had been burnt by the flames that had crisped his pants but Steed said he was basically alright, they had to hurry now to get to the party, and so, reluctantly, she agreed to wait for him to reappear. When he did, thirty minutes later, as handsome as ever, a little heavy on the cologne to cover any smoky aromatic residue, Emma stood up, handed him a coffee and asked, "Are you sure you're fit to go to the party?" She could see some fatigue etched on his face, and his movements were decidedly stiffer, though not to the point where they illustrated an obvious impairment. His limp was more noticeable, but again, nothing that a simple act of prevaricating wouldn't hide. He sipped on the hot beverage then put it down on his desk. "I'm fine, and certainly not in rough enough shape to cancel your eagerly awaited evening plans. However…" "Yes?" "I wonder if you'd mind if we drove to Sir Eustace's. That is, if you drove. Advertise that women's liberation idea for all his guests to see." Emma smiled. "Of course I'll drive." She put her arms around him, and kissed him long and hard. They stood thusly entwined for some time, and then Steed had to break away to cough. The paroxysmal attack was bad enough to bend him over, and he leaned on his desk, hacking deeply for a good minute. "Just how much smoke did you inhale?" she asked, concerned. "Not much. I mainly held my breath," he answered as his bronchials relaxed. "Still, it's rather nasty stuff." He stood up straight and burst for the door, grabbing his bowler and umbrella. "Well, enough dallying and small talk. Let's get a move on." "Why you sound positively excited to mix with the sages of Europe." "My dear, you entirely misinterpret my exuberance. I am solely of a mind to mix with Sir Eustace's gourmet buffet spread. I am, quite frankly, starving." They arrived late, but in the fashionable sense, so they were allowed entrance without any problems. It was a grand old Georgian townhouse, taking up half a block, that had been in Sir Eustace's family for two hundred years. Decorated in dark woods, with Persian carpets, porcelain vases, paintings with large and gaudy frames, furniture from many lands and many different historical periods scattered hither and yon lacking any thematic plan, the rooms inside were a testament of their host's nonconformity to decorative laws. Yet it still managed to be warm and friendly, offering the guests the same tolerant, nonjudgmental attitude the house itself opined. Steed dragged Emma past innumerable people she desired to converse with, with a "First comestibles, then communication" directive. They ascended the broad staircase to the second floor --the slight effort eliciting a few coughs from Steed-- and there, on the side of the drawing room that was large enough to almost host an indoor football tournament, Steed exclaimed a happy "Ah hah!" as he found a twenty foot long table of food. He piled his plate high with various delicacies, Emma being more judicious, and they found a table to sit at. Steed ate with relish, his accompanying beverage being water, of all things, and he unusually avoided the wine that Emma motioned for a server to bring over to them. That was Emma's first warning bell, but she deftly put it aside, too absorbed in the upcoming evening. The first and second floor rooms in the house were roughly divided into intellectual sections --philosophy, earth sciences, physics, math, art, politics, humanities, spirituality/religion, medicine, law… and people were allowed to travel to one room and subject matter as they pleased. At least one specialist in each topic --and usually three or four-- sat eagerly in each room, pontificating their opinions and waiting for some guest to begin a discussion. Strong dissension occurred, was in fact welcomed, the only rules to the evening being no cursing, no yelling, and no violence. Once Steed was sated Emma dragged him to the physics room, where she engaged in a lovely discussion of astrophysics with the top scientist in that field in Europe --Herr Wilhelm Konstein from Munster. Steed stood in back of the small group, and as Emma glanced at him occasionally she was happy to see him listening to her discourses, and seeing his glowing smile when she challenged Herr Konstein on several key points he had made in a tone of inviolable authority displayed his pride in her. She didn't really need him to be proud of her, but it made her feel good nonetheless. The hours passed, for Emma in heavenly discussions on innumerable topics; this one night feeding her soul for half a year. At 10:00 p.m., she found herself in the philosophy room and the woman leading at that time, Freda Lustgraff, decided that watching the news broadcast that night would well illustrate various mores and rites afflicting modern societies. As the guests stood watching the television, Emma heard a cough and then felt Steed come up behind her putting his hands on her shoulders; she placed her hand down on his thigh. The newsman gave the usual reading of the day's current events, and although there was no report on the doings on and under Waterloo Bridge, there was a local report of a man, a Mr. Elliot Crofford, who had selflessly ran into a burning house and saved the lives of two children. The newsman then digressed and wondered if this was the same "mysterious" Elliot Crofford who had stopped a bank robbery in Manchester the year before, who was responsible, by witness accounts, for interfering and preventing at least three muggings over the last five years, and who had saved a lad from drowning in the Ure River four years ago. The newsman then asked for any information from any viewer who might know who "Mr. Crofford" was, reported to be a tall, brown-haired, handsome, and well-dressed man. Emma leaned back to her husband and spoke out of the corner of her mouth, "Looks like it's time to shop around for a new alias." Steed, his eyes wide, whispered back, "Indeed!" Ms. Lustgraff picked up on that topic and opened a discussion on altruism and Good Samaritanism. Steed politely left the room. Emma had images of Steed all night, flickering in and out of rooms, playing billiards with other rather disinterested spouses. She noticed he was drinking just water, only water, and the thought crossed her mind that he only did that when he had taken pain killers and couldn't mix alcohol with the drugs. But then the anthropologist made an absurd and unsubstantiated comment about the aborigines living on the Andaman islands, and Emma quoted from the research article that refuted his comment but continued his line of thought with the Anasazi Indians of the American Southwest. At midnight Steed's limp worsened noticeably, but the math professor from Cambridge misinterpreted a cosine in the proof of Danielson's treatise on the trinomial theorem, and Emma had to grab a piece of chalk and demonstrate the original meaning. At 1:00 a.m., Emma saw Steed stumble tiredly exiting the room and he walked into the edge of the entranceway by mistake, bouncing off, pulling his jacket down to compose himself and then meandering into the hallway. Her body jolted to stand and go after him, but the artist's discussion of post-modernism as a guideline to society's subconscious yearnings was too enthralling, and she stayed seated listening. At 2:00 a.m., Emma returned from the bathroom and glimpsing a shadowy figure in the weaponry room she entered and saw Steed, off in a corner alone, hunched over a display case of maces, his head bowed heavily, his right hand rubbing his right leg… but she had left a fascinating talk on the need for capital punishment in a civilized society. She stopped briefly to ask if he was alright, and receiving a quick nod of affirmation and a short smile, she returned to the law room. At 3:00 a.m., Sir Eustace came up to Emma still in the law room and requested she follow him. A little annoyed, Emma excused herself and accompanied Sir Eustace to the third floor of his home, devoid of labeled rooms and guests. There down the hallway, next to the library, in the room which housed Sir Eustace's collection of suits of armor from all different countries, she saw two long legs sticking out from between a set of French and Spanish knightly regalia. Emma walked slowly towards the legs and soon could see Steed, her husband, slouched in a plush burgundy chair, his head tucked on a shoulder, his left arm bracing his right, his right leg straight out, his left leg bent. He lay sleeping, with a look of utter exhaustion suffusing his pale face, and lines of pain evident around his eyes and forehead. "I found him here just by chance," Sir Eustace reported. "Came to get a reference book from the library and saw some legs from the doorway. I say, Emma, he doesn't look well. Is he ill?" "Yes, he is," Emma said softly, touching Steed's face. "Oh, well, I'm quite sorry to hear that. What is he suffering from?" Emma sighed, guilt and shame filling her. "From a selfish and inconsiderate wife." She knelt down by his side and began shaking Steed gently, calling out his name. It took a bit of effort, but finally Steed's eyelids blinked a number of times and he awakened. He saw Emma by his side and said, "Hello, lovely lady," brushing her hair back from her face with his hand. An agony of love for Steed pained Emma; how could she have ignored all the earlier signs of his need to return home and just callously considered those stupid talks more important than him? "Steed, come on," she said, softly. "It's time to go home." She pulled Steed to a full sitting position, and now she couldn't at all discount his grimacing, his grunts at the soreness of movement. "But, is it dawn already?" he asked. "No. However, it's still time for us to go home. I'm done here tonight. Come, can you stand up?" She and Sir Eustace were needed to get Steed to his feet, and once there he tottered and oscillated holding Emma's arm for balance. "Little on the weak side," he smiled. "Lean on me," Emma said; he did, and she led him out. Steed limped heavily on his right leg, not bending it at all, his eyes half or full closed. Emma cautiously adjusted to his awkward gait. "Sir Eustace, may we use the back stairwell? I should rather not descend down to the main entrance. Perhaps one of your servants could bring our Jaguar around the back of the house?" No need to have everyone staring at her incapacitated husband; Steed deserved better than that. "Of course, Emma. Of course. I fully understand." It was hard going, getting Steed downstairs with his right leg so immobile, and his stiffness and fatigue so encompassing. They had to stop once for a coughing fit. Gradually they made it, having no other choice but to push on, and soon they were outside putting Steed in the car. Emma waved her thanks to Sir Eustace as she drove off. Steed leaned his head against the window and fell asleep even though it was only a fifteen minute drive back to their apartment. She pulled the car into the garage and then managed somehow to get Steed out and pull, drag, and almost carry his exhausted and injured body upstairs to their apartment, and then upstairs to the bedroom. Emma sat him down on the bed, and as he fumbled unsuccessfully with buttons and cufflinks she pulled back the cover and the sheet, undressed the upper half of his body, then laid him down and removed the rest of his clothes except his briefs. Steed was asleep almost immediately. Having free reign to investigate what the day had wrought upon Steed's muscular, lean, and defined body Emma saw the brace around his upper right arm and shoulder, the large bruise in the middle of his chest, felt the knob of a bump on his head, saw the bruises and abrasions on his arms, legs and back, his swollen right knee, and last, undoing his less than perfect taping of gauze over his lower right leg, she noticed the dark angry red field of skin upon which sat a multitude of large second degree burn blisters. "Oh, Steed," she cried. The burns alone must have been acutely painful to him; combined with the remnants from his afternoon escapades… he surely had been dreadfully suffering all evening. No, they didn't argue. No, she didn't ask him how he had come by his scars. And no, he didn't allow his injuries and wounds, garnered in such serious activities, to ruin his wife's trivial fun. She put some herbal salve on his burns and redid the bandages, then covered his body with the sheet. She found the pain pills in his dinner jacket and put them back in their bathroom cabinet next to the only other prescriptions in their home, a different pain remedy, and her birth control pills. Steed had chosen to use the weaker drug; the ones designed to get keep him going, perhaps barely, yet not knock him out as the others often did. Steed's system was remarkably sensitive to medications, and he loathed taking them. Tomorrow Emma would call Hal Anderson, Steed's homeopathic and herbal orientated friend, and inquire what he would recommend for Steed's wounds, as Steed generally preferred those natural sorts of medicines if he could. Emma walked back into the bedroom and stood over Steed, and she experienced the frequent feeling that she was only half a person standing there, and that Steed was truly the other half of who she was. Emma undressed and lay down next to her sleeping husband, kissing him over and over as he dozed, caressing him, holding him, until she rested against his chest, lulled by its steady rising and falling, and the slow, strong beat of his heart, his enormous heart that she loved so very much, and she fell asleep still remorseful, yet ever thankful. Chapter Two It was a terrible autumn, cold, unendingly damp and miserable. Starting in early October, the rains had fallen with a continuity that had weighted the souls of many a hardy native of Great Britain. Now, a month later, in November, the skies were still infected with a rash of grey thick clouds, that seemingly dumped all the waters of the world onto the umbrella carrying, coat collar lifting, running, ducking, pale inhabitants of those soaking wet isles. Rushes of wind usually accompanied the downpours, and more than one person cursed the weather as their hats flew off into the strong shifting air. North of London was not exempt from the gales, nor from the miserable wash of water delivered from the sobbing skies. Yet, early one Saturday morning Steed and Emma, ensconced in the spacious master bedroom of their large manor home, showed not the least concern nor irritation at the weather. They were not even aware of the buckets of water thrown against their bedroom windows with tempestuous regularity. "Steed…" Emma moaned, as her husband conformed his body against her back, his arms wrapping around her front beginning to rub her breasts as he kissed her neck, his foot rubbing her leg, the sign of his hard and hungry arousal evident next to her buttocks. Steed said nothing, his hands, mouth, and penis talking for him. His eyes closed as he thrilled in this closeness to Emma, this favorite position of his; wrapping her so close to him so he felt if he just waited a few minutes, she would waver, dissolve, and be physically incorporated into his body. He loved encompassing her so totally, protecting her, covering her up from all the world but him, and with his touches, his kisses, having it bring her nothing but escalating pleasure. He knew that although Emma couldn't hold him in this posture, couldn't hug him, bite him, caress him, still she relished laying like this in front of him, allowing him full access to her body, allowing him to take her to the highest pitch of response their joining could bring. To Steed, it was the most wonderful win-win situation he had ever encountered in life. Steed began slowly and lightly to rub her breasts with both hands, his fingers barely contacting the nipples, yet in that gentle exploration they grew hard and pointed. Slowly, so slowly he continued, the minutes ticking away ignored, whilst he kiss her shoulder, her neck, her hair, and murmured in deep, gravelly tones what he wanted to do to her, what he wanted to make her feel, how much he loved her, both the low tonal depth and the meaning of his words setting Emma's hair on edge and enhancing her shivers, moans and moistness. Slowly, so slowly Steed's hands pressed deeper on her breasts, rubbed her nipples just a tiny bit rougher, his leg left leg intertwining itself between hers and pulling her compliant left leg away from her right, separating those shapely limbs so that the wonderful apex between them was made openly available to Steed's limber, strong, eager, and skillful fingers. As Emma lay in the crook of his right elbow, Steed's right arm maintained it's enjoyment of her breasts, while his left arm slid slowly, so slowly down her abdomen, taking time to massage it, press it towards him, hold her. Time, there was in actuality no time there with them, just that moment, and the next moment of growing desire. Steed moved his hand down the side of Emma's leg, in back to her buttocks, kissing her waist, and then as he straightened up to curve his body alongside Emma's again, Steed's hand traversed her inner thigh, felt her pubic hair, and then slowly, so slowly slid down to her most intimate area, already drenched and warm, yet increasing abundantly as Steed whispered in Emma's ear, "I want you so very badly." Emma responded simply with a whine of need. But, he made no move in that regard. Whispering, "I know what you like," "I want you to feel exquisite pleasure," "Let me take you slowly, deeply," Emma shuddered in pure, unmistakable lust, her breaths already jerky, her hands reaching around to touch Steed's face, his hair, his arm, his thigh. "Steed, oh, this is wonderful… do what you want… you're so very good to me," she moaned. Steed smiled in a wily way and ran his fingertip over her clitoris, slowly, back and forth, as Emma arched her hips to his movements; sometimes Steed thrust two fingers into her matching her slight rhythmic motions, feeling for the spot inside and on the top that made Emma bite her lip in her craving. Then back to the clitoris, planting the cornerstones of Emma's climax, which Steed had plans to build into a veritable skyscraper. All the while his erection grew firmer, hotter, drops of semen spilling out in anticipation of its ultimate release. He rubbed his penis against Emma's buttocks in an irregular manner that matched the sporadic nature of his breathing, as his arousal drew in sudden inhalations that were held quite long and then exhaled forcefully. Steed's hands worked slowly, so slowly, until finally, when his fingers were inside her, Emma grabbed his hand and kept them in her vagina, pushing herself against them. At that signal, Steed slid down a little and angling himself correctly, he lifted her left leg with his left arm, laying it on his prominent hip bone, and then he used his hand to position the tip of his penis against her inviting opening. And slowly, so slowly, he began thrusting against it in small movements, barely entering her, his hand returning to her clitoris, his other covering her breast, his open mouth on her shoulder, sucking and licking the skin. She was his. All of her was his. So many years he had missed her, wanted her, desired her, and she hadn't been there by his side, hadn't been in his life, this soft and gracious woman, this genius, this sprite, who made him young, made him happy, made him so very thankful. He had her, entwined in his arms, his legs, his thrusts, he could hold her tight, hide her from the world, kiss her, enter her, and say, without any hint or demand of possession, she's mine. Because she wanted to be. Because he was hers in willing exchange. Emma bent forward, lifting her hips up to him as much as she could being so entirely ensconced in Steed's body. "Steed, deeper, go deeper," she urged. Steed went deeper. Slowly, so slowly, he went deeper, entering half of his long penis in her and then so slowly pulling it out, knowing that the ecstasy that coursed from his genitals throughout his whole body was simultaneously occurring in Emma. In and out he went, each set lasting several seconds, and then after another couple of minutes, he went in as deep as he could, still so slowly they could feel every inch of friction traveling the length of their connection. Deep, Emma loved him to go so deep. It never hurt her, it just made everything more dramatic, more alive for her. Steed removed his finger from her clitoris and placing in over her pubic hair he pushed Emma down towards him at the end of each of his slow thrusts; after a few of those Emma cried out, "Oh, John!" His first name, which she used so rarely, so sporadically it was still new and fresh, and each time Steed heard it he flushed with feeling. Emma began shaking against Steed, who knew how to prolong her orgasm, who knew so much about her body, and wished to be an endless student of it, so still pulling her down to him, he thrust shortly yet deeply, faster than before but not much faster, feeling his penis hit her far inside, and Emma put her hands on his forearms, wrapped her ankle around his lower leg, and shook roughly over and over again. When Emma finally stopped her waning twitches, Steed, still hard in her, let her rest for a few minutes. They spoke words of tender love, still meaningful and heartfelt after two years of marriage, still undiminished in their ardent expression of devotion. For so long as Ministry colleagues neither had been able to share their true feelings; both too afraid of exposing their vulnerability, too fearful of the intensity of their passion, both too emotionally scarred from past hurts. Only when Emma had left Steed to return to Peter had they both been faced with the devastating fact of the depth of love they had shared, and then so suddenly lost. When they had finally gotten back together years after their sad parting, their previous walls of reserve had crumbled into dust as in their joy at their reunion they had overtly expressed their desire for each other through word and touch. From that moment on they thrived upon making fond and endearing comments regular parts of their conversations. Steed brushed Emma's hair back from her face, kissing her ear, her armpits, her shoulder, his neck, her back. Then Steed, wishing to begin all over again asked gently, "Please, once more this way." "But I can't touch you," Emma answered, not really complaining. "You touch me more than you know," he answered. "All the time. In every way. Especially like this." It was a response that Emma had no desire to argue with, and she held back tears of love for her husband as he once more repeated a pattern that never grew tiring for either of them, never ceased in making up for all the long years apart. Her breasts, her abdomen, her thigh, her buttocks, her clitoris and the inside of her fully lubricated vagina. Slowly, so slowly. Then Steed, already inside Emma, began to move languidly again, those small thrusts at first, increasing in speed and depth at a higher rate this time, but still in concert with Emma's reactions, her stimuli, her drive. And then there was no slowness about it as Steed rapidly charged into her as far as he could, pulling her down to him, holding her tightly against him, bending her slightly toward her stomach to free up his lunges more, his left leg wrapped against hers. It went on and on, the approaching crescendo like a tidal wave crashing towards the shoreline, that tower of their climax ringing warning bells of anticipatory rapture. They could feel their groins being flooded with sensations of raw, indescribable pleasure, so unwavering and fierce that the rest of the world was blanked out, nothing but this existed, this joined sharing, this profound and furious moment. Time completely disappeared, its passing no longer marked by seconds and minutes, but solely but their fervent grunts, their groans, their heaving their bodies together, their staccato panting. They came together, each other's release spurring the other to a more stupendous climax, heated, convulsive, vocal, their muscles spasming, the bliss spreading throughout their blood and bones. Who yelled louder wasn't discernible, and Steed thrust again and again and again, even after he was no longer tumescent, in a reflex of passion that slowly, so slowly relaxed. Long minutes of no words. None needed. Breathes returned to normal respiration rates. Heartbeats settled down. Sweat began to evaporate. Finally, Steed pulled out of Emma and turning her toward him they joyously embraced, adding their legs into the hug as well. Emma curled up against Steed as he looked out the window and said, "Look, another rainy day." Unmoving, she glanced at the watery pane, "Uh-huh." Steed smiled down at her, his hand caressing her back. "I've got to go to the office today. Too bad, it being the first day you'll be home in a week. We could've spent the day playing draughts." "You cheat at draughts." "I do not! I merely engage in offensive tactics that, perhaps, depend upon a slightly irregular interpretative analysis of the standard rules." "You cheat at Scrabble, too." "My goodness me! Are insults to my shining character the thanks I get this morning after, well, after…" Steed's face drifted off into remembering their just finished act of delight, "…after, that fantastic wake-up call I, er, extended to you. I could have just let the alarm ring, you know." Emma sat up resting on her elbow, her chin cupped in her hand, and drummed her free fingers on Steed's washboard abdomen as her forehead crinkled in thought. "I think you also cheat at chess, but I haven't been able to quite catch you at it." Steed's eyes widened and his cheeks puffed out. "Is there anything you believe I don't cheat at, pray tell?" "Yes," Emma said, suddenly serious, staring at him in a mesmeric thrall, "you don't cheat with me. When you hold me, when you touch me, you're all there, all of you, your body, your mind, your emotions, I can feel it… it's so beautiful to feel. Steed, it sounds so corny, but I can't even tell you how much I love you… there just aren't the words. Imagine being loved by someone so completely, so fully, that their love for you is their blood, their air. I love you even more than that." She kissed Steed's paralyzed lips, then pulled back smiling at him, her eyes, windows to her soul, so clearly showing her soul was merged with him. Steed stayed stock still listening to his wife, her words so unexpected, so boldly honest, so obviously genuine; he was speechless, over-whelmed, and he tilted his head to the side and looked away for a moment, an odd sensation of mistiness growing in his eyes. Emma turned his head back facing her, noticing but not commenting on his teary eyes, and they kissed again for a long tender time, neither in any particular rush to separate. When they did eventually part, still nuzzling their faces together Steed, in his usual manner of diffusing a scene he felt uncomfortable with --even if it had descended from heaven, even if his discomfort was concurrently the most awesome blessing he had ever received-- murmured a soft quip, "I don't cheat at chess." Emma murmured back, "What about gin rummy?" Emma stayed in bed for another two hours after Steed had needed to arise, shower, dress, and leave for the Ministry. It felt lovely to be able to catch up on her sleep a bit; the last week had been terrible busy and frenetic for her. How she had agreed to teach a special lecture series in anthropology at Cambridge every morning; and then have to rush back to London to attend meetings with members from several foreign militaries visiting England specifically to garner information about Knight Industries new jet fighter wing stabilizer; and then find time to visit her friend Gloria Wimble in the hospital where Gloria was recovering from a car accident that had broken her leg in two places; combined with her volunteer work at Excalibur Ten; and then there was charity ball for the deaf and blind school… Emma was exhausted. Rushing out the house at 6:00 a.m., no time for breakfast, and often not home till midnight. It was a schedule she may have thrived on ten years ago, but not now. Now she liked to be home with Steed. Oh, yes, have a life as well, but not one that so effectively crowded out her mornings, afternoons, and evenings with her husband. "If I was a moping man, my dear, I would win some kind of contest, I dare say," Steed had said, smiling at her in the middle of the week as once more she had stumbled out of bed, avoiding his encircling arms. "Patience, Steed," she had answered, splashing cold water on her drowsy face to speed her awakening. "By tomorrow I'll be all yours again." "You'll probably wake-up remembering that you forgot to feed some cousin's hamster, and off you'll go, running out the door before I can have my way with you." Emma had peeked her head around the bathroom door. "So you miss me that much, eh?" Steed, laying on his back, his hands under his head, bent his head forward motioning to his groin, which rose impressively under the sheet and cover, "See for yourself." She had dashed back to the bed, kissed his forehead, "Tomorrow," and then sprinted for the shower, her clothes, her car keys and been out the door in a flash. Emma had looked forward all yesterday to them having a quiet day at home, aside from a few pleasant moans and yells, so when Steed had told her he needed to spend today, Saturday, at his office, she had hid her disappointment. She had been very pleased that Steed had not been in quite the rush she had been to leave their bed this morning before assuming his working responsibilities. Emma finally stretched and got out of bed, padding softly over the carpeting to their large bathroom with two sinks in the counter, a bathtub with a Jacuzzi in it, and a large shower that easily accommodated too dirty people. And two dirty-minded people as well. She hopped in the shower luxuriating in the warm water long enough to be labeled a full-blown Sybarite. Afterwards, Emma dried herself off, dallied with her hair a little and then in her years' long reflex reached for the small, flat, round container holding her birth control pills. Popping it open and reaching for one of the little white pills something struck her forcefully, and a tightening in her stomach alarmed her she had too many pills left for the month. Whizzing days and pills through her quick mind, Emma calculated with growing dread that she had missed four pills…she hadn't taken her birth control pills for the last four days. Somehow in her chaotic pace she had forgotten to take her pills. And this morning she and Steed… Uh-oh, she thought. And then she thought of Steed's answering line, "Very uh-oh." Emma put the case down on the counter amazed at her absent-mindedness. She had been on the Pill for thirteen years, ever since she and Steed had become lovers when she had been his Ministry colleague… to forget to take them, it was like forgetting to use her legs to walk… She must have taken one on Monday and then been so harried at her schedule that Tuesday through Friday she had rushed off without remembering… Her gynecologist had warned her at the very beginning that if she even missed two days in a row… let alone four… Very uh-oh. They had been married for two years, and a few times had discussed having a child, Steed being surprisingly open to at least consider the topic, if for no other reason than he knew how much Emma had cherished the idea of having a child. Yet, then Steed would be called away on an assignment, or Emma had to rush to Knight Industries, or immerse herself in writing an article in a physics magazine, or any of the other three thousand things they seemed to be involved in, and the topic had dropped out of their industrious lives for awhile. When she and Steed finally had time together, had a few days, took a holiday and traveled, it was so glorious just to be alone with each other… to have no interruptions interfere with their plans, their luscious activities… That's why Emma had never pushed the issue; she wasn't sure if she was really ready for parenthood, let alone Steed. Yet, could she really say that on some hidden psychological level she hadn't wanted to forget to take her little pills of protection? One didn't just completely forget such long-term habitual behavior even when one become temporarily rushed in life. Was she just getting older and more inattentive, or was she getting older and somewhere inside of her deeply wishing for a child? Rather lewdly, Emma wondered if Steed's issue hadn't suddenly brought the child issue strikingly back into their lives. She was thirty-seven already and Steed was fifty-one, both rather set in their ways and their lives. Even knowing her husband so well, Emma had to admit that she had no idea how Steed would react if he ever came home and Emma met him at the front door holding up some newly purchased baby clothes, smirking as she said "Dada." She pictured his widened eyes bugging out entirely from their sockets. Emma laughed a few times. Yet after that image, what would Steed say? For goodness sake, Emma, she chastised herself, what are the chances that after thirteen years, missing one interval of four days of pills followed by one sex act will result in you becoming --she finally allowed the word to enter her head-- pregnant. It was absurd. The chances were astronomically against it at her age. Yet, for some strange reason, as Emma placed her hands over her pelvis, her imagination running wild, she thought that something felt, well… different… in there, and a smile lit up her face. The Ministry was the most secret security organization in Great Britain. Out of the seven departments at the Ministry --Administration, Espionage, Agents, Research, Analysis, Subterfuge, and Operations-- the department of Research was, (for all the name conjured up boring analysis work done with dusty books by thin, bespectacled pale men whose slide rulers were their best friend) one of the most vital sections of the organization. It was broken down into the various subsections of Equipment development, Suspect Background, Entering and Searching, and Criminal/Related Watching (C/RW). Although the first three division enabled field agents to work better, more effectively, and safer on their investigation, the last category was the Research division they most highly appreciated. For the field agents who risked their lives against all types of depraved, maniacal, brilliant, loathsome, and dangerous malefactors out to pit their own twisted plans against the stability and safety of Great Britain, Criminal/Related Watching formed the core of researchers whose job it was to guarantee as much as possible that agents were not a target by vengeful people related to those same malefactors. On a daily basis in Research, which contained the largest employee list in The Ministry and was active fully twenty-four hours a day, study was done on a multitude of topics: for the scientists in Equipment it might be developing the latest microlaser to enclose in a belt buckle; in Background it was uncovering the hidden past of a main suspect in an investigation; in Entering and Searching it might be entering a baronet's manor to search for a diary of illegal deeds. The members of C/RW kept track of those arrested and incarcerated by Ministry Agents, learning who visited them in jail, when they were released, keeping aware also of the families and associates of the criminals, especially those that Analysis had decided might pose the least iota of revengeful risk to the agent who had been involved with the particular criminal's imprisonment. Criminals, once they were released from gaol, if they ever were, and any suspicious family members or associate were tracked for life by the C/RW researchers. If a criminal escaped from gaol, or if a released criminal or family member or associate ever seemed to be searching for the arresting agent, then Research rang brazen bells in the Ministry. The agent was then secured as needed until the crisis passed, whether that entailed re-imprisoning the criminal, killing the criminal, gaoling the suspicious person, or killing the suspicious person (the killings being arranged and carried out by Espionage). It was brutal and cruel, but the Ministry held the safety of their active agents more important than anything else in the country, and the organization had free reign to proceed as necessary to ensure their active agents were fully and entirely guarded from the horrors of sudden attacks of retaliation against them. It was an arduous Research task, but it was eminently successful; in the twenty years of the Ministry's existence, no agent had been the unwitting victim of retribution by a criminal, family member or associate once they had expressed their concerns to Research. Every now and then an agent had inklings of someone out to get them and just felt they could handle it independently; sometime they could, as when John Steed and Mrs. Peel overcame Paul Beresford many years ago, and sometimes they couldn't, as the deaths of six agents in twenty years from improperly reported threats proved. Research was constantly telling agents to report any overt or covert menace to them with greater or lesser success from men and women used to being completely self-sufficient. It was true that in actuality revenge was a rare and unusual occurrence for a number of reasons. First, true spies were loathe to initiate vindictive reprisals; on some level, they knew their work was a game with winners and losers, with each side understanding they would regularly rotate between those two categories. Second, in general the average person that the Ministry took interest in was oftentimes a loner, oftentimes disassociated from his or her family or social relations, with cronies that would aide him or her in their mad activities for financial gain, but who did not have the loyalty or wherewithal to seek retribution by the agent who crushed their plans. Third, most people really were not of a violent, and especially premeditated violent, nature. However, the Ministry still took great care in maintaining its awareness of any threatening individuals, or even potentially threatening ones, and tracked them regularly. And, indeed, occasionally the organization did invoke its limitless powers to squelch that rare threat to a particular agent when it arose. Aside from the Ministry's rousing success in keeping the country clear of despotic and scientific madmen, which was its greatest pride, ensuring its agents were devoid of any deadly reprisals was its second most boastful axiom. In this way, the security and therefore performance of the agents was magnified a thousand-fold. Their mental and emotional mindsets being greatly relieved of concerns of retribution, they were able to concentrate wholly on their assignments and then when done relax and let the tension of the job dissipate as much as possible, keeping them vigorous and refreshed, and not bogged down with ceaseless worries about themselves and their families. In those twenty years many agents had lost their lives during an investigation but none had lost their lives from known threats from their personal files once they had reported their concerns to Research. However, three agents had been killed while off duty by the most insidious of all the Ministry's enemies--the Unknown Factor. The Unknown Factor (UF) was the term used to describe an act of revenge on an agent by person or person's unknown; person or person's who had taken the agent by complete surprise, and somehow slipped through the finely meshed net of the Ministry's C/RW division, which had knowledge bases in many different countries regularly searching for angry people seeking retaliation. Yet, for all its valiant efforts, C/RW was not omniscient. For example, Mark Crayford, a man classified as long dead, had secretly resurfaced in England launching a volley of revengeful deeds against John Steed several years before, before he had been truly killed by the bullet lodged near his heart. C/RW was not perfect, but only three dead agents from Unknown Factors in twenty years wasn't a bad record, (and those six other agents killed from trying to deal with acts of revenge on their own); it was low enough that it didn't rust the shine of Research's competence by the agents of the Ministry. It was not that they were lulled into a false sense of security; active agents were rarely fully lulled by anything, nor did it make them careless. The C/RW and UF categories just settled down into such a low threat that it usually didn't enter the minds of most agents on any consistent basis. Revengeful incidents were put to the mental side much as the random events of being in a car accident or airplane crash. They occurred, but so infrequently and without warning, that one just didn't bother worrying about them. November 11th, 1961. Steed handled a case for the Ministry on his own, dealing with a collection of a farmer/scientist intent on killing all the cattle in the country except their own hybrid, which was immune to the virus that they would soon disperse to all the herds in Great Britain. Steed foiled his plans and he was duly arrested and imprisoned. Research C/RW set up a file on the man and began a background search of his family, employees, associates, and friends, and upon joint review with Analysis, it was decided that there was no immediate or future threat of revenge to Steed by any of the related parties. In terms of immediate menace they were quite right; none occurred. In terms of future threat, they were not wrong either regarding the information they had examined; none of those people ever became a future peril to Steed either. However, unbeknownst to all, three integral people had been over-looked and remained an entirely hidden yet entirely real omen to their highly prized agent. Twelve years later, those three would become The Ministry's fourth case of unpredictable revenge, the fourth event termed an Unknown Factor. November 11th, 1973. Just thinking of the date caused a pressure in Eldon and Mary Gilmore's heads that squashed all rational thought, and solely harbored hatred and a monomaniacal plan to acquire an eye for an eye. For twelve years, ever since they had been ten and eight years old respectively, they had learned to hate one man, and had been instructed to kill one man --John Steed. Where other children had had certain professions drummed into their heads, had been told to follow certain religions, certain societal precepts, Eldon and Mary and their step-brother Craig, all raised by their grandparents, had been drilled in the ideation that John Steed had killed their mother, destroyed their father, and so had earned his death through them. "Your mother loved your father very much, she did," their grandmother would tell them over and over at bedtime as if she was reading them a Grimm's fairy tale. "And if she had married him, you would have been able to go back to her and live with a real mother and rich father." Suzanne Gilmore, their mother, in actuality had had a terrible and obvious crush on Adam Benton, the farmer/scientist gaoled by Steed. He, though, had despised her, and their relationship was a paradoxical mix of her approaching him and him rebuffing her. She knew he hated children, and so had never mentioned her three offspring, the first born out of wedlock during a terrible relationship sundered by her husband's alcohol and drug problem, the next two also born out of wedlock though to a different father; all three lived with her mother in the Orkney islands. She would have done anything to have won the wealthy and brilliant scientist's heart. When he had been arrested and gaoled, Suzanne had visited him in the prison just once, long enough for him to tell her that an agent named John Steed, from London, had been his downfall, and long enough for him to say in no uncertain terms that he loathed her and didn't wish her to visit him anymore. Suzanne had told her doting mother of the whole incident via letter, and then committed suicide. Her mother, bereft now of her only daughter, not long after the death of her criminal husband, had dedicated her life to instilling a hatred of John Steed in her three little grandchildren. Where Eldon and Mary looked like siblings, blond-haired, with obvious Nordic ancestry lightening their hair and complexions, sharing intellectual and sensitive natures, and medium tall slim builds that were maintained with an active outdoor life on their grandmother's small farm, Craig Gilmore (named after Suzy's first lover for convenience), belied a completely distinct heritage. At twelve he was already nearing six feet tall, which he surpasses by at least five inches by the time he was seventeen; his bulk equally stood out on his frame with his height. The only thing not large about Craig Gilmore was his brainpower. Twelve years after their mother's suicide Craig, chronologically one year Eldon's senior, intellectually ten years his junior, was 6'5" tall and weighed seventeen stone, all muscle. They were all silent children, Eldon and Mary thinkers, and Craig, a plodder, with nothing ever stimulating him to ruminate upon, except doing whatever Eldon directed him to do. They had each other and had never searched out other friends. Eldon spent all of his time ordering books from catalogs reading about spies, about how one built radio trackers, how one created tranquilizer darts, how one tapped a phone. He befriended the chemist in town and worked there after school learning about drugs. He set up a lab in the barn, and experimented with the darts on himself and Craig. When Eldon had reached twenty-one, he decided that it was time to start the process of retaliation, time to begin searching down and killing this mysterious John Steed. Using a lifetime of illicitly earned money their deceased grandfather had stored all around their home, they bought a new boat and learned how to sail it with local men from their island. They traveled to Scotland and docked it at Glasgow then came back to say their good-byes to their grandmother in the summer of 1972. All three of them then left the Orkneys, departing to establish themselves in England, in London, going to the big city from their tiny village, yet arriving as anything but innocents. Mary and Craig found jobs which, when combined with a stipend from their grandmother was enough for them to get by in the city, living frugally and allowing Eldon to begin their investigation. They rented a small furnished house on a month to month basis. John Steed had not been listed in the phone book, but other Steeds were. So Eldon started randomly watching the homes of these other Steeds, hoping that John had a penchant for visiting relatives, and at one, several weeks later, listed under Amy Steed, he had seen a tall, very handsome, well-dressed man, with bowler and tightly furled umbrella, and jaunty walk --the exact description of Steed they had been given-- drive up in a Jaguar. He had rejoiced that Steed still apparently either lived in or frequented the city. Once Steed departed the house a few hours later, Eldon followed Steed for a little while, until Steed stopped at a wine shop where he saw the proprietor greet him handily, and then he drove on before Steed became suspicious of Eldon's trailing him. It was all they knew of him; his relatives, with whom they held no grudge and so would cause no harm, and his wine shop. Eldon couldn't risk showing up by his relative's house again; yet, he didn't know where else to find him. Over a meal of potatoes and bratwurst, it was decided they would use the wine shop as their target, with the idea being that Eldon would become employed there. That had not been such an easy task. From Eldon's casual inquiries into available positions while he purchased a bottle of fine Claret, dressed in his most expensive suit, he learned that Mr. Fitzsimmon Fowler --the owner-- was a careful man, a cautious man, who expected his workers to have the highest qualifications and knowledge base if they were to be of service in his establishment. Mr. Fowler's customers were of the finest families in England, and had expectations of superior recommendation for all their alcohol needs. Eldon smiled and said "Of course," He then studied wines for six months nonstop, eight hours a day, until he knew the intricacies of each type of alcohol: how exactly it was made with which exact ingredients, where it was from, the best years of each brand, which type would best complement what type of food, no matter how the food was presented or spiced. Presenting himself to Mr. Fowler again in the spring of 1973, his hair and newly grown mustache dyed black, Eldon underwent a test that would have intimidated most lifelong oenophiles, and passed without missing a single question. Eldon kept his joyous exhilaration subdued under a mien of disinterest and detachment when a position was eagerly offered to him by an impressed Mr. Fowler, and he merely nodded to verify his acceptance. He used an alias and a fake address on his job application. Eldon was not surprised to begin work in the back room, stocking, ordering, cleaning, only being allowed to fill in at the counter when several customers at once were requiring assistance. Yet, his aid to those clients was exemplary and so little by little Mr. Fowler, pleased with his prospect, began incorporating Eldon into the daily functioning of the wine shop. Yet there were only so many hours Eldon was hired for, and it was the height of his frustration to not be at the shop when John Steed had stopped in, or to be there but be forced to stay in the back room, or to be in the front, at the counter with Steed when several other customers were present concurrently and so Steed could not be attacked. Yet Eldon had patience. He had waited twelve years. And he could feel the net closing over Mr. John Steed. He and Mary and Craig --who also had dyed their hair and used aliases-- went over their plans again and again. Kidnap Steed. Take him to their hide-out. Kill him and get rid of the body. Simple. By Autumn of 1973, Mr. Fowler felt comfortable enough with Eldon to let him close the shop by himself; this pleased them both a great deal --Mr. Fowler was able to return home earlier and rest his arthritic joints sooner, and Eldon hoped, no knew, that one day Steed would come in alone, late, needing a bottle of some type of alcohol. Oftentimes it occurred that Mary and Craig came to the shop via the back door at night when they were both done working and stayed with Eldon, sharing in Eldon's dreams of capturing Steed, and wanting to be immediately available to help him if, no when, Mr. Steed obliged their wishes. One day, just like that, it happened. Steed had spent the entire day in the Ministry catching up on his paperwork, which any other agent could have had done by 2:00 p.m. But paperwork brought tears of boredom to Steed's eyes, and so much to the chagrin of anyone else trying to get work done in the Ministry, Steed would fill out a form or two then, in his listless doldrums, walk around the halls until he found someone to talk to, or had a cup of coffee, or wandered to Research wondering about the latest toys they were developing. He kept an eye free to survey so he could duck behind walls and the occasional chair to avoid being seen by the rampaging Head of Administration, demanding to be told where Steed was and when would that paperwork be presented to his department for processing. Steed would put paperwork off for months, until even his recalcitrant mind knew that he had no choice but to deal with that dreaded responsibility. Then Steed, sighing long enough to blow up a large balloon with the air he exhaled, would drag himself back to his office and repeat the whole process. He knew that the sooner he was done, the sooner he could organize a preliminary investigation into a report that some botanist had figured out how to breed green and blue colored dandelions in Sussex (just to see if he had a nefarious purpose for doing so, if indeed he had discovered that), and then the sooner he could go home to Emma, and maybe play some Scrabble, trying not to cheat. Yet, the burden of forms in triplicate was very odious to his nature --they were the last lingering taint of his problems with authority that had frequently plague his career, especially up until he had begun working with Emma. Steed sat at his desk drumming his pen on the report he should have been filling out, his eyes narrowing in loathing at the small stack that sat to the left of that individual piece of paper. He glanced out the window in his