Cover Stories

"Jorge!" Ramirez shouted, entering the computer room and bearing down on the dour little man. "Have you been able to access His Excellency's files yet?"

The computer expert didn't even turn his head. "No. Not yet," he snapped.

"You know that His Excellency cannot return to Unity City without those... adjustments made to his personal information," Ramirez reminded him. He sniffed derisively. "At least his mole at Interpol has taken care of the evidence there." He put his hands on Jorge's computer desk, one on each side of the man, and leaned in very, very close from behind. "I would not like to be you if you fail this task, el pequeño."

The wizened Jamaican turned his head slowly to stare, unblinking, at Ramirez. "I'll not fail."

"Are you sure?" Ramirez taunted. "His Excellency is getting impatient."

Jorge's eyes narrowed. "I'm gettin' notting done wit' you 'ere. And I'll tell His Excellency so if he come to ask why de delay."

Ramirez chuckled, a slightly amused sound. "Just keep your attention on your computer, el pequeño. I will be back for an update in an hour." He levered himself back to stand straight, and left, closing the door loudly behind him.

Jorge muttered curses on the man who had just left and continued his attempts to access the data he wanted.

Renée Baptiste scanned the file on the disk she had just received via diplomatic courier and smiled grimly. As soon as she had heard from Jeff that the minister of security was a fraud, she copied his personnel data and that of all his staff to a series of disks then set them aside in an envelope with a thumbprint lock. She knew that at some point the imposter would need to return to Unity City as part of "his" duties and might be asked to verify his identity. The only way he can truly do that is to give a sample for DNA testing, which means he would have to replace the real minister's data with his own. I should hope that the level of encryption we have used to secure the information in those subfolders would withstand any attack from without, but... there's is no telling who he has working for him or what that person can do.

She closed the file, opened the envelope with her thumb, and added the disk to the small stack that already resided there. Her latest acquisition had the official seal of the Panamanian government on it, and contained only one file: the arrest record of one Carlos Esteban Alvarez, age 20, complete with fingerprints and DNA sample in their encrypted subfolders. The current minister of security had been arrested for entering Panama illegally during a time when that country was cracking down heavily on drug smugglers and arms dealers coming from the south. Alvarez had been smuggling nothing more than his personal belongings, but he was still arrested, tried, convicted, and deported back to Columbia after spending five months as a "guest" in one of Chepigana's jails, waiting for the wheels of justice to turn.

No reason had been given for his illegal entry, but having read the "public" part of the file, and knowing what she did about Alvarez's biography, Renée suspected it had something to do with Engracia Ynez de los Santos, the Panamanian woman who would later become his wife. The entire incident had been mentioned in a brief, dry footnote made by her predecessor when Alvarez was confirmed to his office. The opponents to his confirmation had dug it up, but had not used it against him, seeing it as merely a youthful indiscretion. She doubted anyone remembered it.

If this imposter manages to get past the encrypting, or changes anything in the personnel file, the arrest record should give me something to refer back to, something proving that the pretender is a fraud. I only hope that he has not already corrupted the files in our database. This imposture may have been going on for as long as His Excellency has been in mourning, and that would have given him plenty of time to make those alterations or at least attempt them.

It was around 2 p.m. local time when Parker set the JT-1 down at City of Derry Airport. He was tired; over the past few days his body had grown accustomed to the rhythm of Tracy Island, and now here he was, back in Greenwich Mean Time, seven hours flight but twelve hours worth of time zone away. He taxied the jet over to a private hangar, bringing the craft to a halt within the confines of the building, and settling it just where the guides indicated he should. Then he went about extricating himself from the safety straps as behind him, Scott did the same.

"There's supposed to be a rental car waiting for us, Parker," Scott explained to the chauffeur. "But you shouldn't be driving. Not with all the flying you just did."

"Beggin' yer pardon, Mr. Scott, but Ay will be drivin'. 'Tis may job, remember?" Parker replied stubbornly. Conversation was halted momentarily as he climbed out of the cockpit, his movements stiff.

Scott followed, stretching and yawning when his feet hit the tarmac. He put his hands up in a gesture of appeasement. "Okay, okay. I won't fight. We'll see when and where the wake is planned for, and if it's already going on, we can join in this evening, after some rest."

"H'Am Ay rayte in supposin' that th' h'ee-vent 'twill be at 'is family's 'ome?" Parker asked as he stood near the plane's tail, overseeing the removal of the baggage from the cargo hold.

"Yes, it should be. And I know where they live," Scott replied. "Unless they've moved, which I doubt they would. I'll call and be sure, though." He tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. "Let's get through customs and find that car. The sooner I get some shut-eye, the better I'll like it."

"Yus, sir." Parker draped the strap of Scott's garment bag over his shoulder, then picked up his own suitcase and Scott's larger one, leaving his companion to carry only a small travel bag. Scott frowned at the inequality of the load.

"Are you sure you can handle all that? I'd be glad to take my suitcase."

"Heh heh. Don't worrah, Mr. Scott. This h'is nuffin' compared t' what 'Er Ladyship 'as me luggin' h'about," Parker quipped. The eldest Tracy son shook his head slowly as the two of them made their way to the small plane terminal and the customs inspectors.

It had taken the detectives a few hours to track down the Honorable Addison Kennicot. She was not in her office, or on the Senate floor, and her secretary stubbornly refused to tell them where she had gone. On top of that, when they finally found her at home, they ended up interrupting her at luncheon. She met them in her home office, sitting behind her desk, obviously displeased at the intrusion.

"Please make this brief, detectives."

Patricia crossed her legs at the knee and took out her PDA. "We were wonderin', Madame Senator, so we were, what connection ya have with the Peter Riordan family."

Addison frowned, her eyes glancing from one detective to the other. "Why do you want to know?"

"We were given to understand dat you provided diplomatic status to Mrs. Riordan and to her husband's coffin today," Ciprian said, consulting his data assistant. "And that you asked de Irish Ambassador to do de same."

"Yes, that's true," Addison admitted. "Again, I ask: why do you want to know?"

"We're interested in the reason why ya did this, Madame Senator," Patricia said. One eyebrow rose in challenge. "Ya don't seem to travel in the same social circles as a cabby and his family, so ya don't."

Addison carefully regarded her visitors again. Then she sighed. "If you must know, I was asked to do it by a dear friend. And Mrs. Riordan's plight struck a chord with me. I made a similar journey two years ago."

"Who is de friend?" Ciprian asked bluntly, his voice still pleasant.

"Is that really any of your concern, detective?"

Ciprian gave his partner a keen glance, one that virtually asked, "Do we tell her?" Patricia nodded slightly, and the Unity City detective turned back to Addison. "I'm afraid dat it is, Madame Senator. Blood, of which de DNA matches dat of Peter Riordan, was found on de Minister of Security's beach after a terrorist attack. His Excellency tells us dat Ms. St. Clair, who was his guest, was kidnapped during de attack."

Patricia noted with satisfaction that the stiff upper lip of the senator crumbled a bit, and she paled. The politician regarded the two detectives again, her eyes narrowing, then she sighed and her shoulders slumped. "The name of my friend is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward."

Scott knocked on the door to the Riordan's home. It was an old house, but well-kept, two stories on a street not far from the Foyle River. Scott had been there before, in Peter's company, during his college days and before his friend joined the RAF. He remembered the man who opened the door to him, but the last time he had seen Peter's father, James, the man's hair had been a lot less white and he hadn't been carrying as much weight as he carried now. James peered up through bifocals at the strapping man who stood before him and at the shorter, unfamiliar man who stood behind him, his hat in his hand. Finally, in a voice that croaked, Peter's father asked, "Scott? Scott Tracy? Is it you?"

"Yes, sir. It's me. I've come to pay my respects to my friend." He turned to the chauffeur and said, "This is Aloysius Parker, an old drinking buddy of Peter's and mine. Uh, Al? This is James Riordan, Peter's father."

"Pleased t' make yer h'ah-kwain-tense, sir," Parker said, bobbing a touch.

"Come in," James said, opening the door wider to admit the two men. Scott smiled a bit and nodded, and Parker hung his cap up on a coat rack by the door.

There were more than a dozen men already gathered, four or five of them providing a slow, sweet melody on flute, whistle, and fiddle, the beat kept by a man playing the bodhran, a traditional Irish drum. Everyone but the musicians had drinks in their hands, mostly pints of Guinness ale, known there as "the black stuff". Peter's coffin was there, open, with the kegs of ale and beer and bottles of Irish whiskey set on the smooth top. Scott made his way through the room to the coffin, where Peter's older brother, Sean, was pouring out the liquor.

"Scott Tracy? It's good t' see ya again," Sean said amiably, holding out a hand to shake Scott's. "What'll it be?"

"The black stuff," Scott said. He took a look at Peter, noticing the expert make up job that gave color to his friend's previously paper white cheeks but obscured the freckles that covered Peter's face. He sighed, then turned to Sean to take the froth-topped pint. Parker had taken the same, and before Scott took a sip, he raised his glass and said, "To Peter. A true hero."

There was a smattering of voices echoing, "To Peter," and Scott turned from the coffin. He surveyed the room and noticed two men, dressed in sharply pressed slacks and button down shirts, standing apart from the knot of family and family friends. He made his way over to them, and held out his hand. "Scott Tracy." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "This is Aloysius Parker."

The taller of them, a sandy blond with a thick mustache and an English accent, introduced himself and his companion, "I am Terrence Ainsworth, and this is Reg Seaton." He and his friend shook Scott's hand, then Parker's. Terrance asked, "How do you know Peter?"

"We went to Oxford together, and stayed friends afterwards. You?"

"We were...," Reg began. He looked over at the family members then turned his attention back to Scott. " We were stationed together."

"Ah! I understand," Scott said, nodding. He took a deep drink of the Guinness, and licked his lips. He did understand somewhat; for these were two RAF friends of Peter's and showing up here now was a possibly provocative move. Not only because of "the troubles", as the Irish described their struggle, but also because they were a reminder of a part of Peter's life his family would most likely wish to forget.

Terrence turned to Parker. "How did you know him?"

Parker had been in the middle of a gulp of ale when the question was asked, and he finished swallowing, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Me an' Pete were drinkin' buddies while 'e wuz h'at h'Oxford. 'E an'... Scott... found th' pub where me an' me mates loiked t' bend h'an h'elbow. 'E wuz h'a cheeky bloke, Pete wuz. 'E challenged me t' h'a game o' draughts once, 'e an'... Scott... 'ere. Scott fell t' may supe-ear-ee-or skill, but no' Pete. 'E wuz h'a good player, an' h'a better sport when 'e lost."

"Wait a minute," Reg said, frowning a bit. "Aren't you the one whose boat he was on when he was shot?"

"Well, t'wasn't may boat..." Parker hemmed.

Scott looked up, slightly startled as the family members slowly began to gather around them. Someone had overheard Reg's remark and, like lightning, had passed it on until it reached the ears of James and Sean. Parker glanced around, befuddled, while Scott silently prayed that the chauffeur would remember the cover story and wouldn't get too carried away in his recounting of the tale.

James came to the forefront of the group. "Am I t' understan' that ya were with our Peter at... at th' end?" he asked softly.

"Yus, sir. Ay wuz," Parker replied, looking appropriately mournful. "H'As Ay begun t' say, sir, t'wasn't may boat, t'was that o' milady, may h'em-ploy-er. Ay was summat surpraysed t' see Pete an' 'is cab, bringin' th' doctor bloke down t' meet wiv Milady. But Ay h'invited 'im h'aboard fer h'a quick nip. Un-for-chune-hat-lay, milady's boat h'is one o' them com-pew-teh controlled jobbies an' before we knew h'it, we were h'aowt t' sea."

His eyes narrowed and his face took on an angry expression. "Then them demmed pay-rates showed h'up. They wuz stealin' whatsoeffer they could find, an' wavin' guns h'around. They mayte 'ave 'urt milady, but Pete, Pete took them h'on. Shot h'at them wiv h'a gun first, then, when th' h'ammo ran h'aowt, turned t' fisticuffs. Gave their leader sech h'a beatin'! Ay wuz h'in there, too, wiv may 'Parker 'Aymaker' but they wuz too many fer h'us. The doc wuz trayin' t' protect milady, so 'e weren't much 'elp h'in th' fayte, but when Pete took h'a bullet through th' thaygh, 'e got busy tryin' t' save Pete's layfe."

Parker paused, and took a gulp of his Guinness. "Them demmed gits scuttled milady's yacht, an' we wuz close t' fallin' h'in th' drink wiv th' sharks, but milady managed t' get h'off h'a message t' them H'In-ter-nash-un-all Rescue blokes, an' they rescued h'us." He put on his mournful face again, and his voice dropped. "But 'twas too late fer Pete bay then."

The crowd of family members murmured as the tale came to a close, and James put a hand on Parker's shoulder. "Thank ya for tellin' us about our Peter's last moments. I had heard some a' the story on th' news, but t' hear it from the man who was there... well, it's good t' know that our Peter was a hero." He took Parker's empty pint and handed it to Sean. "Fill it up again, Sean. A tale like that works up a man's thirst."

"Thank ye," Parker said simply as the fresh pint was handed to him. James nodded and went back to talking with the cousins and old family friends, leaving Parker, Scott, and Pete's two RAF buddies alone. Scott breathed a noiseless sigh of relief, and clapped Parker on the shoulder.

"They'll be all day dissecting that," Reg said, his eyes on the knot of Riordan men.

"Dissecting it and passing it around," Terrance agreed. He glanced at Parker. "Be prepared to tell the tale more than once." Parker nodded as he drank his second pint.

The longer the wake went on, the merrier it got. Tongues were loosened and stories were told about Peter's childhood. The music itself got lighter and happier. Men came and went, family members who had come from afar or neighbors who knew Peter or his family and wanted to pay their respects drifted in and out. Toast after toast was made to the honored dead. Scott noticed that nothing was said about his friend's stint in the military; as he had surmised, that was a time in his life that the family was intent on denying. The two RAF friends who had come to pay their respects honored Peter once with a toast of their own, one innocuous enough to placate the natives, then they left quietly and with only a "Nice to have met you," to Scott and Parker. Scott doubted they'd be at the funeral.

As Terrance had predicted, Parker was asked to tell the tale of Peter's last day again and again. Every time he did, Scott held his breath, especially once "the black stuff" loosened Parker's already garrulous tongue. But the cracksman stuck to his story, adding only details of the actual fight, complete with actions and sometimes sound effects. He also stuck to his story of how he and Peter had become friends, adding that he had lost track of Peter when he was, "h'a guest o' 'Is Majesty's gov'ment". His listeners understood.

Scott made the rounds of the small groups, listening to the men as they talked about Peter's life, getting a clearer picture of who his friend was and what he meant to his family. He was particularly interested in finding out what would happen to Melissa and the children, but no one really had any answers, or at least, none that they were discussing in his hearing. He finally caught up with James and Sean, and James looked at him with a smile. "So, Scotty-me-lad, how have ya been faring? It's been a long time since ya darkened our door."

Scott returned the smile. "It has been a long time, hasn't it? But not so long for Pete and me. I used to visit him and Melissa when my dad would send me to the Unity City offices."

"So, ye're workin' for yer Da, are ya? God knows ye're smart enough. Ya always were the smarter a' the pair a' ya." He took Scott's glass and refilled it. After the first two pints, Scott had changed over to whiskey, and was feeling the effects of the mixture of the two. He sat down as the musicians took another break and gathered around Sean for refills on their drinks. The front door opened again, and a short, wiry man with silver at the temples of his dark red hair came in, followed by two taller men, each with the same color hair as the first, but without the silver. "Aidan!" James declared as he embraced the older of the men. "Everyone, if ya don't already know him, this is Melissa's da, Aidan O'Connor, and her brothers, Mike annnnnnd..." He paused as he tried to remember the other man's name. "Mike and Keagan."

Aidan O'Connor waved to the assembly and made his way over to Pete's coffin. He looked down at the dead man and clicked his tongue, then turned to James. "I'm sorry for your loss, Jimmy. He was a fine son and a good son-in-law, too. Melissa's beside herself. But what we can't figure is why Pete was out on the sea in the first place."

"Come over here, Aidan, and let me introduce ya t' Aloysius Parker, who was with our poor Peter at the end." James took the older man's arm and steered him to where the chauffeur, feeling the effects of his drink, was sitting in a comfortable armchair.

Scott stood by the coffin again, gazing down on his friend's still face. He was still having trouble processing what Parker had told him about Peter's last words. What was it in Dad's dream that you thought worth giving your life for, Pete? I mean, for me and my brothers, it's the opportunity to see that others don't go through the pain and suffering that we did when Mom and Gramps died. But, what about you? What made you say "it was worth it"? His fist clenched on top of the coffin, spattered now with whiskey and ale. Don't worry about Melissa, Pete. I... We'll make sure she lacks for nothing... with the exception of you. Can't help her there, pal.

With a sigh, he let go his fist and patted the top of the coffin, then turned his attention to Parker, who was regaling the O'Connors with the story of Peter's valiant end. He slowly moved across the room to stand on the outside the little circle of men who were listening to the saga, waiting for the story to finish so he could pull the chauffeur from his chair, and head back to their hotel. For him, at least, the wake was over.

"What a mess," Alan said as he finally got a look at the Rolls Royce. He shook his head slowly at the damage. The carpet had already been stripped out and disposed of, and the seats had been removed. The metallic tang of blood still hung heavily in the air, especially inside the car. He ran a hand over the mottled paint, shaking his head some more, then looked under the hood to take a gander at the engine. "Hmm. Looks like the electrical system will need an overhaul, and we might have to strip down the paint and reapply it. I'll have to look at the specs for the chameleon paint; as I remember it was a bear to put on." He began to make notes in his PDA.

Moving around the car, he checked the canopy, which had a few spider web cracks where high velocity bullets had hit... but bounced off. "We'll have to rebuild the canopy from scratch. Damn, this is going to take time!" He glanced over at Brains, who was standing there with his arms folded. "Who supplies the polyhexane we use?"

"I-I'll give you a list of our, uh, parts providers, b-but I think this canopy is s-stronger than mere polyhexane," Brains remarked. "The s-supension will probably need an o-overhaul as well, uh, Alan."

"Right, even though the suspension is really the least of my worries," the blond replied. "Most of this is body and electrical work, but we'll give her an overall tune-up and see where we could upgrade some systems. Problem is, I really can't start work until Kenny gets here. I can put in orders for the leather that makes up the seat covers, and give the seat frames a thorough cleaning. I'm sure they're as covered with..." His words trailed off, then he shook himself a little and said, "Well, I can make a start on cleaning things up. See what can be done about the dents. Might have to..." He stopped mid-sentence as the emergency signal rang, echoing through the concrete bay. "Uh oh. Duty calls!"

Alan took the steps up to the lab two at a time and disappeared. Brains sighed, then turned to follow him. With Scott gone, there was every possibility he might be called upon to help with the rescue.