Part Two

I.

The Chimneys Grand Ballroom was crowded with people speaking a mixture of languages, but the music emanating from the quartet of musicians on a dais in the corner spoke to them all. They were playing a series of traditional Christmas carols.

Emma Peel took a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter and went over to a couple of the Russians, standing by the roaring fire. All Russian politicians and businessmen were easy to recognize - their suits were usually drab and ill-fitting. They were also all at least in middle age and usually older.

‘’Dosvedanya,’’ she greeted the men pleasantly. ‘’How do you do? My name is Emma Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel. I’m a journalist.”

‘’It is a pleasure,’’ said one of the Russians in impeccable English. ‘’I am Vassily Gorky, this is my associate Ivan. Are you here to observe the trade talks, Mrs. Peel?’’

Vassily Gorky was in his fifties, Emma judged. His hair was gray and cut short, his eyes clear. He was not overly fond of vodka, she deduced. Also although his suit was not the height of fashion it fit him well and did not hide a powerful build. Ivan was a different proposition altogether. His face glowed red, and not from the fireplace, and a paunch strained his trousers to the utmost. Emma smiled at Vassily. ‘’No, I write for mass media publications, not the financial pages. I’m here covering the Twelve Nights of Christmas celebration.’’

‘’What is this twelve nights?’’ Ivan asked. ‘’It is a play by your Shakespeare, isn’t it? I have seen many Shakespeare plays in Moscow. He writes very well. But no one does Shakespeare like our Russian Shakespeare Festival. Your Stratford on the Avon does not even compare.’’

‘’Richard III is my favorite Shakespearean play,’’ Emma told him with a smile, ‘’but I’ve never liked Hamlet.’’

Vassily and Ivan exchanged glances of mock horror.

‘’This is because you have not seen it in Moscow, dear lady,’’ said Ivan. ‘’With Mischa Auer as Hamlet...he would have you in tears by the end of the first act.’’

‘’I have no doubt of that,’’ Emma agreed.

The Americans, who were gathered in another corner, started singing along with Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer. Emma glanced up. ‘’I’d better go see what’s happening over there.’’ They exchanged friendly nods and Emma walked away.

‘’Come along, Emma,’’ Munsey cried as she appeared. He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘’Have an eggnog.’’

Emma shrugged it off with a friendly smile. ‘’Sure, Munsey, thanks.’’

Munsey waved a hand at her apologetically, then used it to give her a cup of the foamy brew.

‘’Steed’s here,’’ Emma told him quietly, as they nodded heads in time to the singing of everyone else. She sipped eggnog. ‘’He’s driving for the British trade delegation.’’

‘’Staying in the house?’’ Munsey asked.

‘’Yes. Servants wing. His room is next to the KGB agents slash chauffeurs.’’

‘’Cozy.’’ Munsey added more nutmeg to his eggnog. As he drank he casually surveyed the room. ‘’See our man?’’

‘’No.’’

‘’Would you recognize our man if you saw him?’’

‘’I think so,’’ said Emma confidently. ‘’I’ve got an artist’s eye. Sees right through makeup to the essentials underneath.’’

‘’I hope so,’’ said Munsey. ‘’I’d rather know who the guy is beforehand, instead of trying to catch him in the act.’’

Emma nodded. ‘’I agree. Well, I’m going to circulate. Get a good look at everyone. It’s the eyes that will give him away. They can change the shape of the nose, or the cheeks, but they never think to change the shape of the eyes.’’

‘’Right,’’ said Munsey. ‘’I’ll keep my eye on Gorky. Where’s his minders, anyway? Those chauffeurs?’’

‘’They don’t know what we know,’’ Emma said, with a shrug. A slight look of irritation crossed her face. They should know, she thought. A death threat had been received by the Timesagainst an unspecified member of the Russian delegation. Rather than publishing it, the Times had brought it to the attention of Scotland Yard, who’d brought in the British secret service. The Russians were not to be told. If the assassination attempt succeeded there would be hell to pay. But, that’s why the Department had sent Steed, and her. And Munsey, who was on special assignment.

‘’They’re probably out patrolling the grounds making sure that none of their delegation has the temerity to leave the house,’’ Munsey commented.

‘’Either that or they’re playing poker with Steed and losing badly.’’ Emma said in parting.

II.

John Steed squinted against cigarette smoke as he slowly spread apart his cards. No emotion showed in his face as he tucked them together again. ‘’I’ll start with five,’’ he said, tossing a five shilling piece into the middle of the table. Piotr and Alexis also tossed five shilling pieces into the pot. Jack, a footman, put his cards on the table in disgust. Mary, the housekeeper, said in a rich brogue, ‘’I’ll see your five and I’ll raise you another five.’’

Hours passed. The stack of coins in front of Mary got larger and larger.

‘’It’s a fine poker player you are, Mary dear,’’ said Steed finally, tossing yet another hand away.

‘’My retirement would be a comfy one,’’ Mary boasted, ‘’if ye all would play for more than five shillings at a time. But then, none of ye have any courage.’’

‘’Oh, I wouldn’t say that, said Steed, pouring another glass of Courage whiskey for the table. ‘’Still, I suppose you get fresh victims every month or so?’’

Mary looked at him. ‘’What do ye mean?’’

‘’All this,’’ said Steed, gesturing to include the kitchen and the whole of the house. ‘’You must go through staff like a dose of salts.’’

‘’Not at all!’’ Mary said indignantly. ‘’I’ll have you know we’ve had the same staff here for ten years. Ten years! The master treats us fine, he does. And all the people coming and going above stairs. Those tourists and such. They tip very well, ye know.’’

Steed nodded. ‘’Wish I could say the same for my lot,’’ he muttered. ‘’Ah, well. I’ll have to make my fortune at poker. C’mon, Mary, deal the cards.’’

III

Several days passed without incident. Then came January 4 - Twelfth Night.

That morning, John Steed drove the white Volvo out to a local pub. Emma Peel, cross-country skiing with the Americans, fell behind and turned into the same pub for a restorative drink.

‘’It’s going to have to be tonight,’’ Steed told her, as they sat at a corner table. Emma was drinking hot chocolate. Steed was having a pint.

‘’Not necessarily,’’ Emma commented. ‘’They don’t leave for the airport until tomorrow morning. There’s always the chance of an auto accident on the way.’’

‘’Those Russian limousines are armor plated and have bullet-proofed windows,’’ Steed pointed out. ‘’An auto accident tomorrow will be the least of our worries. No, I think our man is going to do it tonight. There’s going to be dinner for everyone, dancing, all kinds of Twelfth Night celebrations. Perfect ambiance for our man.’’

Emma finished her hot chocolate. ‘’Well, Munsey and I will be there.’’

‘’So will I and the Russian chauffeurs. It’s going to be egalitarian tonight.’’

‘’A jolly time will be had by all.’’

Steed finished off his pint. ‘’Hopefully all except one.’’

III.

Emma Peel winced and stopped. ‘’I’m sorry, Ted,’’ she told the American with whom she’d been dancing. ‘’I think I’ve twisted my ankle somehow. I think I’d better sit out a while.’’

‘’Of course,’’ the American said. ‘’Let me help you to a chair.’’

‘’That one there, I think,’’ Emma said, nodding towards one that would provide her with a perfect view of the entire room.

‘’Would you like some wine?’’ Ted said anxiously. ‘’Some food?’’

‘’A glass of wine would be lovely,’’ Emma said.

Several people stopped by to make sure she was all right. ‘’Just having a rest,’’ Emma said, soothing their fears...and lulling any suspicions. She took the wine Ted offered her and he went to find another dancing partner.

Emma watched the dancers for a while, then allowed her eyes to play around the entire room. Steed and the Russian chauffeurs had assumed station around the buffet table and were busily emptying it. Munsey was talking with one of a German couple who had shown up yesterday - he appeared to be discussing boxing.

Emma sipped her wine and looked at the musicians. They were different than the ones who had been entertaining on Boxing Day. Jazz music tonight - a drummer, a saxophone, a trumpet and an electric guitar. All young men, clad in tuxedos. The drummer...the drummer...

Emma ran a finger over her eyebrow. She’d been shown pictures of the assassin - or rather, the man whom the Department had suspected of being their assassin - a man named Palance. They’d matched his handwriting to the warning message - Palance always handwrote his warning messages and even gave return addresses - of places he’d vacated that same day....

And the drummer, wearing the bowl cut and goatee of the jazz musician, had the eyes of Palance. The same fold of skin at the corners, the same set in the eyesockets.

Why a drummer, Emma wondered. There was not much he could do with a pair of drum sticks.

Griggs, the butler, entered the room at this time and threaded his way through the clusters of people to Harrison Beckley, the owner and operator of Chimneys. Griggs whispered in his ear. Harrison nodded, clapped the butler on the shoulder, and Griggs bowed and exited through another door - that led into the kitchens, Emma knew.

When the waiters made their rounds the next time, they asked of everyone, ‘’Excuse me, but are you staying in the house or are you visiting for the night?’’ For those who were only visiting, the waiters explained that it had begun raining outside, and the rain was turning to ice. ‘’The roads are expected to be impassable within a very short time, so if you’d like to stay on, you will be accommodated in the West Wing overnight.’’

No one elected to leave, as far as Emma could tell...least of all the musicians.

When Munsey stopped over after a few minutes with another glass of wine, Emma beckoned him to sit down. ‘’I think I’ve found him,’’ she said very quietly, indicating a couple of dancers with her wine glass and smiling.

‘’Oh, yes?’’

‘’The drummer. He’s our man.’’

Munsey didn’t glance in the drummer’s direction. Nor did he waste time asking if Emma was sure. He merely nodded and said, ‘’Cool.’’

‘’Go tell Steed, will you.’’

Munsey nodded again. ‘’When are we going to grab him?’’

‘’I’m not sure. Steed will want to do it discreetly. Unless Palance actually stands up and pulls a gun, we probably won’t do anything in public.’’

‘’As you say. Well, I’ll go tell Steed.’’

Emma did not concern herself with how Munsey would contact Steed - that was his business and she knew he’d do it casually. She merely divided her eyes watchfully between the Russians and the drummer. If she remembered correctly - and of course she did - the musicians were given a break every forty-five minutes to go and refresh themselves in the kitchens.. or wherever else they needed to go. Perhaps at that time she should follow them out, and strike up a conversation with the man. She had studied music in school and could speak on the subject intelligently with anyone - indeed she had played the drums herself and would have continued to do so if her upstairs flat neighbors hadn’t complained.

Well, she’d sat around long enough. Now that she knew where the danger would be coming from, she might as well get up and circulate once more.

IV.

‘’Nothing,’’ declared Emma Peel.

‘’Nada,’’ agreed Munsey. ‘’Zilch. Zippo.’’

Steed shrugged. ‘’A bit anticlimactic, I admit. But with this ice storm outside, obviously Palance thought better of it. There’d be no way he could escape.’’

They were in Munsey’s room in the West Wing of Chimneys, and it was in the very small hours of the morning.

‘’So when do we pick him up?’’ demanded Munsey. ‘’We can’t let him get away.’’

‘’Tomorrow morning is soon enough.’’ said Steed. ‘’Let him have a comfortable night’s sleep. Bung him into a closet tomorrow morning and let him stew until the roads are drivable again.’’

Munsey nodded. ‘’Right.’’

V.

In the shadows of the Grand Ballroom, practically invisible, Palance was seated at the drum set. He was banging - quite quietly - on the drum, slowly, as if keeping time for a funeral march.

It was almost daylight. What was he going to do?

A sixth sense had told him that he’d been rumbled. Nothing tangible - he hadn’t caught any eyes looking at him when he’d raise his gaze...nevertheless he knew it - he’d been rumbled.

He’d been in his room listening to the weather reports on the radio up until an hour ago. He was surrounded by ice - for twenty miles in every direction it had rained and then iced over and now there was no way out.

No way out.

If there was no way out...should he simply kill Gorky before being arrested? For if he didn’t mind being caught, it would be quite easy to kill the man. But he did mind. That was the rub. He did not want to spend the rest of his life in prison.

But how to get out? How?

Walk? If he couldn’t drive - no one else could either. So there’d be no pursuit, except on foot. No....not walk. Ice skate.

Palance picked up the beat a bit as he thought about it. Of course. How stupid! If ice stretched for miles around - simply skate on it!

Those Americans....that group celebrating the Twelve Days of Christmas. They were always up early for their bloody morning jog. He’d heard them talking about it last night - indeed several of them had bought him drinks, complemented his on his drumming, and talked to him quite matey like. He knew all about quite a lot of them. And, Americans were stubborn folk. They’d probably get up at an ungodly hour this morning as well, determined to jog if it killed them. He’d suggest ice skating instead and challenge them to a race to the nearest village but one, about ten miles away. Then, once they reached the ‘finish line’ - he’d simply keep on going. By the time ‘they’ realized what was happening, he’d be long gone.

Palance smiled. Whew, he thought. I’m going to get out of this yet.

VI.

As the Americans laced on their ice skates excitedly, Munsey tried to think of an excuse to leave the group for a few seconds - to run into the house and tell Steed and Emma what was going on without exciting the suspicion of Palance. For who knew what weapons Palance might not be carrying in his winter jacket? Obviously the man was making a run for it - why else would he suggest this ridiculous race? Which meant he knew he’d been rumbled and if he thought one of these Americans was ‘on to him,’ who knew what he’d do?

What if he said he was going inside to fill up a flask full of whiskey, to ensure that he’d stay warm during the race? No...knowing the rest of the gang they’d cry ‘foul’ and not let him do it.

Well...there was only one thing to do.

He lined up with the rest of them, but on the end. When Charley cried, ‘’Go,’’ there was a tremendous roar of blades cutting into ice, some yelling and shoving as the gang jockeyed for position, and then they were all in front of him, streaking down the ice and moving like a herd of stampeding buffalo. Munsey caught his toe pick on the ice and went down, swearing all the while. Only Charley looked back and laughed at him, the rest of them had thinned out into a line of skaters, intent on the man - or woman - in front of him. Munsey turned and headed for the door.

‘’Steed,’’ he howled from the doorway - Mary would kill him if he ran across the wooden floors in his ice skates, and he simply didn’t have time to take them off. ‘’Steed!’’

Piotr, the Russian chauffeur, was the only one who responded to his cry.

‘’Please,’’ Munsey told him urgently. ‘’Steed, the chauffeur. You know him. I need to speak with him urgently. Matter of life or death.’’

The Russian gazed at him stolidly, then shrugged. ‘’I go get him.’’

Steed arrived in his pajamas. Munsey saw no sign of Piotr, but he hissed nevertheless.

‘’Steed! Palance is on the run. On the skate, I should say.’’ Munsey filled him in quickly.

Steed pounded a fist into his other hand. ‘’I should have had a watch on his door. Stupid of me. Well, we’ll just have to catch him. I’ll go get Mrs. Peel.’’

‘’I’ll get after them,’’ Munsey said. ‘’Just follow the tracks in the ice.’’

‘’Right,’’ said Steed, and vanished.

VII..

‘’They’ve got at least a ten minute head start,’’ Mrs. Peel commented as she tugged at the laces of her ice skates.

‘’I know,’’ Steed said grimly. ‘’But I doubt if he’s a professional speed skater.’’

‘’Neither are we, if it comes to that,’’ Emma pointed out.

‘’But there are two of us.’’

‘’Twice as slow?’’ said Emma.

‘’Not at all. We’re going to do what’s called drafting. I’m bigger than you are, so I stay in front. You stay right behind me. My body will shield you from the wind. This will save a little bit of exertion on your part. Once we have him in sight, you should be rested enough to go after him.’’

Emma nodded. ‘’Let’s go.’’

They started out. Steed set the pace. He started out slowly at first, with Mrs. Peel beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her technique, and noted that as usual she had downplayed her abilities. She was moving with an easy action and balancing well. ‘’Okay, Mrs. Peel,’’ he called to her. ‘’I’m going to speed up to an optimum pace. Once you’re ready, get behind me.’’

Emma nodded. ‘’Right, Steed.’’

Emma sped up to match Steed’s pace, then slowed down slightly and moved in behind him, matching him stride for stride. She could feel no difference in wind resistance, but doubtless Steed knew whereof he spoke. As it was, she placed all her concentration on the man in front of her. It wouldn’t matter too much if she fell, but if she took Steed out with her, that would be disastrous.

They went on and on, the only sound their skates cutting into the ice. They were going fast, but not so fast that it was a strain at all. Steed was obviously conserving energy. That was fine with her. She could keep up this pace for hours. The only problem was, her only view was of Steed’s back. It wasn’t a bad back, of course, but not something she wanted to watch hour after hour. ‘’Winter sports,’’ she thought with disgust.

VIII..

Palance was tired. God he was tired. They’d made the village a couple of hours ago - one of the Americans had won. The rest of the Yanks had surrounded him and congratulated him. Palance had skated past them with a wave. ‘’I’m having too much fun to stop,’’ he’d called.

One of the Americans had followed after him. It had been at a distance, though. He’d known it was one of the Americans because, first off, who else could it be? And also, the hair had been a sort of golden bowl - it had been that Munsey chap. Now, an hour later, that American was long gone.

‘’I’m going to make it,’’ Palance thought jubilantly. ‘’I’m going to make it.’’ He threw back his head and laughed. ‘’Thank you, God,’’ he’d thought. He’d actually been praying for the last hour. He’d sworn that if he’d escaped he would give up the life of an assassin and do something else...start a farm somewhere, grow things instead of kill them....and now...now.... Something made him back.

It was...hard to see - but there was someone behind him.

No, Palance thought. Nooo. He was soo tired. And so cold.

He gritted his teeth and continued on. It couldn’t be one of the Americans. Why would it be one of the Americans? It couldn’t be anyone from the house...it must just be someone from the village taking advantage of the ice, that was it. Let that be it, Palance prayed.

A few minutes later he looked back. The fellow was still behind him, still far away, but catching up to him. Someone big.

Palance swore. There was no hope for it. He was going to have to stop soon and take a break. He was beat. Unless...unless...he nodded to himself as he thought about his surroundings. He knew where he was - and he knew that just a hundred meters further on there was a very long, very steep hill. Once he got there, he could go down that and be able to catch his breath.

Palance glanced back. The man was closer...and bigger...it must be one fat chappie, Palance thought. All to the good, he reassured himself. Someone that big would run out of energy sooner rather than later. By the time he’d got to that hill the fellow would be way behind him. Palance gritted his teeth and forced himself to speed up.

IX..

‘’He’s got a plan in mind,’’ Steed called. His face was covered with perspiration and he was maintaining his speed through sheer willpower.

‘’How do you know?’’ Emma called from behind him.

‘’He’s changed direction and he’s speeding up. He’s got a destination in mind now.’’

‘’We’d better catch him before he gets there, then,’’ Emma called back.

‘’He’s about twenty meters away,’’ Steed called. ‘’It’s over to you now, Mrs. Peel. I’m fagged out.’’

‘’Right.’’ Emma pushed herself off to one side and took long strides on the skates, passing Steed. He caught up to her and put both hands on her waist. She knew he was going to give her a burst of speed. He sped up and pushed her with steady power....then a final push and she rocketed away from him.

X..

It was a woman, Palance saw with a frisson of hope. It must be just someone from the village, then, out for a little exercise. He slowed down in relief. After a minute or so he looked back...she was headed straight for him. Why was she headed straight for him if she was just a villager out for a little exercise?

Well, it didn’t matter. It was only a woman, after all. He’d beat her to the hill and with his heavier weight he’d outstrip her on the way down. And if she did catch up with him...well, it was only a woman.

Just up this little rise, Palance told himself, then it’s all downhill from here.

With a last burst of speed he topped the rise, then tucked himself down into a racing position as he’d seen on the telly and felt a rush of exhilaration as he sped down the hill. He’d made it!

XI.

Emma Peel had gone as fast as she could, but was still five meters behind Palance when he topped the rise and disappeared. If she were a swearing woman, she would have sworn at that moment. She spared a glance behind her. Steed was in the distance but still coming on, exhausted as he must be.

She topped the rise and automatically tucked her body into a crouch as she started down the other side. He’d gained on her...but she was lighter...he still presented more mass and had more wind resistance...if only she could make herself yet smaller...Emma flexed her knees and crouched down lower.

A momentary despair chilled her as she felt herself losing balance, but immediately recovered her sang froid She curled into a tight ball...she was only going to have one chance....she slid down the hill faster, angling towards her quarry. At the last minute she extended hands and legs and crashed into him.

Palance went flying. He spun down, caught his toepick on the ice and stopped short, as it twisted his ankle. He screamed at the pain and then swore vilely.

Emma Peel remained curled into her ball and spun round and round until finally she came to a spread-eagled halt, gazing up at the sky. That had been fun.

She blinked and Palance’s face appeared above her, twisted with rage. There was a gun in his hand and he was pointing it right at her. She tensed her legs, prepatory to driving her toepick into his calf, when suddenly he was gone. Steed had hurtled into him with all the power of a rocket, and when Palance had finished spinning this time he did not get up.

XII.

John Steed entered the drawing room of Chimneys and looked around. He wore evening dress and looked quite elegant. The Russians were gone - all the Americans were gone except Munsey - and he had resumed his true identity. But where was Mrs. Peel, and that rather annoying American?

He put this query to a passing footman.

‘’They are up on the roof,’’ Steed was told. He arced an eyebrow.

‘’That way,’’ pointed the footman.

Steed made his way to the roof, and out the door, pulling up his collar as he entered the cold night air. There were quite a number of people on the flat roof, surrounding a relatively large telescope pointed towards the heavens, and one very bright star in particular. Whisps of smoke rose from dozens of cups of coffee and hot chocolate as everyone took their turn at the eyepiece.

Steed joined Munsey - Emma was gazing through the telescope. Finally she straightened and gave a slight sigh before turning and rejoining them. Steed knew what she was thinking. ‘’Peace on Earth, Mrs. Peel,’’ he said. ‘’Good will toward men?’’

‘’Some day,’’ Emma said quietly. ‘’Some day.’’ She lifted up her cup of cocoa, and she, Steed and Munsey touched them together. Then they drank to the toast. ‘’Some day soon,’’ Emma said, again, more quietly, knowing it was a forlorn hope. She sipped her cocoa, shrugged, and then turned a cheerful smile on Steed and Munsey. ''Let's go play bridge,'' she suggested.

Steed took her arm with a smile. He knew Mrs. Peel was a demon bridge player. He'd make up his poker losses in no time at all. ''Yes, let's.''