Making Plans

The vidphone in the lounge rang, and Eleanor hastened from the study to answer it. The picture of a young, red-haired woman filled the screen and Eleanor frowned. The girl licked her lips nervously at the sight of the elderly woman but plunged ahead to ask, "Is this the Tracy residence?"

"Yes, it is," Eleanor said quickly. "Who is calling?"

"Um... my name is Melissa Riordan, and I'm looking for my friend, Scott Tracy. He said I could call any time..."

Eleanor's face softened. "Melissa! Oh, of course, dear. I'll transfer you to his extension. And may I say how sad I am, how very sad we all are over your loss."

"Thank you, mum," Melissa replied, lowering her eyes and swallowing hard.

"I know what it is to lose a husband, dearie," the older woman went on. "If you need someone to talk to, please feel free..."

"I'll be sure to," Melissa cut in. "May I please speak to Scott?"

"Yes, dear. I'm transferring you now."

Scott groaned as the vidphone in his room began to ring. It felt like he had just gotten to sleep after his confrontation with his father. He had tossed and turned on his bed for what seemed like hours and it took two more shots of Scotch to relax him enough so he could fall asleep. Now someone was calling. What time is it, anyway? he thought fuzzily as he got up and padded over to his desk. Sitting down, he keyed in "voice only" at first and said, "Hello. Who's calling?" with just a touch of peevishness in his voice.

"Scott, it's me, Melissa."

His eyes opened wide then and he became fully awake. "Mel! Oh, God. Mel, I'm sorry. Wait just a minute." He got up and grabbed a clean t-shirt from a drawer, slipped it on, then quickly ran a comb through his hair. Returning to his desk, he activated the "voice and picture" option and sat down. "I'm here, Mel. I'm here."

"Did I wake you up? I can call back later."

"No, it's okay, it's okay. I should be getting up anyway." To him, she looked pale and washed out and her eyes were still puffy from crying. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, um, I was wondering if you could put me in touch with that Lady Creighton-Ward," Melissa said. She took a deep, shaky breath. "I'm taking Peter back to Ireland, you see, and I thought... I thought maybe she could help so that his coffin... his body... oh God! This is so hard!"

"Shhh, Mel, shh," Scott said softly. "I can get Lady Penelope for you, yes. What do you need her to do?"

Melissa took another deep breath and Scott could see her square her shoulders. "If I take Peter back home, the coffin is likely to be searched and I--I couldn't bear that. I was hoping your lady friend could do something to prevent it..."

"Ah," Scott replied, nodding his head. He had never fully understood the political and religious conflict that had split Ireland for so many generations and continued into the 21st century. Peter had tried to explain it to him once or twice, tried to explain that, since he had joined the RAF, he couldn't go home to his people, his family. But it had been, and still remained, out of Scott's ken. To him, family was family, no matter the religion or the politics.

"Lady Penelope is staying here at the moment," he told Melissa, pushing aside his current negative feelings toward the woman for the sake of his friend's wife. "I'll see if she's available."

"Oh, Scott, please, would you intervene for me? I don't know that I could speak to her without somebody--I mean, I don't know the woman and you do."

Scott smiled softly. "Sure. I'll speak to her for you. Or, if you want to make the request, I'll be certain to be on hand, in the room, to add my voice."

The look of gratitude on Melissa's face tied his heart up in knots. "Oh, thank you, Scott. You don't know how much this means to me."

"I can guess. I'll see if she's available now, okay?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"I'm going to put you on hold for a moment."

"I'll wait."

Scott pressed the "Hold" button, slipped some shorts on over his boxers, and shrugged into a light cotton shirt, padding barefoot out into the cool, tiled hall, buttoning his buttons as he went. He could hear the telltale sounds of the household awake and at work. The guest rooms were around the corner from his own and as he made his way toward them, his stride slowed. The argument with his father flashed up before him and he found himself flexing his left hand, bandaged lightly to keep the dirt out of the surgically glued gashes. His words about Penelope came back clearly, making him wince internally. But I'm right. I know I am, he assured himself. If she had taken more care, Peter might be alive now. With this thought to sustain him, he pressed the buzzer at the side of the guest room door.

"Who is it?"

Scott was surprised to hear her voice. Usually Parker would be the one to greet any visitor to her Ladyship's quarters. Wonder where he is? Scott took a deep breath and replied, "It's Scott."

"Please wait. I am coming."

It took a moment, but the door finally swished open and Lady Penelope stood before him. She was dressed in dark slacks and a plain white blouse instead of her usual, flamboyant pink. Her bandaged feet were clad in simple slippers, and her hair was pulled back severely and gathered at the nape of her neck. All in all she looked subdued and tired. Still, she smiled at him and invited him in.

"What brings you here, Scott?"

Without preface, he said gruffly, "Melissa Riordan is on the phone. She would like to ask a favor of you."

Penelope's eyes widened a bit, and she let out a little, "Oh!" Then she turned to the vidphone in the guest room. "Can you transfer her here?"

Scott nodded, and proceeded to do so. Melissa's red-rimmed eyes looked worse than before, and Scott suspected she had been crying while she waited for him. At the sight of the aristocrat's face, she started. "I'm sorry... I didn't expect..."

"Scott transferred your call to me," Penelope explained in a soothing voice. "How are you, Melissa?"

The redhead cast her moist eyes downward and said frankly, "I could be better. Much, much better."

"I know. This is very difficult for you," the aristocrat murmured sympathetically. "Scott says you have a favor to ask. Name it, and if I can do it, I shall."

"He didn't tell you what the favor was?"

The blonde turned slightly in her chair to look up at Scott. "No, I am afraid he did not. Scott?"

He huffed out a breath. "I didn't know if Melissa wanted to ask you herself." Standing straight and tall over Penelope, with his hands behind his back, he explained in a flat voice, "The favor is this: Melissa is taking Peter's body back to Ireland for burial. Because of the political situation there, his coffin would very likely be opened and searched. Melissa would like to avoid that if she can, and is asking you to help."

Penelope studied Scott's face for a moment, noting the set jaw and the slight frown between his eyes, then turned to Melissa. "I do not have any diplomatic powers of my own, Melissa, but I know people who do. I shall to my best to bring your case before them." Even if it means having Edward take a hand. "When will you be leaving Unity City?"

"The day after tomorrow. It will take that long for the bo-... for Peter..." Melissa gulped air and let it out again slowly. Her voice steadied. "It will take that long for preparations to be completed."

Penelope nodded. "I shall act on this at once. Where may I reach you?"

Scott answered from behind her. "She has my satellite phone. You can use that number."

"Excellent. I shall ring you soon, Melissa." The aristocrat leaned in towards the vidphone screen and said softly, "Courage, Melissa. We will find a way."

"Thank you," the new widow replied. She looked beyond the woman for the man in the background. "And thank you, too, Scott. I'll be waiting for your call. Goodbye."

"Goodbye." The call disconnected, and Penelope turned to the eldest Tracy son. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Scott. I shall make a few calls right now and see if I can pull a few strings."

Scott merely nodded, and turned to go. She half rose from her chair and called out, "Scott."

He stopped, his back to her. Seeing that she had his attention, Penelope continued in a soft tone, "I am sorry for the loss of your friend. I did not know him long, or well, but I admired his bravery and his sense of duty. I shall miss him, too."

Scott's shoulders rose at her last sentence. He wanted so much to lash out, to shout that it was all her fault that Peter died, that if she had done her job properly, he would be alive now and in Melissa's arms. But he swallowed it, glanced over his shoulder at her, nodded once, and was gone.

Penelope settled back down into the chair before the vidphone, rested for a moment, then got back up again and went in search of her PDA, the one which had been packed away with her things at the embassy. At least I know that "Alison's" PDA will do Gaat little good. Now, to find Addison Kennicot's phone number. I shall call her first.

Lou sat back in her desk chair with a low whistle. Midnight, who was curled up on a pile of papers at her left hand, stirred, his ears coming up and forward and his yellow eyes slitting open. She mechanically reached a hand over to scratch him between the ears, and the cat subsided with a rumbling purr.

"There's that vid Jeff told me about." Indeed, the few seconds of streaming video, enhanced and edited, was featured on the homepage of the object of her research, along with a headline screaming, "International Rescue Destroys Unarmed Helijet!" She noticed that the form of Thunderbird One had been highlighted and the words "Thunderbird" had been made a startling white. An unnatural white, given the lighting of the scene. The men in the helijet held their hands in strange positions, ones that would make sense had they been holding rifles. But of course, the guns have been removed from the picture. She shook her head. Anyone with a bit of sense will see that this is doctored, and doctored heavily. But then, mankind doesn't always have that bit of sense, especially when it comes to dishing dirt. At least there's no sign of the missile that took the helijet out. Just this impossible blaze of fire added to the end.

Frowning, she sat back up and went to check the hit counter of the site. She was sure that the number of hits was artificially inflated somehow, but still, it was rising far too fast for her liking. I wonder how long it will take the legitimate press to start showing this? Some of the more responsible venues won't; they'll know it's a fake and won't chance getting their asses bit. Still, some will, figuring it's easier to show it, get the ratings, and issue a halfhearted "sorry about that" later. I wish there was something I could do about this site!

She pulled up her copy of the termite, the one Tony had originally sent, then leaned back in her chair, tapping a stylus on her desktop. "Hmm. Okay, Midnight, let's connect the dots, here. This footage proves that there's a connection between Gaat-Alvarez and the website. Franks was on Alvarez's cay and, given the time frame, he must have been working from there when he infected Interpol's database with the termite. Ergo, Gaat's systems have been infected with the termite too, and it's probably been quarantined and destroyed by now. Otherwise this vid probably would have been corrupted before it reached the website. I'm sure that Gaat, recognizing the threat that the termite could pose, has probably gotten whoever is running this damn thing to add the program to their anti-virus software. So, I can't use the termite... or can I?" A slow smile spread over her face. "Time for a chat with Dee."

"That's the last."

Addison Kennicot sat in her home office, yawning as she put the final touches on the last of her official correspondence. I really should not bring this work home, she mused as she stretched tall, hearing her joints crackle with the adjustment. She glanced over at the televid, which she had left on in the background, programmed to raise the volume at the mention of the words "Señor Alvarez", "Minister of Security", or "Alison St. Clair". There had been several reports about Alison's disappearance, its importance waning as the day lengthened and no fresh news was forthcoming. I do hope she is all right, whether or not she really was Penelope.

The vidphone rang, and Addison looked at it to check on the caller's ID. "Hmm. No information available?" Normally, she wouldn't answer such calls, she would let the screening program pick them up, record a message, and she could return them later if she wanted to. I'll let the program pick up, but listen to see if it is a call I should take, she decided, pressing a button on the vidphone to make the recording audible.

The outgoing message played, and a cheerful chime indicated that the caller should record whatever they needed to say. Addison gasped as the familiar, cultured tones began, "Addi, this is your old friend Penelope Creighton-Ward. I find myself..."

Nearly pouncing on the screening program's switch, Addison answered the call, choosing "voice and picture". "Penny? Addi here. I am so terribly glad to hear from you."

Penelope's face appeared on the small screen. Addi looked her old friend over critically. "Are you well, Penny? You look very... tired."

Penelope smiled a bit. "I am... coping. Perhaps you heard about my encounter with a band of pirates? It was a very harrowing experience. But enough about me. How are you? And the children? How is Wesley?"

It was Addison's turn to pale. "Wesley died two years ago, Penny. I ran for his office and have taken his place until the next election."

"Oh, I am sorry, Addi. I should have realized it, but I am afraid I have not been keeping up with my old friends from Rowden as I should. Please forgive me,"

Addi nodded. "Of course, Penny, of course." She brightened a bit and said, "To answer your question, the children are well and so am I. And I did hear about your scrape with our local scoundrels. I am so glad that you were not hurt." Her face sobered. "But it was so very sad about that poor man who died."

"Yes," Penelope replied with a sigh. "Mr. Riordan was a nice man and very brave." She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. "In fact, it is because of him that I have called."

"Oh?"

"Yes. His wife is planning on bringing his body home to Ireland for burial, and she asked me to pull what strings I could to keep the coffin from being searched, as it very well would be. I am turning to you because you live in Unity City, where Mr. and Mrs. Riordan resided."

"Ah," Addison said, her demeanor thoughtful. "You are looking for perhaps a diplomatic solution? Someone to speak to the Irish ambassador about the situation?"

"If you felt that would work," Penelope said. "I was also thinking of allowing Mr. Riordan's remains to travel under diplomatic immunity, if that is possible. There may be some difficulty with the ambassador as Mr. Riordan was in the RAF."

Addi nodded again. "I see. That could create a bit of a kerfuffle, yes." She smiled a bit. "Leave the situation with me. I shall speak to both the ambassador and the senator and if I get no response, I shall use my own authority and clearances tosee the man home. When is the body being transported?"

"The day after tomorrow, your time," Penelope said, relieved. "Oh, Addi, you don't know how grateful I am, and how grateful the widow will be."

"It is all in an evening's work," Addi said with a wry smile. Her smile faded, and she studied Penelope's face, her forehead furrowed as if deciding something. Then her countenance relaxed and she took a deep breath, letting it out through her nose, as if punctuating her decision. She hesitated a moment more before saying slowly, "You know, Penny, perhaps there is something you could do for me in return."

"What is it?" Penelope asked, curious.

"I met a young woman in my office a few days ago. Her name was Alison St. Clair, an aide to Mr. Trelawney, the Prime Minister. She reminded me very much of you, in fact. She has disappeared from the Minister of Security's private cay."

"Oh, really?" the aristocrat drawled, trying hard to appear interested without giving herself away.

"Yes. If you happen to meet Ms. St. Clair in your travels, please let her know that His Excellency is ordering a full investigation into her disappearance. He is a tenacious man... and a formidable enemy."

Penelope looked into her friend's eyes. She briefly considered denying that she knew this "Alison St. Clair" at all, but there was a certain knowing glint to Addison's gaze, and Penelope suddenly realized that she had fooled no one with her disguise; not Gaat and not her old school chum.

"I... shall tell her," she replied, giving both a tacit acknowledgement of the warning and a subtle admission to Addison's deduction.

The senator looked relieved. 'Thank you, Penny. Now, I must go. The Irish senator keeps late hours, but their ambassador does not. I should be able to catch at least one now, and the other in the morning. Where may I contact you?"

"Here is the number for my satellite phone," Penny replied, rattling off a string of numbers. "I am staying with friends so I cannot be reached at Foxleyheath."

"I understand. Take care, Penny. I shall call you soon," Addison said firmly.

"And you, Addi. I shall expect your call. Goodbye." Penelope terminated the call and sighed. It looks like I shall have to employ some different methods of disguise in the future. If there is a future... She shook her head at her own failure.

The buzzer sounded, indicating someone was outside her door. "Who is it?" she called.

"T'is me, Milady. Wiv Mr. Brains."

"Come in."

The door opened, and Parker, followed by the engineer, entered the room. Parker was carefully holding a glass of foul-looking liquid. "Transmitter solvent, Milady," he explained. "Ye've got t' drink h'it so Mr. Brains 'ere kin put h'a locator chip."

"M-Mr. Tracy's, uh, orders," Brains said, smiling sheepishly.

"Of course." Penelope took the proffered glass, looked at it, and tried to stifle her resigned sigh. Then she held her nose, and drank the mess down, stopping for breath only once.

"There naow, Milady. All done," Parker said, smiling as he took the empty glass she thrust at him.

"It will t-take thirty minutes for the solvent to, uh, t-take effect," Brains explained. "I'll call Tin-Tin or, uh, Mrs. Tracy in to o-observe when you're ready."

"Very good, Brains. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to have some time alone while the solvent does its work."

"S-Sure, Lady Penelope," Brains stammered. He turned to leave, glancing once at Parker to see if the chauffeur was coming.

"You may go, Parker. I shall be fine."

Parker opened his mouth as if to protest, but thought better of it. "Yus, Milady." He left, letting the door swish shut behind him.

Penelope moved over to the bed and lay down carefully. She laced her fingers together, laid her hands at her waist, and stared at the ceiling. But she didn't really see it. Instead she saw the interior of FAB-1, her mind going back to the smells, the sights, and the sounds of that moment when Peter entrusted his last words to her.

"An' tell th' boss... t'wus worth it."

I do not know if I can, Peter. Because the more I look at it, the less I agree with you.

"Damn!" Deirdre shook her singed finger. She put down her micro solder gun and pulled up her magnifying goggles to examine the burn. Sighing, she got up and strode over to her workroom sink to run cold water over the injury. As the water soothed the burn, she let her mind wander to a missive she had received earlier that day. That email I got from Hiram was pretty sketchy. Something about working for his employer? He worked for Tracy Industries last I heard, but... what could I do for them? I'm not into designing big things; gadgets are more my style. She absently watched the clear liquid cascade out of the tap and over the top of her finger. Could I work in the corporate world again? I hated having a boss! My time was never my own, and my designs? My employers always took away my rights to them. I'd much rather be working for myself, even if it means less money. Hiram's going to have to come up with some really good reasons for me to join the workforce at Tracy Industries!

Her computer dinged at her. "Hmm. Mail or conversation?" she asked herself aloud. Turning to see her monitor, she saw a message window pop up. She shook the water off her finger, dried it carefully, and headed over to the plasma screen.

"Hey, Dee." The words glowed blue in the little pop-up box. She checked the email address of the person who was using the instant messenger, but there was none listed. No email? Could it be Lou? She sat down in front of the computer, and put her fingers on the keyboard. "Lou? Is that you?" she typed.

The words, "Who else?" quickly appeared on her screen.

With a verbal "tch", she typed, "Where the hell have you been?"

"Around. We need to 'talk'."

"Voice and picture or text?"

"Voice only," was the answer.

Dee put on her boom mike and earphones ensemble, then punched in the key for switching the conversation over to voice. "Hey, Lou, how's things? You could have called, y'know."

"Things are hairy, Dee, and I didn't feel comfortable calling since I'm running under the radar. That wireless connection you helped me debug can't be traced, but a phone call leaves a record," Lou said, speaking quickly. "Listen, Dee. I've got a big problem. I've discovered a situation where a good organization is being put through a smear and blackmail campaign. I want totake downthe main source of the mud and I need a..."

Dee huffed in exasperation. "Lou, whatever it is, I can't! I'm swamped! I'm making the revisions to the bug detector you sent back. I'm fielding inquiries about my presentation at that conference. And Hiram has asked me to help him out on a big project for his employer. Not to mention that spring break is coming and my mother will be visiting!"

Lou sighed resignedly. "I know, Dee. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

"What's so important about it? Who is it for?" She stopped as a URL link appeared in her text box. Frowning, she asked, "What's this, Lou?"

"The site I want to... deal with. You asked who it was for. This will tell you."

Dee shook her head, and clicked on the link. Lou waited and listened for her reaction.

"What! That can't be... no way! Where do they get this...? The bastards! Lou, who is behind this? It's so wrong! All lies!"

"Who's behind it? Only someone who wants to smear IR and make the public hate them so they can be blackmailed either into working for the bastards or into shutting down entirely. I stumbled across the plot before I left Interpol and I've been trying to spike it as best I can."

There was a silence on the other end, then, "Does this have anything to do with that... incident at your house in Asheville?"

Lou paused before answering in a low and serious tone, "It has everything to do with that incident."

"Hmm." Dee remarked. "I thought it might." She stopped for an audible breath, then asked, "What do you need?"

"Software. Something along the lines of a 'search and destroy' but with replicating abilities. You wouldn't be creating a new program, just upgrading one that I already have."

Dee's frown deepened. "How come you didn't go to Cho about this? He's your usual... ah... provider."

Lou's voice got very somber. "I did, Dee. He created a termite for me, one where I could set the parameters myself. That's the program I mentioned. Problem is, now he's dead."

There was another silence at Dee's end. "Dead?"

"Yeah. It looks like he got in with some dangerous people. I'm not sure who yet, but I am sure it has something to do with this whole hellish mess." She paused. "I want to use the termite that Cho built for me to deep-six this site. But for me to do that, it needs some upgrades."

"What kind of upgrades?"

"I need you to infect it and make it an egg layer." Lou could almost hear Dee biting her lower lip. "Girlfriend, you know I wouldn't ask..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You wouldn't ask if it weren't important. I'm just weighing the importance of it against the word, 'dead'."

Lou let out an exasperated snort. "Dee, part of the reason Cho bought it was that his 'client' stiffed him and he hacked into their bank account to get his money. You're not planning on doing that to me, are you?"

She could almost hear Dee's eyes rolling as she answered sarcastically, "Hmph. Hardly. Especially when I consider just where you keep your ill-gotten gains."

"Okay then." Lou crossed her fingers, hoping that her friend would take up the challenge. "Look, no one knows who you are, or where you are, and I'm not about to tell anybody. You understand what could happen. If this site continues smearing the entity in question, it could shut them down." Her voice softened. "And you and I both know that you have a really good reason to want this cesspool drained."

Dee was quiet for a long time after that, and Lou thought that maybe this time she had stepped over the line. Reynaldo, Deirdre's husband, had been on the maiden flight of the Fireflash, the supersonic plane that was nearly destroyed by a saboteur's bomb. Dee had been hysterical over the imminent disaster, and she had called Lou, who was in London at the time, to get what information she could. The Interpol officer had done her best to calm her friend long distance, but it was only when the mysterious "International Rescue" had helped Fireflash to land safely that the distraught wife and mother had ended her worried frenzy.

Lou was so wrapped up in her memory of the events that she started when Dee softly said, "Send it on."

Letting go of her crossed fingers, Lou typed in a few keystrokes and the file was sent. "Incoming. This one is blank, but I think you can extrapolate what kinds of parameters I'll need."

"What do you want me to do with it when I'm done?"

"Dump it in my 'Mr. Knox' box. I'll take it from there. Label it, 'Her Majesty'." Lou took a deep breath before saying, "This is priority, Dee."

"I know. Have you thought of how you'll deliver this?"

"Yeah, a little. These bastards have an email scanning program, one that targets anything to do with their victim. I may be able to use it to my advantage." She tapped a few more keys. "I'm sending that to you, too, so you'll know better how to craft the virus part of the upgrade."

"Got it. I'll get back to you as soon as I can." Dee sighed. "How much longer will you be undercover?"

"I don't know, Dee. I just don't know."

"Tell me when we can actually see each other again, okay? I'm starving for a good cup of coffee and some girl talk."

Lou smiled, even though Dee couldn't see it. "I will, but don't be surprised if there are a few... changes when we see each other face to face."

"I'll try not to be. You take care now, y'hear?"

"I hear. It's been good to talk to you, Dee. Give my love to the kids and my regards to Reynaldo."

"I'm glad you put it that way. When it comes to him, I don't share."

The two friends laughed a bit, then Lou said, "Bye, Dee."

"Bye, Lou. And don't worry. I'm on this."

Dee closed the connection. Her nose wrinkled as she smelled something hot. Glancing around, she saw the soldering iron in its cradle, still activated. "Damn!" she muttered under her breath as she reached over to turn it off.

Lou sat back, closing the dialogue box, and gnawing absently on a thumbnail. She looked over at Midnight, who was still curled up on the papers, then sighed. Scratching him between the ears again, she said in her best Cindy Lou drawl, "Well, Mistah Midnight suh, looks like it's back t' owah reg'larly scheduled altah ego."

The Cuban night was warm and sultry and Jim Franks sat on the balcony of his Havana hotel room, a longneck bottle of beer in his hand. He hadn't had any trouble flying to the island nation and his alternate identity passed muster at customs. His plans for the next day included a refueling stop in Miami, then on to Asheville and a quick look around for his quarry. If I can't find her in the general vicinity, I put "Plan B" into action. Better make sure I have some warm clothes packed for that possibility. That part of the States can get pretty cold, even in March.