Conference and Communiqués

Virgil stood next to the control console on the railway car in Thunderbird Three's silo, patiently waiting for the couch that gave access to the spacecraft. He couldn't help craning his neck and gazing up at the red Thunderbird as he waited; the sheer size of the thing still amazed him every time he entered the silo. He recalled the handful of times he had piloted Three and how nervous he was when it came to landing the craft. It was somewhat like threading a sewing needle with a piece of yarn... without touching the edges of the eye.

He remembered vaguely that his father had started calling the spaceship a "him" when he'd last taken a trip up to the space station. Thinking about the way Three docked with Thunderbird Five, he understood why. Alan, however, still called Three a "her" and claimed "she" was as much his "baby" as Thunderbird Two was for Virgil. I wonder what John calls Three, Virgil mused as the sofa arrived and he sat down. I'll have to ask. He put the two sealed travel mugs beside him, then pushed the button on the console that would send him up into the lower levels of the space craft.

The sofa clicked into place on level four, known to all as "the lounge". Virgil supposed it was the acceleration couches, so reminiscent of the loungers by the pool, that had earned it the name. That and the couch which now sat so prominently in the middle of the chamber. He picked up the coffee mugs and stepped into the tiny lift that would take him up to the command level, where he thought he'd find John. It was Virgil's intention to surprise his brother if he could. Unfortunately, on his way up to the command center, he caught a glimpse of John on level two, data pad in hand, checking over the supplies. What was worse, John happened to glance his way when the lift went by, so Virgil knew his attempt at surprise was a lost cause. He sighed as he reached the command level, pushed the button that would close the door as soon as it opened, and poked the one marked "2". The little elevator obediently moved downward, and the door opened again, this time on the proper level. He stepped out into the chamber, and frowned. John was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Virge," came a voice behind him. Virgil's head whipped around sharply, and his body followed. John was leaning casually on the rounded outer wall of the lift, in a spot where someone coming out couldn't immediately see him. He grinned as he pushed off from the wall, putting the pad down on a nearby shelf. Pointing to the mugs, he asked, "What's that?"

"Peace offering," Virgil replied, handing one to him. "I think that's yours."

John popped the seal on the cup and peered inside. "Looks like it, since I don't take mine black." He sniffed the dark liquid, then gave his brother a keen look. "You didn't make this, did you?"

Virgil took a sip from his mug and rolled his eyes. "No, I had Kyrano brew a fresh pot. I know my limitations."

The blond took an appreciative sip, then a larger gulp. "Ahhh. That's good." He leaned up against one of the cabinets that held medical supplies. "So, why the peace offering?"

"Prelude to an apology," Virgil said, looking down and taking an audible breath before raising his head and meeting John's gaze. "John, I'm sorry for the way I acted on Thunderbird Two the other day, dropping the pod and all. It was very unprofessional and selfish of me, and I'm sorry I did it." He held out his hand, much as Scott had done for him not long before.

"Ah. I see." John took another gulp of coffee, then transferred his cup from one hand to the other so he could respond to his brother's concession. "Apology accepted."

The older man grinned, and John smiled back. "So, I suppose Scott 'discussed' the incident with you...?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah. He 'discussed' it, all right." Virgil joined his brother in leaning up against the cabinets. "That and a whole lot more." He rubbed his jaw lightly. "But we've made our peace as well."

"Good. I was hoping you would. After all, I won't be here to referee for a couple of weeks."

Virgil whacked him lightly on the shoulder. "Ow!" John exclaimed, moving his cup over again so he could rub the spot vigorously.

His brother shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Drama queen. You've been hanging out with Gordon too much."

"I beg to differ. I don't hang out with him enough. But speaking of the little devil, he confirmed something that Scott told me. Something about you and Penelope?"

His shoulders slumping, Virgil groaned. "Does everyone in the house know about this now?"

John cocked his head to one side, tapping his forefinger on his chin. "No, I don't think so. I doubt Grandma does, or Tin-Tin, or Brains, for that matter. Dad probably doesn't. I don't know about Alan... but I hope not. He's got a crush on her, y'know."

"Ugh," Virgil grunted in disgust. "Yes, I'm aware of that little fact. And you're wrong about Dad. He knows." Virgil took a big gulp of his coffee. "Let's see. You, Gordon, Scott, and Dad know. Grandma, Tin-Tin and Brains probably don't. Alan's iffy. What about Kyrano?"

John shrugged. "I'm sure he does. He probably knows everything that goes on around here. He just doesn't let on." He drank some more coffee. "But how about the lady herself? Does she know?"

Virgil sighed, a long soulful exhalation, accompanied by a slight shrug of the shoulders. "I'm... not sure. I've never actually said anything. I was going to yesterday before Scott found us to have that 'discussion' with me. But the moment passed and now, I don't feel like it's a good time. She's really cut up about Peter Riordan's death."

His blond brother nodded. "I can see that. And I understand why this is a bad time. But you need to tell her. If she hasn't gotten the message from your 'come-hither' look..." That earned him another whack on the arm. "Hey! I didn't call it that!"

"Then I'll get Gordon for it later." Virgil sipped some more coffee. "Mmm. The caffeine in this will keep me going all day." He paused and glanced over at John, studying him speculatively. "So, when are you going to call this Brigitte of yours?"

The question took John by surprise. "Hmph. Hadn't thought about that. I suppose I should call her before I leave for Five, just to confirm that I'm interested, but then, I wouldn't be able to phone her again for a couple of weeks. And truthfully, I really don't have time to call her now and have the kind of conversation I'd like to." He frowned at Virgil. "This is more complex than I thought."

"Want my advice?"

"What do I have to pay for it?"

"Nothing. You just gave me some, now I'm returning the favor."

"Uh, okay. Shoot."

Virgil suppressed with difficulty the urge to mimic Gordon's reaction to that particular command, which was to point a finger at whoever gave it and say, "Bang!" To help him, he took another gulp of coffee, then replied, "Email her before you go. Explain to her that you'll be away for a couple of weeks and you won't be able to call her until you get back. Then email her from Five a couple times while you're there. That shouldn't cause a problem with Dad if you funnel it through the official IR server at first; after all, she is an agent. Later, when you get back, switch over to your personal address."

"Hmm," John said, nodding. "Sounds like a plan, man. Thanks."

Virgil put a companionable arm around John's shoulders. "Hey, what are brothers for?"

"Let's see: fighting and arguing, blabbing your secrets to all and sundry, carrying you home when you're drunk, watching your back, putting crabs in your bed..."

He was about to get whacked a third time when their father's voice broke in. "Thunderbird Three from Control."

John left off his litany and exchanged glances with Virgil before answering the hail. Jeff's face appeared on his telecomm screen. "Thunderbird Three here."

"Are you done with preflights yet? Launch is in thirty minutes and counting."

"Uh, just about finished, Control. Be up top in twenty."

"Good. We'll see you then. Control out." The picture vanished.

John looked up to find his brother had picked up the data pad and was scrolling down the list for the spot where the astronaut had left off. Virgil didn't look up as he said, "I'll finish the inventory for you while you get the command checks done, if you haven't done them already."

"Thanks! I did the command checks first, but this will give me time to put on my uniform... and get off a quick email to Brigitte. Since I'll be going solo, I won't have time to change unless I put him on autopilot."

"Ah! So you call this thing a 'him' too. Interesting!"

John laughed. "It's the biggest phallic symbol I can think of. Besides, to me, it's Five that's a 'she'. For more reasons than one."

Virgil shook his head and chuckled, moving over to the cabinets where John had stopped during his inventory. Thunderbird Three's current pilot gave him a jaunty salute, then entered the tiny elevator for a ride to the command level, where his uniform was stored.

"Dear members of the Agent network,

"This letter is to inform you of a tragedy which has befallen one of our number. Agent 53, based in Unity City, was killed in the line of duty on March 17, 2068. He was a fine agent, and a good man, and he will be missed by all who knew him and worked with him. He leaves behind his wife and three young children.

"Because of this tragedy, I have made some decisions regarding the Agents network. I have come to the realization that some of what I am asking of you as agents may be too difficult for you to handle. For the most part, you have merely been required to report what you hear that might be of interest to me, something which the network as a whole excels in. But I have also requested that you be flexible, ready to provide at short notice whatever services are needed, whether it's arranging for security, or medical care, or even going as far as participating in covert operations. And those of you who I've called on for such services have stepped up and delivered them admirably.

"But not everyone can do these extra things. Some of you work in professions such as law or computer technology that could be better used for our cause by helping us outside of our regular operations. A few of you have training that qualifies you to participate directly in some of our more discreet operations, beyond just communicating facts to us. And for some of you, gathering and reporting information is all you can do, or would choose to do.

"The changes I plan to make are in two steps. For the first step, we at Base, as a team, will be going over what we know of you to try and determine what tasks you excel at and what we could call on you to safely do, as well as those situations where it would be best you were not involved. So, if you have any skills that we may not be aware of but should know about, please forward them to Base. On the other hand, if there are things you feel you can't do or are unwilling to do, please forward those also.

"Once these evaluations are made, the second step will be a general restructuring of the Agents system. We will label each agent with those strengths and skills that we've identified. As a result, any particular agent will be called on for jobs above and beyond information gathering only when their particular skills are needed. All agents would be expected to continue communicating data and news to us. The new restructuring might mean more travel for some of you as your skills may be needed away from home, or it might mean the installation of new equipment so you are prepared to better use your training and experience for us. These possible needs will be handled on a case by case basis.

"Now, for the hardest part of this letter. With the death of Agent 53, it's become clear that what I've asked of you can be extremely dangerous. I didn't anticipate this when I set up the network, but its reality has been brought home very forcefully. The possibility that another agent would lose his or her life is there and, now that it's clear to all, we must be realistic about it.

"Some of you, on considering this reality, may decide that you would rather not continue as an agent. Or you may choose to end your association with our organization for other reasons. If this is your decision, please tell me. I will respect your wishes, and will remove you from the rolls of our Agents network with no hard feelings on our part. The communications equipment in your home will be deactivated, and even removed if you'd like. Your monthly stipend will be reduced over a period of three months, then discontinued. We would officially part company but hopefully our individual friendships would remain intact. All I would ask of you would be your continued silence regarding our activities and personnel.

"Please give careful thought to this last matter, and respond according to your own situation. I want all of you to be fully informed about our requirements and the possible dangers of being an agent. If you have any doubt whatsoever about your role in our organization, please think carefully about your commitment to us. But no matter what you decide, I need to hear from you within the next three calendar weeks.

"Thank you for your hard work on our behalf.

J.T.

Commander"

Jeff looked over the letter once again, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing it with two fingers. He wondered if the language of it was too vague or too wordy, or if perhaps it were too simplified and needed editing to make it less conversational. I hate these kinds of letters, he groused. Penelope thought it sounded clear and concise, but maybe I'd better run it past Mother. She'd tell me if I were being too obtuse.

At that moment, the green couch that sat parallel to his desk dropped into the floor, to be replaced shortly after by a duplicate holding a uniformed John and, surprisingly, Virgil. Jeff put his data pad down and smiled. "Ready to go, John?"

"Yes, sir. I am," John replied as Virgil left the sofa and he stood up. "Just here to say my goodbyes for a couple of weeks."

"Let me tell the household," Jeff said, activating the whole house intercom. "Attention, everyone. John's ready to leave for Thunderbird Five."

It took a few minutes, but soon nearly everyone was gathered in the lounge to give John a good send off. Everyone but Lady Penelope, who sent her bon voyage wishes via Parker, and a very busy Brains, who sent his via Tin-Tin. John received hugs and kisses from the two women, handshakes, claps on the back, or quick embraces from his father and brothers, and a deep bow from Kyrano, which he returned. Then he sat back down on the couch, and his father, with a final farewell, sent him on his way. The family hurried to the balcony to wait for the launch, while Jeff sat behind the desk to monitor air and sea traffic around the island and give the space ship permission to take off. He joined the rest of the group just in time to see the red rocket ship roar out of its silo into the late morning sky and zoom quickly out of sight.

The group slowly dispersed, and Jeff tapped Eleanor on the shoulder. "Mother, will you read over this letter I've written and tell me what you think?"

"All right, son. I'm coming," Eleanor replied.

She passed into the lounge before Jeff, and as he followed, he heard Parker say to Tin-Tin, "Ay'll come wiv ye, Miss Ky-ran-oh. Ay mayht be h'able t' give Mr. Brains h'a 'and wiv h'it. Wouldn' be th' furst tayme Ay 'acked h'a com-pew-teh."

Parker... a hacker? Since when? Jeff asked himself, rather stunned at the thought. But before he could pursue the matter, Eleanor called from within the lounge, and he turned to join her.

Penelope sighed as she ended her phone call. The conversation with Melissa had gone rather well, she thought, and the young widow was grateful for the effort put forth by the two politicians in Unity City. However, Penelope's chat with England's Prime Minister, Edward Trelawney, had not been as successful. First, it had been necessary for her to track the man down herself as his lackeys were steadfastly refusing to forward her call to him, wherever he was. She had left a somewhat threatening voice mail message, reminding him that she still had that picture from his last business trip to Cancun and wouldn't his wife just love to see it? As a rule, she didn't like to use blackmail to get results, but in the case of powerful men, it was sometimes the only cudgel she had.

He had returned her call within thirty minutes, but sounded rather irritated at the interruption to his schedule. So she had succinctly asked him why he had denied Alison St. Clair's employment with his office. His reply was equally curt.

"My dear Penelope, you know very well I had no real plans to visit Unity City until the next elections. But Alvarez had those papers out and, well, I had to tell him the truth about my schedule. I am terribly sorry if you are inconvenienced, luv, but Carlos is an old friend who knows me entirely too well. As for his discovering who you really were, he shan't. I made sure of that." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her in the vidphone screen. "By the by, Penelope dear, how did 'Alison' get away? I understand that you had trouble with 'pirates' and a man was killed..."

"That, dear Edward, is my own affair. But I must not keep you any longer. Good day, Edward."

"Wait! What about that picture?"

"Good day, Edward." And she had ended the conversation, feeling more than a little bit rankled by his defection, and hoping that the Prime Minister had indeed erased Alison's records from his database. I shall have to tell Parker to check, and to deal with any traces accordingly.

Alvarez stood in the broad window of his office, a cup of hot green tea in his hand, gazing out at the sea. Already the sky was beginning to subtly change color with the approach of sunset. Someone knocked at the door and he called, "Venido."

Ramirez came in, a data pad in hand. Alvarez didn't turn, just sipped his tea and asked, "Any word from Franks?"

"Yes. As he surmised, the Myles woman is no longer living where he had found her before, and none of the neighbors would give him her new address. He reports he has a way to draw her out of hiding, but it will take a few days."

"As I suspected. He is stalling. I doubt he will be able to find her at all. No matter. I must proceed with the rest of my plan." The imposter finished his tea, then turned around. Reaching up to his black armband, he tore it off and tossed it onto the desk. His eyes met those of the secretary as he said, "Fernando, mourning is over. Now it is time to prepare for His Excellency's return to Unity City."

In the lab, Tin-Tin set up a computer station for Parker as the chauffeur paid a visit to his beloved Rolls. "Jus' ye wait, ol' gehl. Mr. H'Alan's on 'is way an' ye'll be rayte h'as rain quicker 'n' quick," he cooed as he ran his hand over the bonnet, now covered with a mottled combination of black, silver, and pink paint due to a malfunction in the chameleon circuitry. "Then we'll go h'all go 'ome."

"Mr. Parker? We're ready for you." Tin-Tin's voice rang out over the loudspeaker in the pod vehicle repair bay, where the Rolls awaited her expert repairman.

"Ay'm comin'!" the reformed crook called. He gave the hood ornament a swift buffing with his sleeve, then stomped up the stairs to the main lab.

"Over here, Mr. Parker," Tin-Tin directed. The older man sat down at the computer station that had been rigged for him. "I set this up on a laptop because I know that you're going with Scott to Ireland in the morning. This way you can take it with you. Plus, it's isolated from the rest of the network so that any virus can't get out and wreak havoc with our servers. If you need to use the 'Net, just log in on my computer and download what you want onto a disk."

"Where'll ye be, Miss Ky-ran-oh? H'In case Ay 'ave h'enny questions."

Tin-Tin smiled, and pointed to the opposite corner of the room. "I'll be over there working with Brains for a bit. I promised him two hours today, one before lunch and one after, then I'm going back to my sewing." She shook her head. "I never knew that Penelon could be so difficult to work with!"

Parker laughed his cautious, "Heh heh heh. Makes ye want t' strangle th' bloke 'oo came h'up wiv h'it, don' h'it?"

"At the moment, yes," the girl admitted. She cocked her head at him and gave him a puzzled look. "Excuse my curiosity, but when did you learn how to hack computers?"

Parker waved a hand. "Com-pew-teh pro-grammin' wuz part o' th' h'oc-yew-pay-shun-awl trainin' 'Is Majesty's gov'ment gave me while Ay wuz h'in stir. Learnin' t' wrayte code came ratheh h'easy t' me. H'An' Ay do 'ave th' rep-pew-tay-shun o' bein' h'able t' h'im-preg-nayte th' h'im-preg-nay-bul, so t' speak."

Tin-Tin smiled at his explanation. "You certainly are full of surprises, Mr. Parker." She squared her shoulders. "Well, if you find you need help with anything, just ask."

"Ay shall, Miss."

Tin-Tin left him then, and the reformed second-story man cracked his knuckles out of habit, then peered at the screen as he opened up the attachment Dee had finally sent along.

"I think you've struck the right tone here, Jeff," Eleanor said as she handed back the data pad. "Not too folksy and not too stuffy. When are you going to send it?"

Jeff stared at the screen for a moment, not really seeing the letter, but lost in his own world. Then he gazed over at his mother. She saw the apprehension in his eyes, the crease of worry on his forehead, and she got up from the chair she was in and went to put a hand on his shoulder. With the other hand, she took the pad from him, and laid it down on the desk. "You don't have to send this now, Jeff. It can wait for another day."

He closed his eyes and looked down, and when he raised his head and opened his eyes, she saw determination there once again. "No, Ma, it's got to go out, and now is the time. I may lose a lot of agents, and we all may lose some friends, but it has to be done."

He sat down, and she moved with him, her hand still on his shoulder. With a few keystrokes, he downloaded the letter to his computer. He carefully went through the group of email addresses he was sending it to and removed the one belonging to Peter Riordan. He also made sure that Penelope's IR server address was included, an action that made Eleanor frown slightly, but she held her peace. She felt his shoulders rise as he took in a deep breath, then fall again with his silent exhalation as, with a few more keystrokes, the letter was on its way.

"It's done," he said quietly.

She rubbed his upper back gently as he put his elbows on his desk and linked his fingers together, propping his forehead on his folded hands. "Why did you include Penelope?" she asked as she stopped her rubbing to rest her hand on the back of his neck.

"Because she has already seen the letter... and she wants the choice."

Eleanor stopped to consider this for a moment, then asked, "Do you really think she might leave IR?"

Jeff nodded slowly, his forehead still resting on his hands. "God help us if she does but... yes, Ma, I do."

Scott opened the email from his father's scheduling people, and smiled. The note was to confirm hotel and car rental reservations for himself and Parker in Peter's hometown of Londonderry, known simply as Derry to the locals. There was also a separate email confirming the flight plan he had filed for his father's JT-1, with a stop in Los Angeles for refueling and change of pilot. Twelve thousand miles. Less than an hour's trip in Thunderbird One but, with the hour stop in Los Angeles, it will take seven flying JT-1 at maximum. I've gotten spoiled by One's speed, that's for sure. But there's no way Dad would let me take her on this trip. And I won't have much time in Derry either. Dad's adamant that I be home within 72 hours, picking up Kenny Malone on the way back.

He opened up his garment bag and began to pack, pulling out his dark blue suit and brushing lint, both real and imagined, from the lapels. I wonder what the weather will be like in Derry? I suppose I should bring my overcoat. Pulling his dress shoes from the closet, he sat down to tend to their shine. He knew he could ask Kyrano to shine them for him, and the retainer would oblige, but keeping his shoes at a high gloss was a task that he liked to do for himself. It was something he'd learned to do in the Air Force and sometimes it came in handy, especially during those trips to the offices in New York, when a late night would make it difficult to get shoes shined by morning. Besides, as far as he was concerned, no one else could do it to his exacting standards, not even Kyrano.

Scott settled down with his kit, brushing tiny bits of dirt from the sides of the shoes, adding a touch of polish and smearing it over the leather. He was just beginning the buffing phase of the process when a flash of pink, white and gold caught his eye. He knew what it was; Lady Penelope had just walked by the half-opened vertical blinds of his wide window. Why is she walking out on the balcony? he wondered. Probably doesn't want to meet anyone from the house. He went back to his task, then paused mid-stroke as his conversation with Virgil came back to him. Am I being fair to her? Virgil had a point when he said she might have been discovered no matter how she had disguised herself. Gaat is a cunning and dangerous man and we don't really know everything he can do with those powers of his.

He unconsciously tossed his shoe from hand to hand, as if it were a football, then realized what he was doing and went back to buffing it. Okay, okay, I'll admit it. Maybe I'm not being fair to her... but I still think Pete's death could have been avoided. Maybe not by Lady Penelope, but by Dad. If he had let me do as I suggested, Peter wouldn't have had to set those incendiaries off, and he wouldn't have encountered the man who killed him. Sometimes it seems like Dad thinks more about International Rescue's reputation and security than he does about the people who make the damn thing possible.

Finishing one shoe, he started on the other. Or... maybe if I had disobeyed orders and followed my gut instincts... I guess that's the real crux of the matter. I could have done something to help, but I didn't. Instead, I obeyed orders, sat on my hands, and my friend died. That's just not supposed to happen in IR. Not to agents.

He let out a long breath, suspending his chore for a moment as another thought hit him. What is Melissa going to think about the money? About the family debts being paid? Did Pete tell her about IR? Dad hasn't said that agents can't tell their spouses; Jeremiah Tuttle's wife Maud knows about it. How is she going to feel if she knows that Pete died for IR? How will she react if she learns I could have...? Oh God. He dropped his shoe and put his head in his hands. All I want to do now is help. But will she let me? Or will she hate me for not acting when I could have?

Cindy Lou stared at the translation John had done of Tony Cho's email and sent back to her. She had been deep in thought for some time now, wondering if she should bring it to the attention of the head of Interpol, Piers Donovan. I just don't know. The email implicates me in the use of that termite that got into Interpol's files. Which might be a good thing, since it would exonerate IR, but do I want to tell Donovan the whole story, holding back only who runs International Rescue? How far up does the corruption go? For all I know, he might have been the one who ordered my plane to be sabotaged. Interpol does come under the authority of the Minister of Security, after all. Still, I'd hate to see Tony's killers go unpunished. And it is evidence in an ongoing investigation.

She got up and made her way into the kitchen, taking the remains of her microwave dinner with her. Maybe if I found out who in Singapore is in charge of the case and sent it anonymously, removing my name from the greeting. I don't know if they'd catch on to the "Erd" part of Erdman, though; I sure didn't. They couldn't trace my ISP number, and if I used the box that Tony used most often, then closed it down, it would pretty much keep them from finding me... though finding my domain would be a separate issue. I can't close the whole thing down, too many people are using it to contact me now. I suppose I could safely send a copy of the email from a public terminal in Manhattan; those attendants can't remember every customer that comes in. But then there are the security cameras, and how to pay for the time... oh, hell! Maybe I'd be better off sleeping on this idea.

The cats followed her as she entered the kitchen, milling around, rubbing up against her ankles and meowing. "What's up wit' yew?" she asked, rinsing her dish then throwing it into the recycle can. "Ah jes' fed y'all!" A quick check of the kibble level in the self-feeder revealed the problem, and Cindy Lou got out the big Tupperware storage container to refill the smaller bin. As she began scooping the kibble out, Midnight bullied his way past the females to be the first one to eat the fresh stuff, while Snowball, never one to wait on ceremony, put her paws on the storage bin and tried to eat directly from there. The woman rolled her eyes and pushed the white cat away. "He'll be out o' yoah way soon, Snowy. Jes' have a li'l patience." She sealed up the container and returned it to its cupboard.

Getting a glass of chilled wine from the cryofridge, she leaned up against the counter, her eyes focused on the cats, but her mind elsewhere. I think I could manage it from Manhattan. My disguise should be sound enough. I don't have to use the Cindy Lou accent, and if I pay cash... no, not cash. I'd probably be remembered; so few people use cash these days. I have to find a way to pay for the transmission without being traced, and that's the hard part. Maybe Jeff would have an answer. But... I don't want to be running to him all the time. I should be able to do this on my own. Don't want him to think I'm a helpless female.

She sipped the wine, shook her head and smiled at her own thoughts. Hmph. Like he'd think that anyway. Lucinda May Myles, you know damn well you're just looking for an excuse to call him. And why do you feel you need to have one, huh? Can't a friend call a friend without a reason? You used to phone Lucille like that all the time and talk for hours.

Another sip of wine, and she sighed. "That's the rub, isn't it?" she said softly and without a trace of drawl, speaking as if to another person. "This isn't Lucille. This is Lucille's husband. An attractive, eligible man that you're already very emotionally attached to. A man that you could very easily fall in love with. But a man who, in his heart of hearts, is still married to your late best friend. Do you really want to go there, Myles? Because if you do, the odds are very high that you'll get your heart broken all over again."

The noise of cats hissing and spitting brought her out of her contemplations. Spot and Snowball were facing off over the kibble, hackles raised and tails lashing back and forth. Midnight was walking away, unconcerned, his turn at the feeding trough over, his appetite satisfied for the moment, while Moofums uneasily circled the two combatants. Cindy Lou gulped down the rest of her wine, rinsed the glass and put it in the auto washer, then turned her attention to the brewing feline conflict.

Penelope hoped to return to Kyrano's garden without meeting any of the extended family, but it was not meant to happen. As she approached the stairs that curved from the wide upper deck down toward the pool, she saw Jeff leaning on the balcony rail, gazing out to sea. He glanced her way, his face troubled, but smiled slightly on seeing her. Standing up straighter and turning toward her, he said, "Hello, Penny. Come out to enjoy the day?"

She sighed internally and approached him. "Yes. I was restless in the guest room and thought that Kyrano's garden might provide me with some peaceful solitude. That is, if Virgil is not painting there again today."

Jeff shook his head. "I'm not sure where Virgil is right now. He had been with John just before Thunderbird Three launched, but I don't know where he went after lift-off."

"Then perhaps I shall walk on the beach instead," Penelope said, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

"No, let me find out where he is for you." Before she could protest, Jeff lifted his wrist and called into it, "Jeff to Virgil. Where are you now, son?"

Virgil's surprised face appeared in the tiny watch screen. "I'm inside, about to come up to the lounge and practice. Why?"

"No reason, son. Just wanted to know. See you in a few moments. Jeff out." He smiled a bit wider at Penelope. "There you are. The garden is free of artists. Unless, of course, the garden's main artist, Kyrano, is down there. But he wouldn't bother you, I'm sure."

Penelope hid her mild irritation at Jeff's obtuseness under a slight smile. "Thank you, Jeff, for you help. I shall retreat to the garden for a bit." She turned to go, then stopped suddenly and swung back to face him. "Jeff?"

"Yes, Penny?"

"My friend in Unity City says that..." She paused as she searched for the proper name to use. "...Alvarez-Gaat has ordered a complete investigation into the 'disappearance' of my undercover alter ego. I am not very concerned that my own identity would be uncovered, but Peter did... bleed... a good deal." She swallowed, then continued. "A DNA test of the blood left on the beach could possibly place him at the cay when he was supposed to be on Seabird with me. If there is someone who could determine where Peter's DNA records might reside and could remove them, it would protect him from investigation and his wife from questioning at this difficult time."

Jeff's eyes widened in consternation. "You have a point there, Penny. Lucinda Myles did mention that the fingerprints in the file she obtained weren't Scott's, Gordon's or John's because they weren't in any military database. How many places would have such information anyway?"

"Quite a large number, I should say, depending on the individual situation." Penelope smiled, a genuine one with a touch of slyness about it. "Have no fear for your sons, or even for yourself, Jeff. I had Parker remove the fingerprint and DNA information of your family from as many places as we could find as a matter of course. Tin-Tin's and Brains's records have been altered as well. After all, it just would not do to have an operative of International Rescue jailed and his or her fingerprints identified. But if the same has not been done for the agents, it is perhaps time to do so. I suggest you approach Agent 38, Renée Baptiste, for assistance. She is uniquely qualified for the task."

His face looking thoughtful, Jeff nodded. "I'll talk to Lucinda, too, get an idea where investigators would be likely to look first, then we can concentrate on those places right away. Thank you, Penny, for bringing this up."

"You are quite welcome, Jeff." She took a deep breath. "I think I shall find the solitude of the garden now."

"Right. Will we see you at dinner this evening?"

"Perhaps."

As she turned again to go, Jeff called, "Penny? I never knew Parker was a hacker."

She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a small smile. "A result of his time at Dartmoor Scrubs, I fear. It is a skill few would credit him with, but it has made him all the more invaluable to me, and ultimately, to International Rescue."

"Yes, I can see that," Jeff replied, nodding slowly. "See you later, Penny."

With a last, small smile, she made her way to the steps and carefully descended. Jeff watched her go, then returned his gaze to the sea for a moment. But Penelope's warning began to weigh heavily on his mind, and he sighed, then turned back into the lounge to make a vidphone call.

Brigitte Andersen toweled her long, freshly washed blonde hair towards a semblance of dryness, then began to pull a stiff brush through the thick mass, wincing slightly as she encountered an occasional tangle, but working the brush through. It was the price she had to pay for having such long tresses, but it was one she paid willingly. Once or twice she had entertained the idea of cutting it all off, especially after a particularly difficult fire where her hair, even pulled back and braided, added to the sweaty heat of her protective gear. But the thought was short-lived when she realized how long it would take to grow her mane back and how she might look during the process. It was vanity, pure and simple, but one that she indulged in without guilt.

As she continued her grooming, she checked her answering machine. Finally off-duty for twenty-four hours, she had hoped to find a message from that handsome operative that she had met... what was his name? Oh yes, John. He had said he would call, but there was no message left from him. Just one from her brother in Stockholm, and a cryptic one from Renée Baptiste telling her to check her email. A sigh, a shrug, and Brigitte erased the messages. She booted up her computer and as it came to life, she started a pot of strong coffee. If she were to call her brother back, she would need the stimulant to fortify her for the long discussions they often had. While the coffee brewed, she returned to the machine, keyed in a password, and found herself in the secure email box where orders from International Rescue usually came.

To her surprise, there were two messages. One was from the familiar address of the commander, and seemed urgent. The other was from someone calling themselves "Operative Five". This puzzled her; when the agents communicated amongst themselves, which was infrequently, they would be identified as "Agent" then the particular number assigned. She clicked on the one from the commander first.

Brigitte read it through twice, feeling tears prick at her eyes as she reread the first paragraph, and as she realized the real purpose of the email: to give anyone with doubts or fears a way to step out with dignity. I will not leave, she thought to herself. They need the brave, the committed, and I am both. Peter was right; the cause is worthy. And I am less likely to die in service to International Rescue than I am in my chosen profession. She replied to the email with one simple line: "Tell me how else I may serve the cause."

Then she turned her attention to the other email, the one that puzzled her. Opening it, she scanned down the page and smiled, then returned to the beginning to read and savor it.

Dear Brigitte,

Forgive my laxness in not contacting you before this, but things at Base have been hectic since we met. So much so that I am being sent on assignment away from Base for the next two weeks. But I did not want to leave you with the impression that I had forgotten my promise or am not interested in pursuing a friendship. There is no provision for vidphone calls where I am going, but there is for email, and I hope you will reply to this and we can carry on a conversation until I am able to actually phone you.

Awaiting your reply,

John

She left the missive burning there as she fetched herself a cup of coffee, and returned to begin composing her reply.

It was night when "Derek Edwards" returned to the little motel he had registered at. He had spent the day exploring the roads and land surrounding his target's home. Now he sat down with a map and his laptop, starting a search for real estate in the area. I need to find an empty property, out of the way and unlikely to be visited by the realtor in the next week or so. Once I've found what I want and have gained access, I can focus on observing the household and its routine, find out where everyone goes and when. Then in a few days, I should be able to make my move and get Lucinda to come to me. He smiled grimly as he thought of his former partner. I'll have you by the short hairs this time, Luce, without any sheriff's department or visiting billionaires to get in the way.