Tunnel Vision

Talk to whom you will in Boston, and you'll find that a majority of residents have strong opinions about the city's complex system of express tunnels. The earliest was the Sumner, built in 1934 when automobile traffic was just coming into its own. In 1961, a twin to the Sumner was laid down right beside it, spanning the narrowest point of Boston's Inner Harbor and connecting the North End and downtown to East Boston and Logan Airport. Named the Callahan, it took traffic from the city out to the airport, while the Sumner took traffic in the opposite direction. The Ted Williams Tunnel was added in the early part of the 21st century as part of a more comprehensive underground highway, but the purpose of that particular span was different; it offered a non-stop express route beneath the harbor's water from I-93 and the South End to the airport. The two older spans were still deemed just as necessary to Boston's convoluted traffic grid as their newer counterpart.

Fast forward 100-plus years, and both North End tunnels are showing their age. Leaks are almost inevitable, and it's become a common thing for motorists to skim through inches worth of sea water on their way to or from Logan. There have been floodings from time to time, and the occasional accident as motorists would hydroplane while going too fast and skid into other cars going in the same direction. Even an occasional jack-knifed truck would snarl up the traffic behind it, leaving drivers honking their horns and either shouting or muttering expletives until the local rescue units could get in and remove the obstruction. By 2068, the new Sumner is already under construction and plans have been laid to replace the Callahan as well, but until at least the Sumner is complete, the old tunnels remain open to traffic.

On this occasion, however, a concatenation of circumstances created a situation almost impossible for the local crews to deal with. A tanker truck filled with ethanol, the driver on his way to fueling depots in East Boston, had to pass through the Callahan tunnel. A layer of sea water, leaked down the tile walls through the roof of the tunnel, caused the truck to hydroplane and jack-knife, closing off most lanes of traffic. A church bus, headed out to the airport with a group of would-be missionaries, ended up filling in the gap left by the end of the truck as it, too, hydroplaned and slammed up against the tanker's side. Then another tanker, filled with alsterene, skidded and jack-knifed in the driver's futile attempt to stop. It smashed into the bus, warping the walls and making the emergency exits on the sides of the bus unusable and egress from the transport nearly impossible. The impact of the vehicles on the concrete sides of the tunnel proved to be too much for the old concrete, and a leaky spot widened, bringing in water from the harbor channel above. Lights went out, and exhaust fans ceased to work.

The ethanol tanker driver was able to get out; but not so the driver of the alsterene truck. His driver and passenger doors had crumpled as the side of the cab hit the wall and the bus and as other cars and smaller trucks collided with the cab. The emergency exits at the top of the bus were still available, but the top of the transport was wet and slick from the incoming water. Vehicles farther back managed to keep from adding to the chaos, but they couldn't turn around and get out of the tunnel. Instead, their drivers abandoned their rides and walked back out, informing others of the situation as they went. And to add insult to injury, the tankers began to leak their cargoes all over the road and into the rising water.

Fire departments from East Boston and Logan International Airport converged on the scene. They quickly closed off the Sumner tunnel as well as the Callahan and a rescue truck ventured into the gaping darkness, going against what would have been the traffic flow. It was followed by two heavy duty tow trucks. Chains were put around the ethanol tanker and an attempt was made to move it. But it was too solidly imbedded into the concrete walls to be moved with any kind of safety, and the danger of fire from the chemicals made cutting the truck apart impossible.

"We could send divers in under the tanker, but they'd be of little use. There's no way that we could haul that tanker away to get to the bus, and no way to get the bus passengers out," was the verdict from the rescue and tow truck drivers.

"It will take a lot of time to reach them from the other side, and the water is rising," the State Police representative added. "We're clearing an area at the other side of the tunnel for drivers to back up and pull out their cars, but a lot of drivers have already abandoned their vehicles, so those will have to be towed out. The only thing we could do to buy us time is to pump the water out and keep it from engulfing the people still in the tunnel."

The HAZMAT expert said, "But there's the danger from the mixture of seawater, ethanol, and alsterene. No one's ever had to deal with it before and we can't predict what it will do."

The Fire Chief listened to all recommendations, and then made one of his own. "The only people with heavy enough equipment to pull that tanker free and get those people out are the folks of International Rescue. We need to call them in."

"Th-Thunderbird Five from Rho," Brains called into his new hands free unit. He was in the lab on Thunderbird Two, working on something to neutralize the "chemical soup" as Jeff had called it. "Is it, uh, too much to h-hope that there's no OD60 in the, uh, h-harbor's water?"

John's face showed up in a small window on the inside of Brains's visor. He shook his head. "So far the locals say that there's no OD60 present or if there is, it's in such a small amount as to be negligible. The problem they're having is with the ethanol, the alsterene, and the salt water. The local HAZMAT teams are trying to pump out the tunnel but the stuff is so caustic that it's eating through their gear. The chemistry guys at MIT are working with the HAZMAT crew to see if they can find a way to neutralize the stuff."

"G-Good. At least we d-don't have to worry about the, uh, explosive side effects of a-alsterene and OD60. There's no l-leaking the other way?"

"No, the water hasn't risen high enough to do that."

Brains nodded, then remembered that John couldn't see him. A side effect of the visors. I'm not sure we can put a camera in them that would show the operative's face. It may be that we'll have to abandon the idea of seeing the operative while they're working unless they are in their vehicle. He lifted another test tube that held a mix of ethanol and alsterene and sea water taken from around the island. I know that this won't be as accurate as it could be since I don't have samples of the harbor water. But I've got to do something. And this is the best I have to work with.

Back in pod four, Gordon was making some adjustments to his Thunderbird. Tin-Tin, sent along as a second diver, was helping him.

"Okay, Tin-Tin; let 'er rip!"

Tin-Tin pushed a lever forward and a thick tube emerged from the nose of the mini-sub in the spot where the missile launcher usually rested. She pressed a button, and a jet of water shot forward, fed by a tank that was externally linked to the starboard turbine water intake. "Looks good, Gordon," she called, sticking her head out the side hatch.

"Yeah. We can use the water intakes to fuel the high pressure jet when we need it. Now, switch it over to the cement."

Tin-Tin hopped back in, and flipped a switch, then pressed the button. A stream of foam shot out, piling up quickly against the pod door. Gordon slashed down with his hand and Tin-Tin let go of the button.

"Hmm, not quite enough thrust there," Gordon said thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, we don't have time to fine tune it. We'll just have to get closer when we apply the cement." He grabbed a shovel and started scraping the thick liquid off the door. "Good thing this stuff expands in salt water," he commented. "We won't have to use as much to seal those leaks."

"Right." Tin-Tin flipped the switch again and let the water stream out again. Both the pressure of the water and the small amount of solvent that it held cleaned the inside of the tube. "How are we going to get the tube cleared after we use the concrete?" she asked.

Gordon took his last shovel load, and scraped it off into the waste canister. "We'll have to do that when we get back. Set up the water jet just like we have here."

"Ah, I see," she replied. She upped the pressure level on the water spray and used it to clean the remaining cement from the door.

"Thunderbird Four from Thunderbird Two," Virgil's voice came over the cockpit speaker. "ETA to Danger Zone, ten minutes. Make sure all equipment is secure and prepared for pod drop."

"F-A-B," Tin-Tin answered. She stepped out and began to break down the link to the barrel of water and solvent. "ETA to the Danger Zone, ten minutes," she announced to Gordon.

"I heard the man." He glanced around to see that the other pieces of equipment that had been crammed into his pod, the DOMO and one of the recovery vehicles, were secure. "Here, I'll store the barrel. Do we have enough of the concrete stowed aboard?" he asked.

Tin-Tin slipped back into the cockpit and opened the hatch between that area and the diving airlock. She peered in, counting up five squat plastic barrels. One barrel was already set up, tubes snaking into a gap in the airlock floor where they linked to the feed for the temporary water jet. "Almost five full barrels," she called. "Do you think that will be enough?"

"It'll have to be, won't it?" Gordon said, wiping his hands on a rag. "Let's get ready for launch."

In East Boston, Alan had set up Mobile Control near the exit from the Callahan and was liaising with the various groups working on the problem. He wore a bright yellow HAZMAT suit over his uniform, with the hood pulled back, and a baseball style cap on his head. His face was covered from eyebrows to just below his nose by the newly upgraded visor, the hands free communicator was plugged into the visor's circuitry and stuck in his ear. He had left his sash in Thunderbird One, which was under military guard on a side street nearby. He had been there for quite some time, waiting for Thunderbird Two to arrive.

The HAZMAT chief came over and gave him a weary smile. "Your idea about laying rigid PVC pipe down to pump out the liquid is working. The lines are lasting longer than the fire hose was and the water levels are dropping. Thanks!"

"You're welcome. Phase two of our plan is coming in just a few minutes," Alan explained. "I'm going to need to shut this down for a bit and get in there to take a look."

"We can get you down there in one of the fire trucks," the HAZMAT leader suggested.

"That would be great. I'll take care of this and pick up some equipment I need."

The HAZMAT chief nodded, and started speaking into her radio. Alan transferred control of the command center to something that looked like a wide remote control, then shut down the unit, closing it up and locking it. Then he ran back to Thunderbird One, giving the military presence there a quick salute, and climbed up into the cockpit. He found what he was looking for in a crate that was securely fastened to the wall behind the pilot's chair. It was an air gun, a rifle really, with a single barrel as wide around as his fist. Included in the box were six shells, made of a relatively brittle plastic and holding a sticky gallium compound that would spread over its target. The gallium's low radioactive profile was detectable at short range from all International Rescue craft except Thunderbird Five. It was part of the plan for him to mark where the tunnel leaks were from the inside so that Gordon could hopefully seal them from the outside.

He also grabbed his personal light, his hard hat with the light on it, and the oxygen tanks he would need to get in there. The overhead lights were still out, but they had managed to get the big ventilation fans running. Everyone hoped it was enough to keep the people trapped inside from choking on any fumes. So far, according to the bus driver and other trapped motorists with whom they still had radio or cell phone contact, things seemed stable. But Alan knew, as all the rescue workers did, how quickly a "stable" situation could deteriorate.

He ran back to the tunnel mouth, where a hose truck was waiting to take him into the darkened passage. Climbing aboard, he greeted the similarly dressed fireman who was driving the truck, then began to shrug himself into the air tanks' harness. The oxygen mask fit over his nose and mouth and had been upgraded so that the boom mike would still pick up his words. With the visor, it looked like he had on a full face mask. Only when he had completed his preparations did he give a thumbs up signal for the fireman to release the brake and advance into the Callahan.

Addison was still feeling rather rattled by her interview with the detectives. Should I have given them Penelope's name? I feel like I have betrayed her somehow... but it seems as if she has lied to me and to everyone else about her whereabouts that night. I thought she was still on the side of the angels, but can I be sure?

She paced up and down in her office as her thoughts went around in circles. They asked me if I knew where she was and I said I didn't know. That was true enough, but I know she's not at home either. They won't find her at Foxleyheath and they may be back, asking more questions. She stopped to stand in front of the large, many-paned window, looking out at the setting sun. This is not helping. I must do something... but what? Should I warn her? Turning, she looked at her vidphone, staring at it for what seemed to be a long moment as she wrestled with what to do. Then she pressed her lips together and frowned, letting out a huff of breath. She walked over to her desk and sat down, pulling out her PDA and dialing Penelope's satellite phone number.

The phone rang and rang, then there was a pause and the vidphone's screen had the words, "Voice Only." Penelope's smooth, cultured tones sounded in her ear. "This is Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward. You have reached my voice mail. I am so very sorry that I am not available to take your call. Please, do leave your name and a number where I may reach you, and I shall endeavor to phone back at the earliest opportunity."

Addison considered her response, then sighed heavily, and disconnected the call.

"Epsilon, how are things in Boston?"

John checked his data pad. "Going well, it seems, Commander. Thunderbird Four has been clearing the silt off the tunnel with the high-powered jet so they can get down to the surface on the outside and find those leaks. Rho reports progress in finding a neutralizing agent for the chemical spill, and Sigma says that with the fluid levels down, the locals are putting a team of EMTs in HAZMAT gear over the top of the ethanol tanker to assess how many injured the hospitals can expect. He also reports that Delta is standing by with the Recovery vehicle. It's going to be a bear getting those trucks and the bus out; the ethanol/alsterene combination has eaten away at the tires."

Indeed, things seemed to be going well, if moving slowly. The nearby ethanol distributor was rushing, via helijet, a neutralizing agent in a quantity that would deal with the cargo of the tank truck. The alsterene people, however, had yet to do the same, it being the wee hours in the morning in Morocco, where the manufacturer's home offices were. With alsterene being such a relatively new product, any information on it was given on a "need to know" basis by a paranoid corporate headquarters. Alan was ready to either jump into Thunderbird One himself or send Virgil out in the rocket plane to fetch whatever was needed and rush back to Boston with it. In the meantime, chemical manufacturers to the west were scrambling to find out what would neutralize it, pulling together in an unprecedented way to aid the folks in the Bay State.

I'm all for industrial secrets, but not when it comes to neutralizing hazardous materials, Alan groused to himself, frowning. I'm surprised that the World Government hasn't cracked down on this sort of thing. Then his face cleared, and he snapped his fingers. "Thunderbird Five and Base from Mobile Control. Do you read?"

"Go ahead, Mobile Control," John's voice came back. Overlaying the very end of his brother's statement came the communication from his father, "Base here, go ahead, Sigma."

"We're still looking for the neutralizing compound for alsterene. Can you get onto our agents in Unity City and see if the World Government has it on file? And get onto the folks in Morocco to have them scare up the manufacturers? Pound on their doors or something!"

"F-A-B, Mobile Control," Jeff said from his command post. "I'll get in touch with our agents in Morocco right away."

"And I can think of a Unity City agent or two who might know it, or have access to it," John added. "Thunderbird Five standing by."

Alan smiled. It was the best news he'd had in an hour.

In Boston's famous harbor, Gordon was nearly finished removing the layer of silt that covered a section of the tube that was the Callahan tunnel. The process had made the already murky waters nearly impenetrable to human vision, but he was working with his advanced sonar and with the radiation detectors that showed him where to locate the gallium compound that Alan had applied. Tin-Tin gave him readings on that front, keeping him abreast of how far to the port or starboard he should move. The result was a jagged trench, about two meters wide, through which the currently problematic series of leaks ran.

"There, done," Gordon declared as he cleared the final bit of silt away. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Four. The leakage area has been cleared and I am starting in with the cement."

"F-A-B," Alan replied. Just then, the HAZMAT crew chief, whose name was Tyneika, came up to him.

"My crew in the tunnel says that the leakage from the walls has increased. Is this your doing?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Alan admitted. "Just keep pumping. All the leakage should slow or stop completely very soon."

"How soon?"

"Let me find out. Thunderbird Four from Mobile Control, what's your ETA on job completion?"

Tin-Tin's voice came back to him, and her picture appeared on the inside of his visor. "Mobile Control from Thunderbird Four. Omicron reports our ETA is thirty to forty minutes... if we're not interrupted again."

Alan rolled his eyes behind the visor. "F-A-B, Thunderbird Four." He glanced over at Tyneika. "Thirty to forty minutes, barring unforeseen circumstances." She nodded, and passed the word along for the crews who were manning the pumps.

In Thunderbird Five, John opened a direct communication link to Brigitte. It's a shot in the dark, but I think she's worked with HAZMAT before. This may be something she's enountered. I only hope she's not on duty.

She wasn't, but she was getting ready to go to work when she heard the low-pitched beeping. Pulling her button down shirt on over her sleeveless t-shirt, she pressed a sequence of keys on her computer's keyboard and the IR logo came up on a blue field. Two empty slots where she could put her agent number and a password were at the bottom of the screen. She put on a headphone/microphone set up, filled in both slots, and the screen came to life. Her eyes widened in pleased surprise, and she smiled widely. "Jo... uh, Operative Five! How nice to see you!"

"And to see you, Agent 87." John smiled back. He admired what he saw; the tight tank t-shirt showed off Brigitte's natural endowments very well. He stifled a contented sigh, then got down to business. "No more time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. I'm calling to see if you might know what would neutralize alsterene. I thought perhaps you had come across it in your day job."

She frowned slightly as she concentrated. "Alsterene... hmm. No, I'm afraid I haven't," she replied regretfully, shaking her head. Then her frown cleared and she brightened. "But I know someone who would know. What he does not know about hazardous materials could fit on a..." She hesitated, searching for an appropriate word. "A... thumbnail. Let me call him and ask."

"F-A-B. Call as a representative of International Rescue and use 'voice only'," John cautioned.

She glanced up at the ceiling while shaking her head. "Do not worry. I am aware of the protocol."

"Oh, oohkay," he replied, his cheeks turning pink with a touch of embarrassment.

She turned from the screen, and dialed a number she knew by heart, selecting "voice only" and taking a deep breath as the phone was picked up at the other end. She did not remove the headset as she spoke to whoever she was calling.

"Hello, who is this?" an older man's voice asked gruffly.

John was startled to hear her voice become very deep, very breathy and, he thought, very sexy. "Joost Von Der Veen? I represent International Rescue."

"International Rescue? Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, sir. It is not. I understand that you are well-known for your knowledge of hazardous materials."

"Who told you that?" the man asked, sounding interested in spite of himself.

"An operative of ours. I cannot give a name."

The man sighed. "Okay. So? What do you want?"

"We are looking for a substance that would neutralize the chemical, alsterene."

John didn't know about this Joost guy, but he was feeling warm just listening to Brigitte. It didn't matter that she was talking about alsterene; her altered voice was certainly provocative.

"Alsterene, you say? Let me think." There was a space of about sixty to ninety seconds where Joost either consulted his memory or some kind of book. "Yes, now I remember. Got a pencil, darling?"

"I do." Just those two words made John huff out a breathy, "Whew!"

"Slower, Mr. Von der Veen. Slower," Brigitte cautioned as the man began to rattle off a complex string of letters and numbers. John, who could hear it as well as she could, jotted them down the first time through, typing them quickly into his console, and going over them as the man repeated the formula to Brigitte. He waved to catch her eye and asked, "How much to neutralize a 9,500 liter tank?"

She nodded at him and then relayed the question. "How much of this substance would it take to neutralize a 9500 liter tank?"

"Oh, about 50 liters, I should say."

John gave her a thumbs up, then downloaded the chemical formula and the amount needed to Alan at Mobile Control.

"Is there any thing else we should know about this chemical? Are there any special instructions for its use or storage?" she asked her expert.

"Just don't store it in plastic. Use glass or stainless steel," was the answer. John made that notation and downloaded it as well.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Von der Veen," Brigitte breathed. "You have been a very great help."

"Is this really International Rescue?" he asked, sounding skeptical.

"Yes, Mr. Von der Veen, it is. Have a good evening." And with that, Brigitte disconnected the call. She turned to John and smiled sweetly. "See? I know the protocol."

"I'll say!" John remarked admiringly. One eyebrow raised in a question. "Who was that guy, anyway?"

"The head of arson investigations for the Unity City Fire department. I have met him more than once in my duties," she explained.

"I'm glad you had the resource. Everyone else has been banging their heads against this one. I've downloaded the details to Mobile Control and they'll take it from here. Thank you very much, Agent 87, for your help."

"F-A-B, Operative Five. I received your other communication. I will respond soon."

"Looking forward to it," he replied warmly. "Operative Five out." He sat back in his chair and breathed deeply for a moment. "This may prove to be a very interesting friendship."

Brigitte sighed and glanced at the clock. "Oh no!" Quickly buttoning up her shirt, she tucked it into her dark slacks and, grabbing her jacket, ran out the door to head for work.

"Excellent!" Tyneika said as Alan printed out the chemical string for her. "We'll get our chemists working on this right away. Maybe if we can neutralize both separately, we can just pump out what's already mixed and seal the leaks, then move the trucks." She hurried off to give this to the appropriate people.

The Fire Chief, who had been overseeing the combined efforts of the Boston crews, now approached. "We have a count of victims. So far, twelve in need of immediate attention, another twenty who have moderate injuries, thirty with minor injuries, and... fourteen fatalities."

Alan didn't speak for a moment. Then he turned to the Chief, his eyes hidden behind the visor, "Well, sir, let's get those dozen seriously injured people out, and fast."

"My thought exactly, young man. How are we doing on the leak front?"

"I was about to get an update from our people out there." Alan turned to the command unit. "Thunderbird Four from Mobile Control, status report."

Tin-Tin answered again, "Another three meters to go, Mobile Control. Ten to fifteen minutes."

"F-A-B, Thunderbird Four. Keep up the good work!"

The Fire Chief, who had made a similar request of the people he had in the tunnel, turned back to Alan. "My spotters report that the water leaks have been drastically reduced. Now we just have the leaking tankers to worry about, and really only the one carrying the alsterene, since the ethanol has been dealt with." He took in a deep breath. "Do you think we could move that first tanker?"

Alan shook his head. "Alsterene can be very volatile. I'd rather wait for the neutralizing agent before trying to move the ethanol tanker. Don't want a stray spark to cause a conflagration. How are things going on the other side? Towing out the abandoned vehicles?"

"Slowly. We had to suspend that operation at one point because of the HAZMAT danger. That chemical soup managed to get up far enough to take out the tires on several cars, and the wreckers themselves were in danger of having the same thing happen. But we're working on it again, using full bed wreckers. Still we can only get two or three wreckers in there at one time..." He was interrupted by a squawk from his radio. "Ennis here. What's the problem?" He listened for a moment, and then said, "Back your trucks up into it and see if you can shore it up! The last thing we need is for the tanker to go over and the bus with it!"

Alan didn't hesitate or even ask permission. "Thunderbird Two from Mobile Control. We need the DOMO here, stat!"

"F-A-B!" said Virgil. Finally! This was the first time in a long time that he had not been in the thick of things, and truthfully, he was bored. Everything had been waiting on something or someone else, a situation that he had found frustrating. To spare Alan his agitated state, he had pulled the recovery vehicle into position near the tunnel until it could be used, then grabbed Thunderbird One's hoverbike to take him back to Two, where he activated the camera fogger and waited. At one point, he made a trip to get a sample of water from the harbor so Brains could use it as he worked on the elusive formula for neutralizing the caustic result of the leaks. Otherwise, he had been in the pod, checking over the DOMO, making sure everything was clean and the area was clear for Thunderbird Four's return.

He had found the waste barrel that Gordon had used and cleaned up around it, then scraped the door free of whatever small bits of cement he could find. But the time still weighed heavily on him and so he did something he very rarely did on rescues; he pulled out a small pad and made some sketches. From a spot just inside the pod's smaller door, he sketched portions of the crowd that had gathered around, complete with the military reservists that had been called out to protect the Thunderbirds. He smiled when he remembered who had arranged for the security: Agent 22, also known as Angela, an old friend of his from Denver, now a professor at Harvard and sometime organist at its Minda de Gunzberg Center for European Studies.

The crowd seemed to be like any other crowd, restive, waiting for something to happen, waiting for International Rescue to pull the proverbial rabbit out of a hat as they had so many times before. Their faces sometimes blurred together, but now and again he could pick out someone who looked unique, and whose face intrigued him enough to put pencil to paper. He scanned along the people and his eyes suddenly stopped, attracted to a woman whose golden hair set her apart from the crowd around her. He glanced at her once or twice, trying to capture her expression. But when he felt the drawing was finished and looked down, Lady Penelope gazed back up at him. He sighed, and put his sketch pad away.

At last Alan had called him into action. He lowered the door to the pod with his handprint, then transferred control to a remote device. Leaping into the DOMO's cab, he soon had the unwieldy vehicle in motion, slowing it as he cleared the pod's ramp, reaching back to close the door, then flooring it in an effort to get to the tunnel as quickly as possible. A cheer went up as he left the pod, and he almost wished for a moment for the sound of squealing tires as he took off. The caterpillar treads made that rather impossible, and also made his forward movement slower than he would have liked. Turning sharp corners on the cleared streets was also more difficult, yet his experience with the DOMO gave him that intuitive knowledge of when to slow down or speed up.

At last the tunnel entrance was in sight. "Okay, Alan. Time for instructions," he muttered, stopping to take the time to finish his HAZMAT preparations. "Mobile Control from DOMO; awaiting instructions."

"DOMO from Mobile Control. Delta, take the left hand tunnel. The jack-knifed ethanol tanker needs to be shored up. The men in there are using their trucks to do that, but the DOMO can handle it better," Alan replied.

"F-A-B." Activating his air tanks and lowering the DOMO's arms, he rolled the vehicle into the darkness.

Ciprian yawned, stretched, and rubbed his eyes. He was going through the senator's office phone logs, emailed to him while he was out tracking down the lady herself. It was late, and he was more than ready to go home. He groaned slightly when his vidphone rang. "Badeau here."

"C, me mate, it's Trish. I got some news, so I do."

Ciprian sat back in his office chair, looking at the dark-haired woman from a more comfortable position. "So, what do you have, Trish?"

Patricia smiled at him. "A mate a' mine in London, Bryce Southern, found out who that wig belonged to. A singer name a' Wanda Lamour. He tracked down her agent, so he did, one Maxie Gold. Mr. Gold said he only booked the woman once, at Paradise Peaks, then she dropped out a' sight. Gave me mate a press photo, which Bryce emailed to me. I figure that the wig must a' been a back up or something 'cause Lamour's hair ain't black, it's brown, so it is."

"So, we have a singer's surplus wig on a false employee of de British Prime Minister, visiting de Minister of Security and disappearing during a terrorist attack. And we have a blonde who no one seems to have seen dere as well." Ciprian shook his head. "Dis gets stranger and stranger wit every new piece of evidence."

"Ya know what I think, C ol' mate? I think that the blonde used the wig to cover up and impersonate St. Clair, so I do. But the lack a' DNA match is what puzzles me, so it does."

"Here is a question. Did your friend find a DNA sample for dis Wanda Lamour? Perhaps if dere is one..."

"C, me mate, that's a good idea, so it is. I'll ask. In the meanwhile, me mates are looking for this Lady Creighton-Ward. Bryce says he knows her personally and he's going out to her estate in the morning. Hold a second..." Trish looked off screen so someone who handed her a small disk. Ciprian could see her motions as she popped the disk into the drive, and frown as she accessed it. Her eyes widened a bit and she remarked, "Now this is interestin', so it is."

He sat up, coming close to the screen. "Trish? What is it?"

She turned her eyes back to her partner. "You're not gonna believe this, C. There were three sets a' prints on the compact. One was a' Fernando Ramirez, secretary to His Excellency. And the other two were unidentified." She tapped her desk with a short fingernail. "Now, one mystery set a' fingerprints, I can understand, so I can, but two? Don't you think one should belong to His Excellency himself?"

Ciprian shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps someone besides Ramirez and de owner handled it."

"Actually, C me mate, someone did. His Excellency himself handed it to me. I was wearing gloves, so I was, but he..." Patricia frowned. "Why weren't his fingerprints identified?"

The Unity City dectective sighed. "De furter into dis case we get, de more tangled it becomes."

Patricia nodded in agreement. "Ya got that right, that ya do!"