Notes from All Over

Gordon managed to get the hoverbike working again and cleaned and dressed Gregor's wounds by the light of the hoverbike's headlight. The man had come around and asked in halting English what had happened to the tiger. Gordon showed him the gun and pointed across the stream, where a white mound could be seen lying in the grass. Gregor began to mutter something under his breath in his native tongue, and Alan, listening in, helpfully used Thunderbird Five's translation software to render the lion trainer's swearing into English for Gordon's benefit. Gordon said nothing.

The circus people were faster than Scott estimated they would be. They had found a logging road not far from the stream and their all-terrain vehicle traversed it easily. Even so, they could not bring the wheeled cage through the closely grown forest, and had to resort to a sturdy net and metal poles to wrap up and transfer the sleeping Misha to the truck. When the tiger had been moved, Gordon took the hoverbike back down to the water, and ferried Gregor across with it.

Margot came and kissed the bedraggled aquanaut on both cheeks. "Zank you for what you did for my Misha. You were very brave."

Gordon mumbled something about, "all in a day's work" then followed her out to the road. Gregor was hoisted into the cab of the truck for the journey back, and suddenly, Gordon was free to return on his own. "Omicron to Mobile Control, Base and Thunderbird Five, I'm heading back to the Danger Zone."

Scott, Jeff's and Alan's voices all mingled in his ear, all saying, "F-A-B" in their distinctive voices. Gordon paused for a moment, then tapped his earpiece once. "Hey... Lamda?"

"Yes... Omicron?" Alan replied.

"Sorry for being so sharp with you earlier."

"No problem. I think I'd be a bit snarky, too, if I were facing a tiger. And I wouldn't have time for code names, either."

The two chuckled together, then Gordon took off the infrared goggles and put the helmet back on. He started up the hoverbike again and headed down the logging road, following Alan's GPS feed back to the Danger Zone. When he arrived, Scott took one look at him and said, "Delta and Epsilon are taking a break. Get some dry clothes and join them. Then work the winch again." Scott rose and clapped Gordon on the shoulder. "You did good work out there."

Gordon smiled wearily. "Thanks." He started up the hoverbike again, and headed for the huge shadowed hulk that was Thunderbird Two.

"Good afte'noon," said the red-haired woman as she approached the counter. She pushed a yellow slip across to the officious older man who stood behind it. "Ah b'leeve yew have a package foah me."

The man picked up the slip, glanced at it, sniffed once, then walked away. When he returned, he had a box, roughly the size of a shoebox, and he handed it over to her, along with the slip. "You'll have to sign for it." He put a pen in front of her.

"O' coahse," she replied, and she wrote her name, Cindy Lou Kelly, on the indicated line. She handed him back the slip, collected up her package, and left.

Once in her van, Cindy Lou put the package down on the van's passenger seat and smiled. It bore the return address of a friend in Virginia who had agreed to collect and forward the mail from Lou Myles's dummy post office box to her local one. This must be the gizmo Dee promised. I told her she didn't have to rush it, but I guess after the incident... She patted the box once and pulled out of the parking lot.

Two more errands, and she returned to her new house, pulling up the drive and directly into the garage, the door opening and closing with the touch of a keypad. She left the garage via the side door and followed the flagstone path to the screened-in rear porch. The cats had already made themselves at home behind the screens, though they were still exploring the rest of the house. Moofums and Spot followed her into the house, the first taking a detour to the bowl for a quick snack of kibble, and the second trailing after her as she brought the package into the living room. Here there were still boxes of books and recordings half-unpacked, and walls that had yet to be decorated. Cindy Lou glanced at the empty walls and sighed. She knew she couldn't put up her photo collage again; those were pictures of Lou Myles and she wasn't Lou, at least not right now. She sighed again and took the box through the living room and into her office. Here her computer was set up, the one from the secret room. Spot leapt up on the desktop to sniff the new package as she pulled a pair of scissors from her desk, and proceeded to open the box.

"Ah!" she exclaimed as she took the gadget out. It looked unfinished; in shape it resembled an old-fashioned curling iron, only flat and without the hinged part that grabbed the hair. The handle was made of clear plastic and wires poked out here and there. A small, computer printed booklet of instructions came with it. Cindy Lou opened it and read it through, smiling at the margin notes and occasional doodle that Dee had put in it. Finally, she pulled out a pair of thin batteries and put them in the device, pushing the slider switch to the "on" position. When a tiny green light was visible, she waved it slowly over her desk roughly two inches from the surface.

As she passed by a pencil holder, the gizmo both vibrated and loudly beeped once. "Augh!" she cried, nearly dropping it. The loud noise startled Spot, who drew back, ears flattened, then jumped down from desk. "Not so loud, Dee! Now, how do Ah turn off th' noise if Ah want to?" She inspected it again, and shook her head. "Ah will have to make a note to th' inventah." Dumping the pencils and pens out of the canister, she waved the device over it again. It beeped and vibrated, and she took out a magnifying glass, turning the holder around under a bright light. At last she saw it; a gleaming obsidian spot, no wider than a pencil eraser, stuck to the bottom of the item in question. She smiled, then ran a fingernail over the spot, lifting it so it stuck to the nail. Looking at it through the glass, she admired it for a moment, then flicked it into a plastic cup half full of water.

"Well, Dee, there's still a few thangs t' work out, but Ah think yew've got a winnah heah." She looked around and smiled a sly smile. "Now, wheah do Ah begin th' process of extermination?"

Jeff lifted his latest cup of coffee to his lips, sipped it, then grimaced. The coffee pot had been on the warmer throughout the night and the brew now tasted burnt and stale. He set the cup aside with a sigh. It's not like I'm going to get any sleep anytime soon, not with this much caffeine in my system. And I never sleep while the boys are still out. He rolled his head around on his neck, then reached up and back with both hands to rub the spot where his neck met his shoulders at the spine. What I wouldn't give for one of Lucy's massages right now, he thought wistfully.

The wish triggered a memory, the memory of lying in bed while Lucille's warm hands, covered with a spicy oil, rubbed and kneaded the tenseness from his shoulders and neck and back... and caused another part of him to tense in anticipation of what would almost surely follow. He could almost feel again her long chestnut hair tickling his back as she worked, and hear the little murmurs and sighs of contentment he used to make. He remembered the fire she kindled in his loins until finally, when the massage was through, he would turn over and pull her to him for a long, passion and promise-filled kiss and they would go on from there. Or, if he was really exhausted from the day, he would drift off to sleep, and wake to find her spooned to him, soft and warm and inviting... Oh, God, how I miss her!

He was startled awake by Scott's weary voice. "Base from Mobile Control. Do you read? Come in, base."

Looks like I was wrong about the sleep. Sitting up straight, he realized that Scott's portrait was active. He cleared his throat and replied, "Mobile Control from base. We read you five by five. Status report?"

"Thunderbird Two has just put the final car on the track. The animals are all accounted for and the new engine is ready to pull the train to Minsk. Standing down at 2145 hours, local time."

"F-A-B, Mobile Control. We'll be waiting. Base out." Jeff slumped back into his chair for a moment, then got up stiffly and walked to the wide windows. The sun was up somewhere behind gray and sullen clouds. It had been up for a couple of hours but Jeff hadn't noticed. He heard the rattle of dishes in the study and turned to find Kyrano bringing in a breakfast tray. The Malaysian smiled slightly and nodded a greeting to Jeff as he brought the food to the desk.

"How is the rescue going?" he enquired, uncovering a dish, filling the air with the fragrant scent of freshly-broiled bacon.

"Scott has called stand down. They should be on their way home momentarily." Jeff watched as Kyrano picked up a thermal carafe, but before the retainer could pour him a fresh cup, he remarked, "No, please, Kyrano. No more coffee. Just orange juice this morning."

Kyrano glanced up at him and stopped his motion, returning the carafe to an upright position. "As you wish, Mr. Tracy." Both of their heads turned as Virgil's portrait came to life.

"Base from Thunderbird Two. Do you read?"

Jeff crossed to his desk and faced the portrait. Virgil looked as weary as Scott had. "Thunderbird Two from base. We read you five by five. What is your status?"

"We are on our way home. ETA, 1255 hours."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Two. We'll be ready for you. Base out."

Peter Riordan sat at the computer screen in Agent 38's office, clicking through page after page of ID photos. Agent 38, otherwise known as Renée Baptiste, walked in. The contrast between the freckled, red-haired son of Eire and the dark-skinned, black-haired Kalingo of Dominica could not be greater. Peter was taller, and wider, with a snub nose that had seen more than one fight. Renée was short, petite, with a hawk-nose and a streak of silver running through her straight hair from her forehead back, disappearing into the plait at back. She was the I & M manager for the World Congress, and very little of consequence in government escaped her notice. She took the discovery of this plot against International Rescue very, very personally as she felt she should have been the one to uncover it.

"Any luck, Peter?"

"No, luv. Not a bite."

Renée moved closer, peering over Peter's shoulder as he clicked along. He had gotten into such a rhythm that the photo they were searching for passed by before it registered on his mind that he'd found it.

"Hold up! Wait! I think I saw him!"

Renée watched with interest as Peter scrolled back through the pictures until he'd found the one he wanted. His shoulders drooped in relief as he said, "That's the one. That's him."

The Kalingo woman scanned the information. "Fernando RafaelRamirez, secretary to His Excellency, Carlos Esteban Alvarez, Minister of Security." She blew a breath out her nose. "This begins to make a sort of sense. His Excellency hasn't been seen in months; he's been in mourning for his wife and children."

Peter turned to look at her, his puzzled face clearing. "I remember now! They were on their way to visit family in Columbia when their helijet when down in the Gulf of Mexico."

She nodded. "Yes. And ever since, His Excellency has been doing whatever work he has needed to by televid conferencing and online. Or by sending Ramirez as his proxy whenever possible." She leaned up against her desk, facing Peter, and crossed her arms. "It explains why I hadn't heard about this plan. If there was anyone he needed to talk to, he'd probably have them flown out to his private cay in the Exumas."

"D'you think that's where Franks is?" Peter asked.

Renée nodded. "I think it's probable. There would have been records of a private flight..." She waved the redhead out of her desk chair and he moved to another chair beside the desk. Pulling out her PDA, she looked up a number, and activating her vidphone, she made a call. "Mr. Daoud Sebastian, please. Tell him Renée Baptiste is calling." There was a pause and the beefy face of a middle-aged Middle Eastern man appeared.

"Ms. Baptiste, what a pleasure! What can I do for you today?"

Renée paused. "I am having trouble tracking down His Excellency, Mr. Alvarez's secretary, Mr. Ramirez. I was wondering if you could tell me when the last flights to and from His Excellency's home took place?"

"An unusual request, but one I will fulfill." There was a pause again, and Sebastian looked away, barking a question to an underling. Then he returned, his white smile gleaming. "How far back do you need?"

"A week, please," Renée replied.

"Oh, yes. There was a round trip flight from Unity City yesterday, but that was a cargo helicopter bringing supplies to the island. The only other one was six days ago. It was from the island to the city and the helijet only stayed a few hours." He glanced up from whatever he was reading to look at Renée. "No other flights, I am afraid."

"That's what I needed to know. Mr. Ramirez must be at home with His Excellency. I will contact him there. Thank you, Mr. Sebastian."

"You are most welcome, Ms. Baptiste. I look forward to hearing from you again."

Renée cut the call and shuddered. Peter looked at her quizzically. She sighed. "He's a notorious womanizer. Or he would be if his wives didn't keep him on a short leash."

"So, now we know who Franks met, and have an idea of where he went," Peter recounted. "What now?"

"Now, we tell the Pink Lady."

Franks sauntered down the corridor, humming a little, his hands in his pockets. He knew that the easiest way to draw attention was to act like a scared rabbit, peering around corners and flattening up against walls. But go around acting as if you belonged there, and people would most likely just glance at you and go on their way.

The hallway he was in had tile floors, which were carpeted with several long runners, all of different Persian designs. The walls were of an off white stucco and paintings were hung here and there. Dark wooden beams crossed the ceiling, but Franks doubted their authenticity. As he neared the end of the hall, he noticed a secondary corridor that cut across the main one. Each short passage ended at a heavy wooden door with ornate hinges and handle, but a sophisticated lock hidden by the hammered iron hardware. Turning to the left, he tested the door, and found it unlocked. Pulling it open, he found himself in a riot of greenery. The wing he inhabited opened onto a wide courtyard, full of flowering tropical plants. The sloping tile roof created a wide overhang beneath it, shading the windows of the rooms on the interior of the square and offering protection from the rains that the Caribbean often got. But not this day. Today the midday sun beat down on the foliage and the mercenary loosened his collar at the steamy heat. He strolled along beneath the overhang, admiring the plant life from the shade and peering in the windows where he could. One of the rooms was filled with computer equipment, and he could see Jorge at a plasma screen, busily tapping away, his brow furrowed. Must be trying to exterminate those termites. Lotsa luck, amigo.

He bypassed another door and turned the corner. He saw nothing of real interest in the windows but, on a whim, he pushed open the next one he came to. This put him in a short cool hallway like the one he had just left. He followed it until he could turn either right or left or go straight ahead. He opted to turn right, down a much wider corridor. After a dozen yards, his way was blocked by a double door, the same style of the others, but stretching across the hall. He put an ear to the wood but heard nothing. Taking that as a good sign, he pulled one side open as quietly as he could and peered inside.

"Come in, Señor Franks," a voice suddenly called. "It is time we met."